Don't say Sorry, Just Stay is a story about what happens when grief isn’t solved. It’s not a fantasy. Not a romance. Not even a mystery.
It’s a quiet survival story told in memory and silence.
⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains themes of grief, death, trauma, emotional isolation, and recovery after loss. While it ends in connection and healing, the journey includes depictions of intense sorrow, memories of lost family, and emotional breakdowns. Please read with care.
It’s about the space after tragedy—what people do when they have to wake up the next morning. It’s about how grief isolates, and how memory distorts, and how a man with peace in his hands is still at war with himself. And it’s about women who carry more than magic—who carry history, community, intelligence, and the audacity to love someone who doesn’t believe he can be loved.
Don't Say Sorry, Just Stay is a story about choosing not to walk away when everything inside you says run.
Zero
The night was already screaming when I stepped out the inn’s door.
The sound had started earlier and it hadn’t stopped — a low, mournful hum that rattled up through the soles of my feet, into my ribs, into the back of my skull. The Moon's Calling — they warned me about it — but no warning does justice to the sound. A weeping sky, hollow and endless, layered over with a glassy, off-key wail, like a choir singing through broken crystal.
It was the kind of sound you didn’t just hear — you breathed it, bled it.
I stood there, frozen, while the town around me held its breath.
Then the apparitions began to walk.
Figures — familiar shapes — drifting between houses, lingering in doorways, stepping barefoot across cobblestones slick with cold light. Faces blurred by mist, their outlines heartbreakingly familiar.
These weren't monsters. These were the lost — the mothers, sons, lovers the town had mourned.
I understood it immediately, with a hollow weight sinking into my gut. These were Moonrest’s dead, reaching back for the living.
Somewhere behind me, Brina shouted — others too — panicked, desperate. Telling me not to turn around.
But terror had already gripped my heart.
I knew exactly who I'd see if I did.
Not because they were really there.
But because grief makes liars out of even the clearest eyes.
1 Earlier That Week
Earlier that week, the town had already started looking at me differently.
The new arrival who didn’t cower when the winds howled.
The outsider who made animals grow restless and windows shiver in their frames.
It didn’t help that I was the only man in a town full of beautiful women.
There’s an old rule no one likes to say out loud — beauty is inversely proportional to craziness.
The more beautiful, the more... well, you get the idea.
Don’t get me wrong — she had had a beauty that could’ve gotten her committed if anyone had been foolish enough to try.
And I had been a willing victim of her particular brand of insanity.
The thought almost made me smile.
Almost.
They called me to the Mayor’s office — the old stone building slumped in the middle of Moonrest like a half-forgotten gravestone, where the walls listened harder than the people inside.
"Jay," Celeste said, voice smooth and practiced — but underneath the polish, something real.
Her blessing could shift emotions between people, smoothing fights, binding loyalty, or draining anger before it started.
Dangerous power if you weren’t paying attention.
"Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat."
There was only one chair — centered, back to a polished window just reflective enough to catch movement.
Clever.
Celeste sat behind her desk — dark hair pinned in a sleek twist, gold eyes like coins at the bottom of a cold well. Her blouse, crisp white with lace trim, tucked into a black pencil skirt. A crescent-moon belt buckle glinted in the light.
"Mr. Holloway."
Vanessa stood nearby, golden braid over one shoulder, soft curls haloing her cheeks. Corseted skirt whispering as she leaned casually against the counter. Her smile — small and sweet. Too sweet. Her blessing, Open Your Heart, meant I wouldn’t be lying to her for long.
If Celeste was playing chess, Vanessa was playing poker.
And I wasn’t sure whose table I was sitting at.
I caught my reflection in the glass behind them.
Slightly over average height.
Body that used to be fit, now softened by too little rest. Brown hair, too long. Brown eyes — dulled, tired, always watching. Still wearing the same clothes I arrived in: dark jeans, worn boots, a black jacket that carried too many memories in its seams.
They knew me as Jay Holloway — not my birth name, but close enough for small-town records.
I nodded politely. Waited.
"You know," Celeste said, folding her hands, "everyone contributes here. Everyone pulls their weight."
"Sounds fair," I said lightly.
"What did you do before Moonrest?"
"Kind of retired," I said. "Kind of... don’t do that anymore."
Not a lie. Just not the whole truth.
Because even in a town full of blessings, mine didn’t fit.
Peace Calling — the antithesis of the Moon’s madness. While others were twisted by the Calling, I saw through it. Terrors became smoke and mirrors.
My presence pushed that clarity outward — protected others.
Whether they wanted it or not.
Moonrest itself didn’t seem to want me.
Doors stuck.
Lights flickered harder.
Whispers followed me like I wasn’t supposed to exist.
I tucked that thought away.
Out of the corner of my eye — Vanessa tapped two fingers to her thigh. A signal.
Tucked that away too.
"Were you good at it?" Vanessa asked. Voice soft. Almost playful.
"Depends," I said, leaning back. "Do you have a mailman?"
Celeste blinked. "No, but—"
"I can do that," I said.
"Two legs, two arms. Packages A to B. Easy."
Vanessa nodded slowly. They were reading me. Not just the words. The spaces in between.
"Were you… a delivery man?" Celeste asked.
"No," I deadpanned.
Vanessa’s smile widened.
"But I could fake it better than most."
Vanessa laughed — full, real — and waved a hand as if shuffling invisible cards.
Celeste gave her a sidelong glare.
"What’s the point of pretending anymore?" Vanessa said, still grinning.
"He figured it out. Might as well deal the cards face up."
"Mind if I smoke?" I asked, half a dare.
"You have a cigarette?" Celeste blinked.
"No," I said, pulling out a worn pencil. I mimed lighting it and took a long, slow drag.
Vanessa’s laugh split the room open like sunlight through blinds.
"Cecilia!" Celeste called.
The door opened immediately.
Cecilia Everamser, red-haired and wide-eyed, practically bouncing.
Her blessing — Perfect Time — made her the town’s living clock.
"Yes, Mayor?"
"Get Mr. Holloway an ashtray."
"But Mayor… we don’t have an ashtray…"
I tapped the pencil against my knee.
"Just like you didn’t have a mailman."
Vanessa snorted.
Even Celeste’s lips twitched.
"Fine," Celeste said. "Mr. Holloway is now the town’s deliveryman. Effective immediately."
She folded her hands again, voice dipping lower.
