Page 2 of Veil of Dust

“No,” I say under my breath.

The music cuts off, and the incense hisses. A drop of wax falls between the Devil and the Tower. It spreads out into a red smear.

“He didn’t know what was coming,” I say, quiet. My voice sounds rough, like I haven’t used it in hours. “I did.”

The truth stings a little as it leaves my mouth.

“I’m not letting that happen again.”

I curl my fingers under the edge of the table. My nails dig into the wood. It hurts just enough to keep me grounded.

These cards—right now, they don’t feel helpful. They feel like they’re watching me.

The smoke from the incense swirls tighter, looping upward. It almost takes shape. For a second, I think I see something in it.

Then, it breaks apart.

My eyes go back to the table.

The Tower. The Devil. The Lovers.

Destruction. Control. Clinging to something, even when it hurts.

Sylvie said that, sometimes, the cards gave warnings. Sometimes, answers. Sometimes, something else entirely.

This feels like all of it.

I reach again, slower.

This time, the cards bite back. Heat stings the tips of my fingers, like touching something alive. I pull away fast.

The wind shifts outside, and the candle flames lean inward. Then, a sound begins—low, not mechanical. It’s not inmy ears; it’s in my chest. That vibration you feel when you know someone’s behind you, even if you haven’t turned around yet.

The floor creaks.

The shadows stretch longer.

I move my hand toward the cards again, but they stay still. The message is already clear.

I exhale, didn’t even realize I was holding my breath.

I gather the cards gently and sort them into three piles. Then, I slide them into the old velvet pouch Sylvie gave me. The edges are worn, but the stitching still shines—deep red thread, looped in shapes that don’t mean anything to most people.

I tie it tight.

The room stays quiet.

The wind dies down.

But something still lingers, like a thread tied around my chest. A steady pull.

I stand. My stool scrapes against the floor. I leave the pouch on the table.

Behind the bar, I grab the bottle I’ve been saving: rye whiskey. Nothing special, but it does the job. I unscrew the top, skip the glass.

One drink.

Then another.

---