Page 21 of Till Orc Do Us Part
I force a smile. “Shall we?”
He gestures for me to lead.
We step onto the boardwalk. The planks groan beneath our feet—old wood, soaked in decades of salt and stories. Shops line the edges: some thriving, some shuttered, all stubbornly clinging to life.
I clear my throat. “We’ll start with the love-lock rail.”
He says nothing, just follows—silent, imposing.
We reach the rusted iron railing near the south end, where hundreds of padlocks dangle, corroded but defiant. Names and dates scratched into their surfaces:Anna + Max, 1983.Mia & Jo, forever. A tapestry of hope and rust.
I trail my fingers over one. “My grandparents locked one here the summer they got engaged.”
Drokhaz studies the rail. “A tradition of permanence in a place built on impermanence.”
“Exactly.” I glance at him. “That’s why it matters.”
He meets my gaze, unreadable. “I understand.”
Do you? I want to ask. But I move on.
Next stop: Salty Joe’s Fish-Fry. The stand’s shuttered now—Joe passed last year, and no one’s had the heart to take it over yet. The faded sign still swings in the breeze, paint peeling like sunburned skin.
I rest a hand on the counter. “This is where I had my first kiss.”
Drokhaz arches a brow. “Sentimental.”
“Human,” I correct. “Places like this hold memories. They’re not just real estate.”
He says nothing, but his gaze lingers on the stand longer than I expect.
We walk in silence for a stretch. The wind picks up, tugging strands of hair loose from my braid.
We reach the fortune teller’s booth—a crooked little shack with chipped paint and faded velvet curtains. The sign readsMadame Zora’s Mystical Readings—Past, Present, Future.
I smile despite myself. “Madame Zora swore I’d marry a pirate and move to the Isles.”
Drokhaz’s mouth twitches again. “A promising career shift.”
“I was eight.” I laugh. “Crushed a lot of dreams that summer.”
He steps closer, gaze thoughtful. “Why show me this?”
I exhale. “Because it matters to people here. Not the buildings—the memories. The texture. You can’t replace that with glass towers.”
He studies me, eyes dark beneath the brim of his sunglasses.
“I see.”
I cross my arms. “Do you?”
A beat of silence.
“I listen more than I speak.”
He does. He’s taken it all in—every detail, every story.
And that unnerves me more than any argument could.