"And more importantly — with your blessing — Peace Calling — you’ll serve as a kind of volunteer fireman. You steady others when the winds rise. You see past what the Calling tries to make real."
I nodded.
"Understood," I said. "Whenever the town needs me."
A pause.
Then I leaned back, tapping the pencil.
"Do I have to march in parades and attend carnivals...?"
Vanessa laughed. "I can supply real beer, though."
I smiled, small. But real.
Celeste stacked her papers, satisfied.
"You’re dismissed, Mr. Holloway."
I stood. Gave a playful bow.
"Thank you, Lady Mayor. I’ll be ready."
As I reached for the door, voices murmured behind me — too soft to hear, too easy to imagine.
Then Vanessa called, bright and teasing:
"Don’t forget that drink later! Fireman perks, remember!"
I saluted with two fingers and stepped out.
Click.
The door shut.
And from behind it, Cecilia’s voice rang out, victorious:
"Mayor! I found an ashtray!"
2 The Moment Before
The wagon rattled and groaned behind me, wheels hitting every rut and stone in the old farm road. Sacks of rice, flour, oats, and a few crates of dried goods leaned heavy against the wooden slats.
The cart handled like an unbroken mule — stubborn, creaking, and perfectly miserable.
I dragged it anyway, step by dusty step.
The job was what I needed — something to grind against, something heavier than my own thoughts.
First day on the job, and Celeste had sent me out on what had to be the heaviest delivery route in Moonrest.
Not revenge for making her smile.
Revenge for finding out her game.
And a test to find out mine.
Clever.
I couldn't even blame her.
If our positions were reversed, I would’ve done the same.
Heavy loads made for quiet thoughts.
And quiet thoughts beat out the kind of memories that liked to sneak in when you weren't paying attention.
I was lost in the rhythm of walking — the crunch of boots on dry dirt, the steady tug of the wagon behind me — when a soft voice cut through the morning air:
"Mayor says I have to message you in an emergency," Brina said, stepping up beside me, "and that you're a fireman now."
I pulled the wagon to a stop, blinking in mild surprise.
Brina Gale —
small, lean, wrapped in a worn blue cloak that snapped gently in the breeze she probably wasn’t even consciously controlling. Light blue hair framed her face in a tousled bob, strands lifted playfully by the morning wind. Her ice-blue eyes — serious, curious — met mine without hesitation, even as her hands fidgeted with the hem of her cloak. She looked like a piece of the breeze itself had decided to take human shape just long enough to deliver a message.
Brina had a blessing too — though she rarely called it that. Windlight, they named it later. It wasn't loud. It wasn’t showy. It moved around her like a secret — her cloak fluttering when she was nervous, the breeze rising when she smiled. Magic not made for war, but for presence.
"That's right," I said, resting my arms casually across the wagon’s handle.
"Volunteer fireman. On call whenever needed."
Brina nodded — solemn, businesslike, like she was checking off a task from a long list.
I shifted my stance slightly, smiling without quite meaning to.
"It would be nice to hear your voice," I said, surprising myself with how much I meant it.
Then, remembering myself, I cleared my throat.
"I mean — not because of an emergency. That part wouldn’t be nice."
Brina’s ice-blue eyes widened slightly, a faint pink rising to her cheeks.
She studied me — not suspicious, not mocking — just curious, in a way that made the air feel lighter somehow.
"I'll be around," I said more softly.
"Whenever you need."
Brina gave a tiny nod, folding her hands in her sleeves like she was locking the moment away inside herself.
"Going to the farm?" she asked after a pause.
"Yeah," I said, thumbing toward the overloaded wagon.
"First delivery of my first day. Thought I'd start with the easy stuff."
That almost earned a real smile — almost.
"Talea says new workers always get the worst routes," Brina said seriously.
Talea — the town’s baker. No more than twenty. A laugh like spun sugar and a talent for bread that could ruin a man for anything else.
Brina probably knew her well.
"Smart woman," I said.
Brina shifted awkwardly, then blurted:
"Talea says firemen are hot... stuff."
She winced, realizing the trap she'd walked into.
"I mean — not that you're hot — I mean, you're not overheating — not that you're not—"
She trailed off, color blooming across her cheeks.
I chuckled low, dry as dust.
"Good to know I'm not overheating," I said easily.
Brina buried her hands deeper into her cloak sleeves.
I let her off the hook.
"Vanessa said I should stop by the inn later," I offered.
"Cold beer. Something about keeping the new fireman hydrated."
Brina brightened immediately — too quickly — and said:
"Me too!"
Then froze, mortified.
"She said I could come by too — not that I thought it was, um, like a thing — it’s not a thing. Right?!"
"it’s not a thing. Right?!"
A tiny gust fluttered her cloak again — nervous magic flaring at her heels.
Before I could answer, she blurted:
"Work to do!"
And fled, her blue cloak snapping behind her.
I watched her go, the corners of my mouth tugging upward despite myself.
Maybe Peace Calling did more than push back the horrors.
Maybe it steadied the living too.
After that morning, I started running into Brina every day.
She was the only one in this town who hadn't tried to measure me yet.
I didn’t ask about her scars.
She didn’t ask about my pain.
And maybe that was why, for the first time in a long time, I could smile —
not because I had to,
but because, just for a moment, it didn’t feel like a lie.
Our talks got longer, and less awkward.
She didn’t stumble over her words quite as much,
and I stopped feeling like I needed to tread so carefully around the edges of a conversation.
I started changing my route sometimes —
adding a few unnecessary turns, an extra stop or two.
Not that it mattered.
Brina always seemed to find me.
"Accidentally," of course.
I didn’t mind.
She was good company — steady, honest, the kind of quiet presence you didn’t realize you needed until it fit into the hollow spaces grief left behind.
Things were going well.
They were starting to feel almost easy again.
Which should have been my first warning.
Even then, something in the wind knew this wouldn’t last.
A few days later, the Mayor’s office sent word:
Celeste wanted to see me again.
And somehow, I already knew —
The easy days were about to end
3 When the Fire Cracked
The Mayor’s Office looked the same. That was the first thing I noticed. The old stone building slumped over its own doorstep, ivy clawing at the stone like skeletal fingers. The black iron lanterns flickered stubbornly against the retreating night. The wind smelled like burnt candle wax and cold dust.
