Page 7 of Grim
“The air is the consistency of soup, almost the same temperature too. Why on earth would you make that right now? Also—and this is even more important—you can’t cook!”
She snorts. “You don’t need to be a Michelin-starred chef to use a can opener and the microwave. Now get home before it goes cold.”
“Just make sure you don’t put the can in the microwave, Mom.”
She sighs good-naturedly, then hangs up.
The call ends just as the clouds break. A soft drizzle begins, dotting the window as the driver pulls away from the curb. The rain drums steady on the roof of the car, soft and rhythmic, like fingers tapping out a lullaby.
I let my head rest against the cool window and try to anchor myself in that sound. It’s easier to focus on something external than the ache in my chest or the knots in my mind.
I reflect on the day as the rain beats out its natural rooftop rhythms.
Sunset Gardens smelled like pear and lavender hand lotion today.
GG tried to cheat at chess again, and I let him.
Selma made me cry laughing with her deadpan review of our book club pick: “Too many feelings. Not enough murder.” I brought her orange chamomile tea, and she called me her “little weirdo sweetie.”
That’s something, isn’t it?
That should be enough.
Lives touched and impacted. Doesn’t matter for how long, does it?
The car turns onto Main Street, tires hissing over wet asphalt. I squeeze the edge of my dress and watch the blurred shapes outside the window. Lights smudge like watercolors. The world is still moving. Always moving.
Do they laugh with me because they care or because they feel sorry for me?
I shake the thought off like a drop of rain, but it clings to me. The driver hums along to a song I don’t know. His voice is off-key, but he makes up for it with confidence.
Will they still laugh like that when I’m gone?
I try to hold on to the warmth I felt leaving Sunset Gardens—the old fingers squeezing mine, the way Selma winked at me like we shared a secret. I tell myself that matters.
But even this most recent memory has a shadow behind it.
If I disappeared tomorrow, would the world just … keep turning like I was never here?
I clench my jaw and shake my head, trying to scatter the thoughts like leaves in the wind. They don’t go far. They never do. But I know the difference between despair and surrender. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to run out of time before I’ve said what I need to say.
Outside the window, Saint Rienne slips by in softened colors. It’s a town most would overlook on a map—tucked just north of New Orleans, hidden somewhere between myth and memory. It’s the kind of place that feels dipped in nostalgia, even while it’s still happening. It’s a patchwork of wrought iron balconies, rain-slicked cobblestones, and pastel buildings that look like they’ve been washed and repainted a dozen times byghost hands. Spanish moss drapes the live oaks like tattered lace. Bougainvillea vines cling to painted brick, their blooms bright against the grey.
A trio of old women huddles beneath a shared umbrella, arguing in French over pastries in a bakery window. A jazz quartet plays under the green awning of a coffee shop, undeterred by the weather, their brass notes curling into the mist like a hymn for the dying day. Tucked between the café and the bakery like a secret the street’s trying not to tell, a voodoo shop leans slightly to one side—its shutters half closed, its windows fogged with time. Purple candles burn low behind the glass, their flames barely flickering, and a faded, painted sign hangs overhead that simply readsOPEN, as if it has always been and always will be.
I watch the beads of rain race each other down the glass, tracking them like constellations I’ll never name. Each street we turn down carries its own memory—festivals, open mics, ghost tours, bookstore signings I was too tired to attend. Places I said, “I’ll go next time.” But time is a shrinking thing now. It used to stretch before me like a runway, but now it folds inward like origami.
Still, I love this place. I love the crooked windows and patina and all the wrought iron. I love the scent of jasmine in the rain and the way even the cemeteries here feel strangely alive.
It’s beautiful in that noble way that old things are beautiful—in their resiliency, the effortless way in which they still stand. Still try.
Kind of like me.
I press my forehead to the cool glass and let the world blur, everything softened by the downpour and my own fraying focus. The fog on the window blooms beneath my breath.
This town has always felt like a prelude. A half chapter before the story cuts off. I don’t get the next act. Not really. Not the one with road trips, promotions, or heartbreaks that take years to recover from.
And I’m not bitter about that. Not exactly. I’ve made my peace with the horizon.
