Page 104 of Veil of Smoke

Maybe they just want to be heard.

I open my eyes again. Viviana’s still watching the grave. Her profile framed in soft orange light. She looks like she’s remembering a hundred things at once and not saying a word.

I reach out, take her hand.

Her fingers close around mine without hesitation.

That’s the thing about grief—if you’re not careful, it’ll make a home out of your bones. I’ve carried Massimo for years, thinking it was loyalty. But it wasn’t. It was penance. A weight I used to keep from feeling anything else.

But now—

Now I bury him. Not because I’m letting go.

Because I’m finally ready to carry something different.

Her.

We walk out of the greenhouse as the sun dips behind the trees. The world is painted in gold and rust. Viviana doesn’t speak, and neither do I.

There’s no need.

Our hands stay joined.

Behind us, the bird sings once more.

And I let the sound follow us into the dark.

Chapter 25 – Viviana

I sit behind the wheel of the old florist truck, fingers curled tight around the rusted steering wheel, staring at the empty bridge stretching over the Chicago River. The city lights pulse faint behind me, a glow that doesn’t quite reach this quiet span.

The cab smells of old pollen, rust, and gasoline, a mix that clings to the cracked seats. Wind whistles through the seals in the doors, sharp and cold, and a single lantern swings from the dash, casting a dim wash over the space.

Just before sunrise, the world feels caught, balanced between yesterday’s wreckage and tomorrow’s reckoning. I feel it too, that stillness, pressing against my chest.

The seats carry a trace of crushed petals, a memory of blooms long gone. My eyes catch a forgotten receipt fluttering in the glove box, 6 white lilies, 3 daffodils, one red tulip, scribbled in faded ink, a ghost of someone else’s day.

I turn the key halfway, the engine sputtering weak, a cough that doesn’t catch. My hands stay steady, but my mind churns, tracing paths I could take, roads I could vanish down.

The door creaks open, and Dario climbs in, moving careful, his movements still stiff from the injury. His dark eyes meet mine, guarded but soft, and he settles beside me, saying nothing at first.

The lantern light catches his face, the lines etched deeper now, and I feel the space between us, not wide but heavy with what we’ve carried.

He breaks the quiet, voice low, steady. “There’s still time. You could disappear. Start a new life. One with color. One that doesn’t end in ash.”

I turn to him, my gaze sharp, cutting through the dimness. “You think I don’t want that?”

He holds my stare, waiting, and I exhale, the words tight in my chest, pressing hard. “But peace isn’t peace if someone else is bleeding for it.”

He nods, a faint sadness in the motion, like he knew my answer before I spoke it. “I had to know if you were staying for me… or for you.”

“For me,” I say, voice firm, clear. “You just gave me the mirror.”

The lantern sways, throwing shadows across his face, and I feel the truth settle, raw and unyielding. I’ve spent years dodging it, weaving through lies I told myself, but not now.

“You don’t owe this war anything,” he says, his hand resting on the seat, close but not touching.

“But I owe myself the truth,” I say, looking at him, steady. “And the truth is, I want to finish it.”

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