Cecilia opened the door before I could knock, like she’d been waiting. She looked almost fragile in her crisp black-and-white maid uniform—her red bob tucked beneath a frilled headband, her wide blue eyes tinged with worry she tried—and failed—to hide.
"Good morning, Mr. Holloway," she said, voice light as paper.
"Morning," I answered, stepping inside.
The familiar scent of old wood, candle smoke, and ink pressed against me like a heavy coat. The Everglow Lanterns still guttered outside—last stubborn lights before the dawn. The hallway was narrower than I remembered. Or maybe I was just carrying more inside me now. The lantern flames pulsed faintly along the walls, breathing with a rhythm not quite mine.
Cecilia moved quickly, hands fussing at her apron. The Mayor’s door was open.
"In here, sir," she whispered.
The room was empty—for now.
One high-backed chair waited at the center, angled to leave your back exposed to the window. Beside it, a small polished table with a brass ashtray gleamed in the shifting light. Almost considerate. I didn’t sit. I caught my reflection in the wide polished window instead.
Medium height. Dark brown hair trimmed sharp. Brown eyes hollowed out by nights that didn’t end properly. Lines etched deeper around the mouth. I looked… maintained, not restored.
Moonrest had dressed me piece by piece—jacket, shirt, boots—until I resembled a man again.
The brown leather jacket—Celeste and Vanessa’s doing—creaked faintly as I moved. The slate-blue shirt was Seraphina’s stitchwork. The boots were from Vashram, who’d muttered that even a cursed soul needed real shoes. I almost looked respectable. Almost. The tiredness in my eyes gave me away.
She used to call me her pretty man. Her handsome one. A joke. A private game.
I looked away before the thought could hollow me out. The lanterns trembled—just a little. Like they, too, remembered.
The door clicked shut behind me.
A new figure entered, silent as smoke. Flowing black skirts. Ember-colored shawl catching the light like dying fire. A silver-blonde braid spilled over one shoulder, framing a face impossibly sad and impossibly still.
Golden eyes met mine—steady, ancient, unbearably gentle.
She moved to a flickering lantern and wiped its brass housing with a soot-smudged cloth. The flame steadied instantly, leaning toward her like a child to a mother’s hand.
I cleared my throat.
"Jay Holloway," I said.
She turned—no caution, no judgment. Only inevitability.
"I know," she said softly. Then, after a breath: "Evelyn Thorne."
I nodded. Thumbed vaguely toward the lantern.
"That you?"
Her lips curved—not into a smile, but into something softer.
"Partially," she said.
The flames flickered again—uncertain whether to obey her or me. I didn’t press.
I pulled a pencil from my jacket—cut down to cigarette length—and mimed lighting it. Evelyn tilted her head, as if recognizing a ritual she hadn’t seen in years. She didn’t interrupt.
Cecilia returned with a second chair and placed it across from mine. Then, without a word, she brought in a tall white candle and set it beside the empty seat.
The door opened again—this time with sound.
Celeste entered, crisp and sharp. Her gold crescent pin caught the light. Her blouse and skirt fit like armor. But beneath the polish, her eyes were smudged with exhaustion.
Vanessa followed a step behind—restless grace wrapped in a corseted black skirt and loose blouse. Golden eyes, sharp smile, braid twirled in one hand.
Vanessa didn’t sit. She leaned against the windowsill, one boot pressed to the wood, her braid flicking like a whip in one hand. Arms folded. Watchful.
"Good morning, Jay," she said, too casually.
"Mr. Holloway," Celeste added, taking her place behind the desk.
The room stilled. Celeste laced her fingers over the desk.
"As you know," she began smoothly, "Moonrest survives because we help each other."
I nodded once.
She gestured to Evelyn.
"Evelyn Thorne. Keeper of the Everglow Lanterns. Wielder of Soulflame."
Vanessa grinned. “Fancy way of saying she plays with fire.”
Celeste continued. “Soulflame captures emotions—fragments of strength, memory, courage—and binds them into flame. Lanterns that protect us when the Terrors come.”
"They offer healing," Evelyn said gently.
Vanessa added, “And even stubborn firemen need healing sometimes.”
I drew on the ghost of a cigarette. Exhaled silence.
“We’d like to offer you a Soul Candle.”
Celeste’s voice was careful. Hopeful.
Evelyn watched me—no demand, only waiting.
Vanessa’s smile faded into something almost tender.
The candle flickered like it already knew.
I stared at it too long.
Tension pulled like a taut wire behind my ribs.
And then—
“No.”
The word dropped like a stone. Not angry—protective. Peace Calling stirred faintly under my skin. Not to reject. To shield.
The room cracked. Vanessa blinked. Cecilia flinched. Evelyn froze. Celeste exhaled like something inside her broke.
The candle flickered. Evelyn, against instinct, reached out and whispered something I couldn’t catch.
The flame screamed—flared gold, then blue, then wrong. Wax devoured itself. Soot spat like a curse onto the ceiling. The lanterns stuttered—flaring, then dimming like lungs losing air.
Cecilia returned in a rush, fire extinguisher in hand. The hiss of foam filled the room. Then silence.
I rose. The chair creaked beneath the absence.
"Why doesn’t anyone listen?"
My voice was quiet.
"They think it’ll heal. That it’ll go away."
I shook my head.
"It doesn’t."
She would’ve laughed at this. Said it served me right. Said I always thought I knew better than fire.
I stepped past the candle. Past their hope.
"I just want to work. I just want to be busy."
It wasn’t rejection. It was defense. Not from them—but from what it would mean to accept help.
A lie. One more stone in the wall.
"I'm fine."
Celeste gave a shallow nod. I turned. Walked out.
Dawn broke, colorless and cold. The Everglow Lanterns guttered along the streets—each one shrinking as I passed.
Inside
Silence.
Celeste sank into her chair. Removed her glasses with shaking hands. Rubbed her eyes.
Vanessa didn’t speak. Didn’t laugh.
Evelyn knelt by the candle, studying the wax.
"He can’t go on like this," she said. "He’ll tear himself apart. Or worse—take someone else with him."
Vanessa’s voice was brittle.
“He lied. He does that thing with words—twists them so well you believe him... until you don’t.”
She shook her head, hugging herself tighter.
"I felt it flip. When the fire cracked—when the candle broke—something inside him turned."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"After that, every word out of his mouth was a lie. Even the quiet ones."
She looked up, eyes burning.
