Page 73 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
EVIE
The final night of the festival creeps up slow and golden, stretching itself across Lumera like a promise it’s not sure it can keep. There’s that soft kind of light hanging in the air—amber, almost syrupy—the kind that makes everything look like it’s been dipped in honey and nostalgia. I wander down the boardwalk with my camera swinging lazily at my hip, stopping every few minutes to snap a frame of tangled kids in monster masks, hand-painted signs, or the crooked ship sculpture now proudly upright and glowing with string lights.
I haven’t been alone much lately.
Not in a way that feels uncomfortable, just… new.
Aeron’s become a constant, like breath, like tide. We orbit around each other so naturally now—coffee at dawn, quiet conversations on porch steps, his hand finding mine when he thinks no one’s watching—that I forget sometimes that this isn’t how it’s always been.
We’ve stopped pretending, and it feels terrifyingly good.
So of course, right when I’m starting to believe I could stay without falling apart, the universe decides to test that theory.
The call comes just past noon, while I’m crouched behind a pile of sea crates photographing the docks through a fishnet veilfor some artsy layered effect that probably only makes sense to me and exactly three gallery nerds in the Pacific Northwest. I almost don’t answer, thinking it’s Rowan or Goff calling to beg for more help with the lantern setups.
But it’s not.
It’s Madison St. James—editor ofVerdigris, one of the most brutally selective culture magazines still in print. Her voice is crisp, like she drinks exclusively from fluted glasses and hasn't tripped over a sidewalk crack in a decade.
“Evie,” she says, like the name alone tastes expensive. “We’ve seen your coastal series—the raw textures, the contrast work, the grit. You’ve got an eye. And we want to feature it.”
The world tilts a little. My spine goes stiff.
She keeps talking. About a full spread. An upcoming print issue. A commission. They want to fly me out next week for a sit-down. She throws out numbers. Mentions exclusivity. My name in print again.
I manage to thank her—twice—and promise to email tonight.
Then I hang up and sit in the sand behind the crates, like a fish dumped on shore, gasping around too much air.
Because this—this is the dream. Or it was. The kind of offer that people like me aren’t supposed to get more than once, and certainly not after they’ve ghosted the industry for months with nothing to show for it but weathered boots and photographs of washed-up driftwood.
But all I can think about is Aeron.
And the teal curtains.
Jamie’s monster map that’s still taped to my fridge.
By the time I get home, my chest feels like it’s been hollowed out with a spoon.
Rowan’s on the porch, stringing up old paper lanterns with one foot braced against the railing.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” she says without looking up.
“Magazine called,” I say, tossing my keys in the bowl near the door.
She stills. “Themagazine?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t say anything right away, just lets the silence stretch until it starts to ache.
“Big deal,” she says finally.
“Massive.”
“And?”
“I don’t know.” I sink into the porch swing. “It’s everything I wanted.”
