Page 117 of Veil of Smoke

Midnight comes gently, fog swirling low around the dock’s edges. The water laps quiet against the posts, a soft murmur under the stillness.

Overhead lamps spill golden halos across the planks, their light catching the mist in faint shimmers. Seagulls nestle into corners, heads tucked under wings, asleep.

The city glows faint behind us, a distant hum, constant but far. I feel the cool air on my face, laced with lakewater and a hint of salt, sharp and clean.

I watch her, the moonlight tracing her profile, silver on her cheekbones. She’s steady now, barefoot on the pier, and I remember her then, a mystery I couldn’t solve, a mistake I didn’t want to fix.

Now she’s the answer, standing here with me, the fog curling around her ankles. I shift, feeling something press against my back, hidden under my jacket.

Her hair lifts slight in the breeze, dark strands catching the light, and I see her eyes, green and clear, fixed on the water. I step closer, my shadow blending with hers.

I pull the violet peony from my jacket, its petals open wide, edges frayed but alive. It’s imperfect, breath-taking, and I hold it behind me, waiting.

“You told me once this was the flower of resurrection,” I say, my voice low, steady, cutting through the quiet. “I didn’t believe it then.”

She turns to me, her boots still dangling, her gaze soft but sharp. I see the memory flicker in her eyes, a moment from before, buried in ash and blood.

I step forward, offering it to her, the peony cradled in my hands. Not kneeling, not trembling, just open, my palms steady, the flower’s purple deep against my skin.

“I don’t have a ring,” I say, my eyes locked on hers, meaning every word. “But I have this. And I have you. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Her breath catches, a small sound lost in the cold, and I see her chest rise, her lips part. She doesn’t speak, just looks at me, her face lit silver and gold.

A smile breaks across her, slow and real, lighting her eyes. She nods, slight at first, then sure, and I feel it, the weight of her choice.

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice soft, certain. “Of course, yes.”

I press the stem into her hand, my fingers brushing hers, warm against the cool petals. She takes it, her grip firm, and I feel her pulse under my thumb.

She looks at the peony, her smile softening, and I see her trace its edges with her eyes, like it’s a piece of us she recognizes.

“You found the right flower,” she says, her voice quiet, warm, her fingers curling around mine, holding me there.

The weather shifts around us, thin wisps brushing my legs, and I feel the pier beneath me, solid, unyielding, a place we’ve claimed.

Her boots hang still now, forgotten in her hand, and I watch her hold the peony, its violet stark against her skin, a bloom born from ruin.

The water laps gentle, a rhythm that steadies me, and I feel her beside me, her warmth cutting through the cool night air.

I see her then, that first night, sharp-edged and guarded, a woman I didn’t know I’d need. Now she’s here, barefoot, choosing me back.

The lamps glow soft above, their light pooling on the planks, and I feel the stillness settle, the world holding its breath for us.

Her hand stays in mine, the peony pressed between us, and I feel its petals, soft and alive, a piece of her I’ve learned to carry.

The vapors are thicker now, shrouding the pier’s end, and I hear the faint creak of the wood under our weight, a sound that roots me here.

She shifts, her shoulder brushing mine, and I smell the lake on her, mingled with something sweeter, something hers.

I used to think love was a fight, a thing to wrestle down. Now it’s this, quiet and open, a flower in her hand, a yes on her lips.

We walk the pier like it’s part of us now. Like the boards under our feet remember the blood and gunpowder soaked into their grain. Like they remember how close we came to breaking.

Viviana’s hand fits in mine—scar to scar, palm to palm. Not polished. Not gentle. Just real.

She glances to the side as we pass the crates. What’s left of them. Where once there were shadows and crosshairs, now there’s rust and memory. She doesn’t flinch. Just looks, then keeps walking.

I squeeze her hand. Her fingers tighten around mine.

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