"I bet even your blessing couldn’t touch him."
Celeste flinched.
"I asked permission,” she said quietly. “He said no.”
“But when he wasn’t looking...”
Her voice cracked.
“I tried.”
Evelyn looked up, horrified.
"Celeste—"
"I had to," Celeste said, breaking. "He was drowning. I thought it was just his blessing pushing back. But it wasn’t."
"It wasn’t Peace Calling at all."
"It’s him," she whispered. "His grief. It’s so dense, so violent underneath—I couldn’t move it. If I’d passed that into someone else… I would’ve crushed them."
The room held its breath.
"Does anyone even know what happened to him?" Celeste asked. "Where does that kind of hurt come from?"
Vanessa’s fists clenched at her sides.
"He’s carrying it alone. And if anyone tries to share it the wrong way… it’ll tear them apart too."
Then, finally—
Her voice cracking like glass:
"Bullshit you're fine, Holloway."
"Bullshit you're fine, Holloway."
She crossed her arms tighter against herself.
"He’s always stood for us," Vanessa said, her voice breaking fully now.
"Every damn night when the Calling came.
Always standing for us."
Evelyn crouched by the melted wax, touching it like a wound.
"But never for himself," she said quietly.
Outside, the Everglow Lanterns flickered again —
tiny flames struggling against the weight of the coming day.
Just like Jay Holloway.
Scene 4 – Wagon and Wind
The wagon creaked under the strain, wheels grinding into the rutted dirt of the farm road. Sacks of flour, crates of dried goods, and heavy bags of rice piled high behind me—more weight than any sane man should be hauling alone.
My gloves bit deep into my hands.
Even through the leather, I could feel the rawness blooming—skin tearing under pressure—and I didn’t care.
I needed the ache.
I needed the distraction.
I needed something real to drown out the ghosts.
June’s voice was the first to crawl out of memory:
"My pretty man."
Soft. Teasing.
A voice that could still knock the air out of my lungs from a thousand miles and a thousand nights away.
I could still see her—dark hair always slipping free in the breeze, her warm smile breaking like sunlight across a calm sea.
Jessie’s voice followed—bold, raucous:
"Bet you can’t catch me, Dad!"
I saw her streaking past—sneakers slapping the sun-baked sidewalk, black hair lightened by summer laughter.
And then Jenny—steady, dry, sharp as a blade:
"You’re getting old, Dad."
Said with deadpan seriousness, the corners of her mouth betraying her only slightly.
The scent of crushed strawberries clung to her shirt from a morning spent running wild.
Twelve and nine.
Gone. Just... gone.
A missed flight home.
A plane ticket.
A goddamn freak malfunction.
They had been the tether that let me dive into the darkest parts of humanity and still find a way back.
They were the proof that good existed.
Without them—
I hauled the wagon harder.
Felt something wet and hot pooling under the glove.
Didn’t stop.
Maybe if I pulled hard enough, I could tear the memories out by the roots.
I didn’t see her at first.
The wagon lurched through a rut, sending a crate shifting dangerously sideways.
I caught it with one hand—hissed through my teeth—and when I looked up again, she was there.
Brina.
Walking quietly at my side, matching my pace step for step.
Her hood was thrown back—the early morning light catching the shimmer of her pale blue hair, the fine strands curling against her cheeks where the breeze teased them loose. Her cloak—deep ocean blue—snapped lightly at her heels, gold-trimmed edges flashing in the rising sun.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t ask.
She was just... there.
Silent, steady, like the road itself.
Watching without judgment.
Her ice-blue eyes, usually soft with some hidden smile, were narrowed now—not in suspicion—but in concern so raw it hurt to look at.
The scars at her wrists, usually hidden under sleeves, peeked out—forgotten in her worry.
And in that moment, her anger—bright, sharp, alive—made her even more beautiful.
I ground my teeth.
The investigator inside me—the one that survived when everything else hadn’t—rose up fast and hard.
I snapped at her before I could stop myself.
"How do you always find me?" I barked. "How?"
Brina flinched.
Not dramatically.
Just a small, sharp jerk—like a reed struck by a sudden wind.
But it was enough.
It hit me harder than if she had slapped me.
She stepped back slightly, cloak twisting around her ankles, the faintest hurt flickering across her face.
Goddammit.
The only person in this town who hadn’t tried to measure me—who had simply walked beside me—and I’d lashed out like a cornered animal.
I shut my eyes.
Exhaled.
"Bri," I said, voice rough, low. "I’m sorry."
And this time, I meant it so hard it hurt my ribs to say.
She didn’t answer right away.
Just stayed.
And after a few breaths, she started walking again—slow, steady.
I fell into step beside her.
The wagon rattled and groaned behind us.
I waited until the silence wasn’t thick with my own guilt.
"How do you always find me?" I asked again, softer.
Brina’s eyes stayed ahead, on the long stretch of road.
"I hear you," she said quietly.
I frowned.
"You mean... hear me like 'hear me'? Understand me?"
I shook my head a little. Sweat trickled down my back.
"That’s not like you, Bri. Slang like that—feels more like me."
She smiled faintly—sad, almost fond.
"No, Jay," she said. "I hear you."
She lifted her hand. The breeze curled around her fingers like a living thing.
"There’s a song in the winds here. A celestial symphony woven through Moonrest."
Her voice was matter-of-fact—like explaining how the stars moved.
"Only a few know. Celeste. Vanessa. They respect my secret."
Her ice-blue eyes caught mine then, bright and unwavering.
"But when you’re quiet, Jay... you hum like the low strings in an orchestra. A cello. A bass."
She hesitated.
"And today..."
"You’re screaming."
She bit her lower lip, her hair lifting wildly in the rising wind.
"Like a discordant brass section," she said softly. "Blaring so loud, it warps everything else."
I frowned, voice rougher than I meant:
"Then why meet me at all?” I asked. “If all you hear is sorrow and screaming... wouldn’t it make sense to stay away?"
Brina turned to face me fully—the wind stirring around her, her cloak snapping once like a heartbeat.
Her ice-blue eyes didn’t waver.
"Because, Holloway," she said simply, "your sorrow—the deep bass tones—sounded like mine on the wind."
The wind curled tighter around her ankles, pulling at the gold trim of her cloak.
"Your screaming brass... I’ve made those sounds before."
Something shifted inside me—slow, cold, inevitable.
I stared at her.
