Page 103 of Veil of Smoke

The vines sway above, their leaves brushing the glass, and I hear the echo of her grandmother’s laughter, a ghost I never met but feel all the same.

“You okay?” she asks, voice soft, watching me close.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding, my hand hovering over the medallion. “Better than I thought.”

She smiles, small but real, and I feel it, the quiet soothing me, stitching me back together. The greenhouse stands still, a cradle for what we’ve lost, what we’re keeping.

“I think it’s time,” I say again, voice steady now, letting the medallion rest in the dirt, a root I’m ready to plant.

The broken fountain leans slightly west, its stone basin cracked down the middle like a forgotten altar. Vines have swallowed most of it, curling up through the breaks. But the rosemary’s still here—persistent, stubborn, bright green against ruin. Marigolds peek out beneath it, faded gold and orange like dying suns. Life refusing to let go.

I kneel at the edge.

The soil’s softer here, darker. It clings to my fingers as I dig, gritty and damp. I don’t need a shovel. I need this—skin against earth. Every scrape a confession.

The hole is small. Not much wider than a palm. But it’s deep enough.

I pull Massimo’s medallion from my pocket again. It feels lighter now. Like it knows where it’s going.

My hands tremble as I lower it into the dirt.

Not from fear.

Not from grief.

Just release.

I stare down at the shine of silver one last time before I cover it. The soil slides in slow, a dark ribbon sealing the space shut. My fingers linger on the top. Pressing. Marking.

This is the end of it.

Not the love. Not the guilt. But the weight.

“You saved me,” I whisper, barely hearing myself. “Now let me live.”

Behind me, I hear the soft shift of Viviana’s footsteps. She crouches beside me, holding a tiny cloth bundle in one hand. Inside: a single seed.

She opens her fingers and offers it.

“It’s rosemary,” she murmurs. “From my grandmother’s old shelf. Means rebirth.”

I take it from her, nestle it into the earth where the medallion rests. My thumb presses it in, gentle. Then I cover it again. Not as burial. As planting.

“For Massimo,” I say.

Viviana nods. “And for you.”

We stay there for a long moment. Her shoulder just brushing mine. No embrace. No reassurances. Just breath and dirt and the last rays of a dying day streaking across the glass above.

A bird lands on the rusted beam overhead. Small, brown, sharp-eyed. It hops once. Then again. Then it sings.

Not loud. Not sweet.

Just enough.

The notes break through me. I close my eyes and let them echo in my ribs.

Maybe ghosts don’t need vengeance.

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