Page 57 of Veil of Smoke

I kneel near the back. Not even on purpose. My body just folds there, where the display table used to be.

A single rose petal—browned, curled, but somehow intact—rests near the ashes. I reach for it. It crumbles between my fingers.

Then I feel him kneel beside me. He doesn’t speak.

My locket is in his hand.

He must’ve picked it up from the box the fire chief gave me earlier. I hadn’t noticed when it slipped from my grasp. It’s still blackened along the edge, the silver chain burned in two. He wipes it clean with his sleeve—slow, precise—and places it back in my palm without a word.

“This was the last thing I had,” I whisper.

Dario looks at me. His face doesn’t soften. But it steadies.

“Not anymore,” he says.

I want to believe him. That I haven’t lost everything. That the person I was before this still exists in some corner. But the truth is heavier than the smoke.

That version of me died with the first flame.

“I thought I’d feel empty,” I say, staring at the locket.

He sits down fully now, legs crossed. Not close enough to touch, but not far either. “And?”

“I just feel… clear.”

He watches me for a beat. Then nods, just once. “Clarity’s dangerous.”

I let the locket fall back into my lap.

“You think Corradino did this?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. I already know. I knew the second I saw the soot-written message. This wasn’t just about the manifest. This was about erasing me.

“Corradino thinks you’ll break,” he says instead.

I lift my chin.

“He’s going to wish I had.”

Dario doesn’t smile, but something flickers in his eyes—like the final glow of a dying ember. He sees it now. I’m not walking away.

“This was my line,” I say. My voice is steadier than I expect. “And I just crossed it.”

The wind howls through the frame of the building, sweeping smoke and cold air around us. My teeth grit against it.

I stand up. He rises with me.

I step forward—not toward the exit, but deeper inside. Toward what used to be the workbench where I arranged centerpieces. I stop where my sister’s photo once sat. Only a melted nail remains.

“I’m not leaving,” I say without looking at him.

His voice is quiet behind me. “I didn’t think you would.”

I turn to face him fully now.

His presence is a contradiction—stillness wrapped in violence. I used to see the danger in him first. Now I see the quiet restraint. He hasn’t tried to fix me. Hasn’t lied to soften the blow. He just shows up. And stays.

“I don’t want pity,” I say.

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