"You lost someone," I said quietly.
Brina’s mouth tightened.
"My sister," she said, her voice roughening. "Mariel."
I opened my mouth—I’m sorry rising automatically—
but Brina’s glare cut me off.
"Don’t," she said. "Don’t say you’re sorry."
She shook her head once, silver-blue hair flaring around her face.
"You can't be sorry for something you couldn’t stop."
The road stretched out endless before us, and for a long, terrible breath, neither of us moved.
Finally, I found my voice.
"Maybe," I muttered, "we need to stop walking someday. Sit. Talk."
Brina gave a dry little laugh. Not dismissive—just honest.
"Like you," she said, "I walk to drown the thoughts."
"Does it work?" I asked.
"Sometimes," she said.
A ghost of a smile flickering across her face.
The wind settled lightly around her ankles again—loyal, familiar.
"I eat at Thalia’s every morning," she added, casual but not casual at all. "You should come."
I grunted.
"It’s too early."
Brina’s grin flashed—real and wicked.
She flicked her hand, and a playful gust of wind punched me lightly in the chest, making me stumble half a step.
I met her eyes—and this time, couldn’t help but smile.
"You’ll come," she said. "Or I’ll find you."
I tipped two fingers to my temple, still smiling.
"Yes ma’am."
She nodded once—sharp, decisive—and turned back toward town, her blue cloak snapping like a flag in the sunrise.
I watched her go until she vanished into the golden dust.
Then I tightened my battered hands on the wagon’s handle. Brina was gone. The ghosts weren’t. But the wind still hummed like she’d left something behind just for me.
And pulled.
5 The Rule of Grief
The bakery door chimed softly behind me.
Thalia’s wasn’t a restaurant, not really.
But it smelled like one — warm bread, baked apples, butter thick on the air like memory.
Dust floated through golden beams of early sun. The wood floor creaked underfoot, old scars in the boards whispering stories I didn’t know yet.
One small table waited in the corner, half-swallowed by shadow.
Brina was already there.
She sat perfectly still — pale blue hair drifting slightly in the breeze from the open window.
Her cloak folded neatly over the chair back, sleeves pushed up, boots tucked under her skirt.
She wasn’t fidgeting.
Wasn’t glancing around.
She just waited.
Steady.
Present.
Across the room, behind the counter, Thalia watched us —
pink hair loose over her shoulders, apron dusted with flour, a soft heart-shaped tattoo smiling on one cheek.
She caught my eye.
nodded once —
and without a word, slipped into the back, leaving Brina and me alone.
Leaving space.
I crossed the floor slowly, boots thudding on the old wood.
Pulled the chair opposite Brina.
Sat.
She tilted her head slightly.
"Good morning, Holloway," she said.
"Morning, Bri," I answered, rough but steady.
A few minutes later, Thalia reappeared — silent and efficient —
Thalia reappeared — silent and efficient —
setting down a plate of thick bread, a small dish of soft butter, and a chipped ceramic bowl of cheese and apples.
She added two mugs of cool water.
No words.
Just a quiet, invisible kindness.
Then she vanished again.
We ate in silence.
The sound of tearing bread.
The clink of mugs against scarred wood.
The hush of the wind through the window.
It wasn’t uncomfortable.
It wasn’t urgent.
It just was.
Like breath.
Like gravity.
Finally, I looked up at Brina.
She was watching me with that same quiet steadiness —
the kind of gaze you could fall into without realizing it.
I set down the bread.
Wrapped my hands around the mug.
"I want to thank you," I said, voice low.
"For this.
For giving me somewhere to talk."
Brina’s mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
More like a ripple on still water.
"Is this what you used to do?" she asked lightly.
"Disarm people.
Make them forget they were guarded?"
I shrugged.
"Maybe."
She tore a corner from her bread and chewed thoughtfully.
"You’re good at it," she said after a moment.
"Vanessa says you twist things.
Wrap lies inside truths.
Or truths inside lies."
I huffed a breath — half amusement, half fatigue.
"Our innkeeper," Brina added, voice softer,
"likes puzzles."
She glanced at me, serious now.
"If you’re not careful," she said,
"she’ll solve you.
And then she’ll keep you."
I didn’t answer that.
Didn’t want to.
Instead, I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table.
The air between us shifted —
just slightly heavier, just slightly sharper.
"One rule," I said, voice steady.
"Before anything else."
Brina stilled, waiting.
"We don’t measure grief," I said.
"One lost, three lost — doesn’t matter.
Grieving isn’t math."
Brina nodded solemnly.
And something behind her ice-blue eyes — something sharp and wounded —
breathed out slowly.
"My wife’s name was June," I said, voice catching.
I swallowed.
"Min Ju," I added softly —
the name that still lived in my ribs like a broken blade.
Her real name.
The one she laughed over when she taught me to pronounce it properly the first night we met.
"My daughters were Jessie and Jenny."
I paused.
"Jung Shin. Jung Ran."
The names hung heavier in the air than the English ones.
Private.
Sacred.
Names spoken rarely.
Only ever at bedtime.
Only ever when the world was soft enough to hold them.
"They were my anchor," I said.
"My reminder there was something good left in the world."
"My job..." I shook my head.
"I hunted darkness.
Found missing children.
Walked places no one wanted to see."
"But because of them —
because of their laughter, their love —
I could always find my way back."
"And then," I said quietly,
"they were gone."
A plane crash.
A missed flight.
One stupid delay.
One wrong choice.
They had been alive.
And then they weren't.
Just... gone.
"I got the call," I said.
"I sat on the floor of my kitchen.
I didn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe."
"And that’s when it happened. The Calling. Like it heard the silence and tore me through.
And then — Moonrest."
I squeezed the mug until my knuckles whitened.
"No time to bury them.
No time to scream or fall apart."
"Just... here."
The tears came fast — heavy and blinding.
I bowed my head, gripping the edge of the table to keep from flying apart.
When I looked up, Brina was crying too.
Silent tears — not choking, not wailing —
just rivers running steady and true.
She reached across the table without hesitation.
Her small hands found mine —
steadying me, anchoring me back.
"My sister," Brina said, voice shaking but steady.
"She was strong.
Stronger than anyone."
She tugged up the sleeve of her blouse slightly, exposing the brutal scars circling her wrists. They caught the morning light like warnings—and lived there like memory.
They stood out against her skin like old, cruel brands.
