Page 129 of Veil of Dust

I lean against Tiziano at the bar. He shifts slightly, just enough so our shoulders stay in contact. It’s a small thing. But it means everything.

There’s a cup of coffee in my hand. Still warm. Steam curling up in soft lines.

This is real.

I take a breath. The weight in my chest feels different. It’s not heaviness. It’s fullness.

“You’re here,” I say, leaning into his side just slightly. That’s enough.

“Yes, I am,” he responds to me.

The Strength card rests on the counter. Someone tucked it between two coasters last night. I left it there. The lion stares straight ahead. The figure next to it—calm, clear-eyed.

I brush a finger over the card’s edge. The warmth of the morning sun hits it now, making the colors brighter.

Strength doesn’t always mean fighting.

Sometimes it means staying.

Choosing to believe in something better. In someone. In this.

I glance at Tiziano again. His focus is on the coffee machine now, but I see the way his hand rests near mine. The quiet reassurance of it.

“Peace isn’t quiet,” I say out loud. “It’s earned.”

And we earned this.

Every scar. Every bad night. Every risk.

We’re still here.

And I believe that’s enough.

The sound of chairs sliding, silverware clinking, and the murmur of conversation fills the space. No music. Just life.

My name glows above the door. The lights don’t flicker. My hand curls around the coffee mug.

I glance at the room again.

People are smiling. Talking. Existing in a space they once feared was lost.

We did this.

Tiziano finishes wiping down the last section of the bar and returns to my side. He nudges me gently, and I hand him his coffee. His fingers brush mine.

He doesn’t say anything. Just holds the cup, takes a sip.

We stand like that. Shoulder to shoulder. In the bar we kept alive.

It’s not about being safe forever.

It’s about choosing each other every day. Choosing this place. Choosing to keep going.

The sunlight pours through the windows. It hits the glasses on the shelves, the flowers on the tables, and the paint cans waiting quietly. It makes everything shine.

Even the old scars on the walls look softer now. They’re still there. But they don’t define the room anymore.

They’re part of it.

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