Page 127 of Veil of Dust

But I stayed.

And now I know why.

This is who I am. Not because I survived, but because I chose to keep living. With them.

The bar hums gently around us. Tomas sets down the hammer. Tiziano finishes his task. The smell of coffee drifts across the room. Somewhere in the back, someone’s prepping dough for the day.

It’s quiet. But full.

The light stretches across the floor. Golden. Steady. Touching every corner, every scar. It doesn’t erase them. It just makes them visible. Like they’re part of the story, not something to hide.

I breathe in.

Wood polish. Cleaner. Bread in the oven.

Home.

Tomas catches my eye. He nods once, a small grin on his face. His hands are covered in dust and sweat. He wipes them on his apron and moves on to the next task.

Tiziano steps closer. His arm brushes mine as he leans against the bar beside me. It’s a simple touch. But it holds weight.

This place…it’s never just been mine.

It’s ours.

The dust motes dance in the light above us, drifting slow, aimless. Like they finally get to rest.

I let my arms fall from their folded stance. My shoulders ease. My spine settles.

We earned this.

Not just through fights.

But through forgiveness.

Through staying.

The neon above the door doesn’t flicker this time. It glows steady. A pulse. A signal. A truth.

I’m not standing on the outside anymore.

I’m in this.

With them.

And whatever comes next—we’ll face it together.

Locals start to trickle in. Light steps, relaxed shoulders, faces open. There’s no fear in them anymore. Not like there used to be.

My eyes are scanning the room, catching their eyes as they glance around and smile. They trust this place now. They trust us. And that means everything.

The smiles come easier these days. Not guarded. Not forced. Real. It’s a change I didn’t expect to see, not this soon. After everything. But it’s here.

They bring flowers. Bright colors, messy arrangements, stuffed into old jars and vases we didn’t even realize we had. They go straight to the tables, tucked between plates and salt shakers. Lilies. Roses. Daisies. Their petals brush over the old burn marks on the bar like it’s nothing.

“You’re healing too,” I say, my chest tight with something good. They’re not just here to drink. They’re here to rebuild with us.

Some of them bring paint cans. A few brushes. No big announcements. Just hands ready to get to work. Quiet offerings. “Thought we could clean up that back wall.” “Figured you’d want to patch that corner.”

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