"When the slavers took me," Brina said,
"she never gave up.
Not for a year.
Not for five years.
Not even after everyone else had forgotten."
"She hunted them.
Found me."
"She killed them all."
Her voice didn't waver when she said it.
There was pride there.
And something heavier.
A wound that had never closed.
"And then we came here," Brina whispered.
"Moonrest."
"And one night... a night like any other..."
"Something came out of the fog."
"A thing made of smoke and sorrow."
"I tried."
Her hand squeezed mine once — a sharp, desperate pressure.
"I tried to stop it."
"But my winds couldn’t hold it back."
She shook her head.
"And she died."
Her voice cracked finally — raw and terrible.
"She died because I failed."
We sat there, breathing in and out across the scarred table —
holding each other upright with the bare strength of grief.
Finally, I muttered:
"You know what people say."
Brina let out a short, bitter laugh.
"They're in a better place," she said flatly.
"They’re at peace," I added, the words tasting like ash.
"They’re together," she finished, softer now — almost a whisper.
We laughed.
A brittle, broken sound.
Not because it was funny.
But because it was so staggeringly, cosmically not.
The laughter faded into silence.
I wiped my face roughly.
"Does it help?" I asked, my voice ragged.
Brina shook her head, slow and sure.
"No," she said.
"It doesn’t help at all."
She smiled —
a broken, raw thing that somehow still had light behind it.
"They mean well," she said.
"And I love them for it."
"I love them for trying."
"But... their words..."
She looked away briefly, collecting herself.
"They're hollow."
"They don't mean nothing," she said.
"But they don't stop the hurt."
I nodded slowly.
"I know."
I leaned back in my chair, and in a voice dry as sand, said:
"Thank you.
I appreciate it."
For half a second, Brina just stared at me.
Then —
almost at the same moment —
we both broke into gasping, shattered laughter.
The cracked, shaking kind of laughter that lives so close to tears you can't tell them apart.
Thalia peeked carefully around the kitchen door, wide-eyed.
Saw us.
And without a word —
ducked hastily back into the kitchen.
We sat there, laughing and crying in the hollowed-out morning light.
Two battered souls.
Two broken songs.
Finally, after the worst of it had burned itself out, I wiped my face again.
“There’s a tradition,” I said, still hoarse. “I used to sit with families. When I couldn’t bring a child home, I brought the truth. I held space. I told them what mattered. And I always stayed until the end.”
"A real funeral.
A goodbye."
Brina’s hand tightened in mine again.
"You’d do that?" she asked, voice almost too small to hear.
"For them?"
"For us," I said.
She didn’t hesitate.
"Yes," she said. "I would."
Brina looked at me—not through me. At me. “That’s a rule too, isn’t it?” she said softly. “If someone comes to you… let them stay.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. I knew she was right.
We started planning.
Tulips or lilies.
Black skirts and black jackets.
Words that wouldn’t sound hollow.
Real goodbyes.
Not borrowed ones.
Halfway through arguing about flowers, Thalia leaned into the room, grinning wickedly.
"Planning a funeral for your first date?" she teased.
Brina flushed bright crimson.
I only smiled — slow and real and tired.
Squeezed Brina’s hand gently where it still held mine.
"Date or not," I said,
"We’ll look smashing in black."
6 The Weight Beneath Lanterns
Brina stood at the threshold of the Moon and Song, her shadow long across the warped welcome mat. The afternoon light lay thick and golden over the beams, touching chipped paint and grooves worn smooth by years of arrivals and exits. Her hand floated near the handle, fingers just grazing the air—close enough to open, but too full to try.
The Moon and Song wouldn’t open for her. Not yet. It was his to enter, his to be turned away from. He needed to choose when to return—and when to be seen. If she opened the door first, it would break the rhythm of his grief, force a conversation he hadn’t chosen. And she knew what it was to have grief taken from you before you were ready to speak it.
So she stood there.
She breathed in the warm scent of yeast and cider, the last of the day’s bread cooling on the air. And just as her fingers trembled forward—
a memory came.
Uninvited.
Unforgiving.
And she closed her eyes.
The mayor’s office had felt strangely small with so many inside. Vanessa stood near the window, arms crossed, braid coiled around one hand. Her golden eyes had flicked to Brina. “Well?”
Brina hadn’t answered. Not at first.
The room smelled of wax and lemon oil, dust caught in the curtain folds, and old fire in the hearth that hadn’t been lit in weeks. Light fell through the stained-glass window behind Celeste’s desk, casting fractured rainbows across the polished floorboards and Evelyn’s skirts.
Evelyn stood examining the Soul Candle like it was a letter written in grief. Her fingers, long and elegant, hovered over its warped rim without touching. The iron dish cradled the broken wax like a shallow grave. Light from the stained-glass windows danced across her face, catching the glint of gold in her eyes—soft, sad, knowing. She’d seen grief burn before. But never like this. Never so hot it melted the very vessel meant to hold it.
Cecilia stood far too close to Brina. Her scent was rosemary and ink, but beneath that was a faint powdery note of old paper and worn leather. Her uniform was crisply pressed, but her socks didn’t quite match, and her shoes squeaked faintly each time she shifted her weight. She gripped her clipboard like a shield, her knuckles white, her fingers twitching in rhythm with her breath. Her lips parted, closed, parted again.
“Do you walk with him every morning?” she whispered, nudging her clipboard up like a shield.
"Usually," Brina said taking in the scene the melted soul candle the scorched cieling.
“Grunting and straining,” Vanessa added, tone dry as wine.
Cecilia squeaked. “Exactly.”
“I bet sometimes he has his shirt off,” Vanessa mused with a smirk. 'chest glistening."
"You think!" Cecilia
“Cecilia” Celeste snapped, her voice sharp enough to cleave silence.
Cecilia had fled the room a second later. Her voice echoed faintly from the hallway. “Shirt off!”
Evelyn sighed. “Cecilia is flame-cracked,” she murmured, her eyes not leaving the broken candle. “She wants to be close to the flame, to feel its warmth—but doesn’t know how to hold it without burning. "
When Brina entered, Evelyn looked up with gentleness, voice low. “Brina, dear. Have you considered a Soul Candle?”
Brina’s eyes flicked to the ruined candle to where the scorched mark still scarred the ceiling. The base of the broken candle still sat in its dish, untouched.
“What do you think?” she replied.
