Page 58 of Veil of Dust

“No,” she snaps, cutting me off, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and hurt. “I can’t look at you right now.”

I stand slowly, my legs heavy, unsteady, like the floor’s tilting beneath me. The storm outside rumbles, shaking the walls, matching the tremor in my chest.

She doesn’t follow me. Her stance is rigid, arms crossed again, her gaze fixed somewhere past me, like I’m already gone.

I move toward the door, one step at a time, coat still dripping, chest still aching from her hands, her words. Each step feels like betrayal, like I’m abandoning her when I want to stay, to fight for this.

At the threshold, I stop.

Turn back. My hand grips the doorframe, knuckles tight, grounding me.

She doesn’t speak.

She just stares, her eyes gray and unyielding, holding me in place one last time.

So I nod once, a small gesture, heavy with everything I can’t say.

And leave.

The hallway’s cold compared to her apartment, a sharp contrast that bites at my skin through my soaked coat. The room smells of damp wood and dust, tinged with the faint sweetness of spilled liquor from the bar below.

I close the door behind me, but don’t walk away.

I lean against the wall, the wood creaking under my weight. My breath comes slow, heavy, fogging in the chilly air.

Breathe.

Try to make sense of everything that just broke between us, the pieces of her trust, my truth, scattered like the tarot cards on her shelf.

Then, I sit on the steps. The wood groans, worn smooth by years of use, cold against my back.

Let the storm hit. Rain leaks through a crack in the roof, dripping onto my sleeve, soaking me further. Thunder rolls hard in the distance, a low growl that vibrates through the building, through me.

I know I shouldn’t be here. The bar’s quiet below, its usual hum silenced by the late hour, but it feels alive, watching, waiting.

She doesn’t want me here. Her words echo, sharp and clear, cutting deeper with every replay.

But I’m not walking away for good. Not from her, not from this.

She needs space, time to breathe, to untangle the grief and betrayal I’ve laid at her feet. I’ll give her that, but I won’t vanish.

Because this doesn’t end with a door closing.

It can’t.

The storm’s rage fills the silence, rain hammering the roof, wind whistling through the cracks in the old building. I tilt my head back, letting the damp seep into my collar, the cold grounding me in this moment of loss.

Her apartment’s warmth lingers in my mind, the scent of coffee, vinyl, and her, whiskey and defiance, a mix that’s burned into me. The jazz track hums faintly through the door, its mournful notes twisting with the thunder, a reminder of her presence just out of reach.

I see her now, in my head, standing where I left her, arms crossed, eyes blank but alive with pain. I see Leon’s shadow in her, the grief I didn’t understand then, the truth I couldn’t face until it broke us. The Elder’s hand shaped me, carved me into something she can’t trust, but I’m not him, not fully, not anymore.

My hand brushes the blood on my lip, the sting a faint echo of her fist, her palms. She hit me because she had to, because I gave her no other way to reach me. I’d take it again, a hundred times, if it meant she’d look at me like she used to, like I was hers.

The hallway’s shadows stretch, pooling around me, broken only by the faint glow of a neon sign flickering outside. The barbelow feels like a heartbeat, steady despite the chaos, a tether to what we’ve built, what we’re fighting for. Alfeo’s out there, his threat closing in, and the Elder’s legacy looms, but right now, it’s her I’m fighting for, even if she can’t see it.

I shift on the steps, my coat heavy with rain, my chest heavier with guilt. I didn’t know about Leon, not when it happened, but I knew enough later, and I kept it buried, thinking it would protect her. It didn’t. It only widened the crack, pushed her further from me.

The thunder cracks again, closer now, shaking the walls, and I feel it in my bones, a warning that time’s running thin. Vespera’s upstairs, grappling with what I’ve confessed, what I’ve broken. I want to go back, to kneel again, to beg, but she’s drawn a line, and I’ll respect it, for now.

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