Page 56 of Veil of Smoke

“Dock Seven. Who else knew I was there?”

He blinks again. A beat too long.

“Viviana, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“You ever see a flower burn, Ignazio?”

He falters. “What?”

“Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t flinch. It just withers, curls in on itself. Petal by petal. Like it was never alive to begin with.”

I take one more look at the shop. Then turn back to him.

“You can stop pretending.”

His face hardens. Just for a second. Then the concern returns. “You’re in shock. Come on—let me drive you somewhere safe.”

“No.”

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I already am.”

We stand there a moment longer.

The box is still in my hands. My sanctuary is gone. But I’m still standing.

My legs ache from standing too long. The wind bites my skin. But I don’t move.

The building’s bones are blackened. The roof has collapsed inward like it gave up halfway through a scream. I can’t smell flowers anymore—just char, wet brick, and scorched dreams. The smoke has thinned, but its ghost lingers in my hair, under my nails, between my teeth. I taste ash every time I breathe.

And yet I stay.

I sit on what used to be the front step. The cement is cracked, warm from the fire’s heat, and scattered with half-melted glass. Somewhere behind the tape, an engine growls and clicks. The last fire truck.

The soot on the broken windowsill spelled it clearly enough: Walk away. No subtlety. No second chance.

I don’t cry. Not because I’m brave. Because I’m empty.

“Viviana.” The voice comes low, just above my shoulder.

I don’t turn. I know it’s him. Dario doesn’t approach like other people. He folds into the edges. Doesn’t ask if he’s welcome.

He just is.

I hear his boots crunch over gravel and glass as he walks closer. No greeting. No attempt at comfort. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. I don’t think I’d be able to lie anyway.

We stand together in front of what’s left of my life.

He walks ahead of me, then pauses. “You want to see inside?”

I nod, and he parts the twisted remnants of the caution tape like they’re threads instead of barriers.

Inside, it’s worse.

The walls are black with smoke. The back counter’s collapsed into itself. The refrigerator where I used to store orchids is a melted mess. The terrarium I once built for Valentine’s Day specials is shattered, the pebbles and glass glinting like a broken mosaic.

My boots crunch as I step inside.

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