Vanessa pushed off the window, golden braid trailing over one shoulder. Her skirt swished as she stepped into the soft lanternlight, eyes catching Brina with the kind of warmth that knew how to bite.
“Come on, Brina,” she said. “You’re close to him.”
"Didn't try to be," Brina said.
"We aren't close to him like you are," Celeste said. "Any idea what happened.?"
"I am not sure. It's like he is broken, but not wrong." Brina put her hands in her sleeves and rubbed her wrists.
Celeste looked up slowly. The stained-glass light caught in her hair, a silver crescent tucked behind one ear. Her blouse was perfect. Her posture, pristine. But her eyes—those betrayed the truth. They were rimmed in exhaustion, shadowed with the weight of choices no one else could make.
“We’re not proud of this,” she said quietly. “But we don’t know how else to help him.”
Brina had felt it then. The weight of choice. Of love turned into obligation. And she had nodded.
"He will not forgive me," she said.
"At least he will be alive," Vanessa said.
Now, back in the present, Brina’s hand dropped to her side. She didn’t open the door. Not yet.
The Moon and Song was full of laughter. It sounded warm. Whole. Alive. And still, the door would not open for her. Not yet.
She turned the handle.
The inn’s main room was aglow with firelight and late afternoon sun. The air smelled of honeyed biscuits and dark cider, layered with the citrus-bright note of wax from the lanterns flickering above.
Vashram was already in mid-rumble, elbowing Vanessa with a grin. She wore her usual linen tunic rolled to the elbows, a dusting of flour on her collar and dried parsley on her boots. Her wide frame leaned comfortably against the counter like it belonged there more than the wood. Her voice was low, amused, and always just a bit louder than it needed to be. “Oh come on, you’ve noticed those shoulders. Broad. Solid. It’s easy on the eyes to watch him work.”
She cupped her breasts in both hands, laughing. “Even these didn’t distract him.”
“Even these didn’t distract him.”
Thalia passed by with a tray of pastries, her pink apron dusted with flour and her cheeks flush from the oven’s warmth. Her braid bounced with each step, and she moved lightly, as though used to carrying comfort in both hands. One hand fluttered to her mouth, stifling a giggle that threatened to escape. The scent of cinnamon and butter trailed behind her like punctuation.
Not to be outdone, Vanessa leaned over the bar, hands gliding down her sides. Not a glance at these. She was all curves and desire. “Those arms. That tired sigh. Those brown eyes you could drown in…”
A barstool squeaked. Cecilia sat atop it, clutching her clipboard like it might float her away. She was drinking in every word with wide, frantic eyes.
“He has a strong spirit,” Evelyn said, her voice calm but reverent. “And very loyal. His soul burns with strength.”
Seraphina sat near the hearth, her silver-threaded cord weaving delicately through practiced fingers. Each loop, each twist, caught the lanternlight like moonlit silk. She wore twilight tones—deep navy and shifting silver embroidery that shimmered when she breathed. Her expression remained unreadable, except for the slight lift of her brow.
“Eve, dear,” she said, voice smooth as tea poured slow, “I don’t think most of them are interested in his soul.”
Laughter.
Vashram grinned. “Cards on the table—who’s kissed him?”
Half the room raised their hands.
Vashram looked around, stunned. “Really? Really?”
Cecilia stood abruptly, slapping her clipboard on the counter. “Oh, come on—we’ve all tried to seduce him. I’ve tried multiple times myself.”
An awkward silence. Mumbles. Eyes avoided.
“Oh come on!” she repeated.
Still no one else confirmed.
So she pointed at Celeste. “The mayor proposed marriage!”
“The mayor proposed marriage!”
The room exploded in laughter.
Vanessa called from the bar, “Celeste Holloway?”
Celeste cocked her hip. “That’s Mayor Celeste Holloway to you.”
That’s when the door creaked open.
Thalia, carrying drinks, nearly dropped her tray.
“Brina?”
Brina stood in the doorway, her satchel clutched to her chest like a shield she hadn’t meant to carry this far. Her eyes flicked over the room—not hostile, not judging—just knowing. Her shoulders were hunched under the weight of guilt she hadn’t voiced, her breath barely audible, like she feared even breathing might break what she’d walked into. She looked smaller than she was. Not meek. Just worn.
Thalia gasped, nearly dropped her tray, and rushed forward with that bright pink energy that softened everything it touched. She guided Brina to the nearest bench like leading a guest through grief. The moment Brina sat, a warm mug appeared in her hands, fragrant and steaming.
She didn’t look at it.
She didn’t speak.
Seraphina, silent as dusk, glided across the room and perched beside her. Her fingers adjusted the edge of Brina’s sleeve, as if to restore dignity without asking permission. She made a quiet hum—half comfort, half concentration—then reached into her pocket and smoothed a wrinkle on Brina’s collar.
The bench creaked softly beneath them. A hush fell over the inn—not the kind that demands silence, but the kind that blooms from it.
Vanessa’s teasing grin faded. Vashram folded her arms. Evelyn didn’t move, but her eyes rose from the candlelight. Cecilia stared so hard at her teacup it trembled in her hand.
And Celeste… Celeste stepped back—not into shadows, but into position. She stood quietly near the door, just between Brina and the outside. Not to block her. Not to trap her. But to guard the threshold.
Her arms remained at her sides, not crossed. Her gaze was steady. There was guilt in her stance, but no fear. If Brina chose to walk out again, she would let her—but not without being seen.
She gave Brina the floor.
And stood as her shield.
"Brina cleared her throat. The room had quieted, but she needed the stillness to settle deeper.
“Before I begin,” she said, “I have some rules.”
Rule one. “We don’t talk about our pasts unless we choose to. This isn’t about what I’ve suffered. It’s about Jay.”
Seraphina whispered "we have you." Vanessa leaned forward, arms crossed but eyes open. “We’re here for you too,” she said, less teasing than usual. Vashram nodded in quiet solidarity.
Rule two. “We don’t measure grief. It’s not a ledger. It’s an open wound, and we all bleed differently.”
Rule three. “If someone comes, let them stay. Sometimes people don’t need answers. They just need you there.”
Most of the women nodded. A few looked away. But no one disagreed.
"He had a wife and two daughters. They were his light. His center.
Jay was an investigator—not just a detective, but someone who found lost people. Mostly children. He walked into the worst the world could hold, and when all he could bring back was truth, he did it gently. He carried answers like they were the last gift he could offer a grieving parent.
