Page 111 of Veil of Smoke

“I thought I’d lose myself,” I say, looking at the river. “In the fire, the fight.”

“You found yourself,” he says, voice low, sure. “Right in the middle of it.”

I nod, a small laugh slipping out. “Yeah. Took a hell of a mess to see it.”

He grins, sipping the coffee again. “Worth it.”

I take the cup from him, drink deep despite the taste. “Maybe.”

The sunrise climbs higher, gold bleeding into the gray, and I feel the bridge beneath my boots, solid, unyielding.

“We’re still standing,” I say, voice steady, handing the cup back.

“Barely,” he says, smirking, but his eyes hold pride.

“Barely’s enough,” I say, leaning on the rail, feeling the cool metal bite my palms.

He nods, setting the coffee down, his bandaged hand flexing slow. “More than enough.”

The wind cuts through, brisk and clean, and I feel the ash on my boots, the city waking slow around us. It’s not over, but it’s ours.

“I thought I’d hate this place,” I say, voice steady, looking at the skyline. “After everything.”

“You don’t,” he says, watching me, his eyes clear.

“No,” I say, nodding. “I don’t.”

He picks up the coffee, offers it again. I take it, sip, and grimace less this time.

“Still regret?” he asks, smirking faint.

“Less,” I say, handing it back. “Getting there.”

He laughs, soft and tired, and I feel it, the hope creeping in, sly and quiet. Not loud, not bright, but steady.

“We’ll figure it out,” I say, voice firm, leaning on the rail beside him.

“Yeah,” he says, his hand resting near mine. “We will.”

The sunrise is higher, cutting through the smoke, and I feel the bridge hum beneath us, a lifeline we’ve claimed.

The truck doors creak open as the sun pulls itself over the horizon, turning the sky from charcoal to pewter to fire-washed gold. We’ve parked just east of the old canal, where the water looks like glass and the bridge groans every time a car drives over it. Dario’s next to me on the back ledge of the florist truck, his thigh pressed against mine.

There’s a stillness in my bones this morning that I’ve never known. Not the kind that comes from exhaustion. This one feels like arrival.

A low purr of an engine rolls in over gravel. I know that sound before I see her.

Rita pulls up on the vintage Triumph, black helmet gleaming. Her lipstick is smeared just at one corner. She looks like she either rolled out of bed or out of someone else’s, but the box balanced on her lap is pristine.

“Coffee?” she calls, voice dry as ever, unzipping her jacket and sliding off the bike in one motion. “No? Then I brought bribes.”

She holds up the pastry box like it’s treasure.

Dario chuckles without opening his eyes. I take the box, set it on the edge of the truck bed. Warmth seeps through the cardboard. It smells like cinnamon and almonds and maybe actual heaven.

“Told you she’d show,” I say softly to him.

“I knew she would,” he replies, voice gravel-thick.

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