And then he went home. Because of them—his girls—he believed the world was still good.
And they died.
(A ripple moved through the room. Brina kept going.)
He said it was a plane crash. Fire. Glass. Metal.
She paused, swallowing.
He was told they were gone. And then—before he could scream—he was Called. Torn across space, like all of us. But unlike us... he was mid-grief.
There was no time to bury them. No time to break. No time to say goodbye.
Brina’s eyes locked on Celeste first, then Vanessa. Not with anger. With recognition. The kind that says: You knew. And you didn’t ask.
“And he carried that,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Every night. Through every Calling. Because he wanted to help us. Protect us.”
She looked down at her hands, then back up.
“He’s very broken. But he’s not wrong. And it’s catching up with him.”
The room wobbled under the weight of their collective guilt. Words rose in a confused storm—excuses, regrets, fragments of failed intentions.
"It's not like that!" "Brina, he never told us—" "I didn’t know." "I proposed marriage!" "I asked if he wanted to have kids!"
Then, like the women of Moonrest always did, they pivoted. Regret turned into resolve. They found one another, not through consensus, but through care.
“What should we do?” someone asked.
Seraphina looked up, voice even. “He must know. We can’t pretend we don’t understand anymore.”
“How do we talk to him?” another voice murmured.
But Brina wasn’t listening to the clamor anymore. She was listening to something deeper. A hum in the base of her chest—like a cello's breath, steady and mournful.
Thalia, still holding her hand, spoke gently. “You never did, did you? Try to kiss him. Seduce him.”
Brina shook her head. “We walked together. Talked. And it was wonderful.”
She looked down.
“And the first time we sit down together… I betrayed him.”
7 The Three Tulips
I barely recognized the man staring back at me in the reflection.
A pane of glass in the message post caught the fading evening light — and there I was:
Black suit. Black tie. White shirt so clean it hurt the eyes.
A handsome man.
A perfect mourner.
Someone dead inside.
The tulips in my hand — three white blooms — told the real story.
Three tulips for three lives.
June. Jessie. Jenny.
Their names beat behind my eyes with every breath.
The flowers shifted from hand to hand.
The stems bent under the pressure of my grip.
Grief. Rage. Betrayal. Loneliness.
None of it helping. None of it clear.
I swallowed hard. I should’ve known. Too soft, Holloway. Ice-blue eyes made you forgive this town. I saw her walking and thought I hang out—what are we, seventeen?
That damn door saved me. It usually snaps open for you. But this time, it didn’t budge.
There was pressure in my skull as her voice came back to me, clear and merciless:
Rule one: “We don’t talk about our pasts unless we choose to. This isn’t about what I’ve suffered. It’s about Jay.”
Rule two: “We don’t measure grief. It’s not a ledger.”
I didn’t need to hear more.
She sealed off her own pain and spilled mine across the floor.
And in that moment, the cold returned. Not anger—something worse. Something quieter.
What did it matter? My family was dead — ashes across the sky.
I waited in the spot where it had all begun — where Celeste had shown me the delivery cart. Where Brina had first smiled at me like nothing in the world could go wrong.
The town breathed in slow, heavy drafts around me. The tulips trembled.
I didn’t hear her approach.
She was just there.
No hood. No cloak. No armor of fabric between us.
The evening light caught the faint, strong lines circling her wrists and neck — marks for collars and manacles. I knew the signs, but I didn’t dare speak of it without her permission.
Her dark hair framed her face in soft, stubborn waves. Her dress was dark blue — so dark it looked black in the evening light. The long skirt brushed her boots, the blouse fitted clean and modest to her figure, sleeves breaking just before the wrists, the barest hint of shoulder visible.
She didn’t hide anymore.
She stood there — proud, scarred, beautiful — and for a moment, the sight of her hurt worse than anything else.
She stood there — proud, scarred, beautiful
The air between us snapped tight.
She knew that I knew. There was no hiding it. No cleverly wrapping truth into lies.
Finally, Brina broke the silence, voice flat and merciless:
"It had to be done."
No apology. No regret.
I crushed the tulips against my chest, my knuckles whitening around the stems.
I turned toward her and said:
"Did you tell them about your past?"
Brina’s gaze faltered. Her shoulders pulled inward, just slightly.
"No."
I laughed — bitter, hollow.
"That was rule number one."
"You wouldn’t talk about your past."
Brina stiffened, her voice gaining force:
"Rule number two was yours."
Her voice sharpened:
"You said grief isn’t a competition. That it can’t be measured."
"And now you’re angry because they saw your grief?"
I hammered on:
"Before I got here, my family was taken from me. Senselessly."
"Your grief, Brina Gale, is no less terrible than mine. Or anyone else’s."
"But you made my pain the centerpiece of a story you weren’t ready to tell yourself. You locked your grief in a room, then opened the door to mine."
"You hide yourself in your work. You avoid Evelyn. You refuse to talk to anyone about what happened."
"Sound familiar?"
I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached.
Brina stepped closer — closer than I wanted — closer than I deserved.
Her voice pressed harder against me:
"I talked about it with you! Never anyone else."
"Did you want to be alone when we walked together?"
"Did you want me not to find you when you changed your route?"
Her voice rose, trembling with anger:
"I knew it was a test, Jay. That’s what you do. You test people."
"Did you want to be alone on that cold bench where we talked at the end of the day — both exhausted, both trying to forget our pain?"
I couldn’t answer.
Not because I didn’t know.
Because I did.
Because she was right.
The cold burned deeper than anger now — that detached, dangerous stillness that had crept in after the Candle.
I said, very softly:
"You don’t know me."
"You don’t know what it’s like."
Brina’s voice, low and ragged, cut me again:
"No, Jay. You didn’t let anyone know you. You buried yourself alive and called it survival."
The words hit harder than any blow.
The wind stirred, wrapping around her — a restless, rising thing. Her hair whipped across her face.
Her beauty — her fury — burned so brightly it hurt to look at her.
She stepped even closer, her voice a harsh whisper:
"This isn’t about me. It’s. about. you!"
"They aren’t here to judge you. They aren't suspicious. They aren’t planning. They care."
She took a breath that hitched in her throat:
"Because you — with your power, your stubborn heart — helped them survive the Callings."
"Because you carried your grief and kept walking."
"Because you mattered when you didn’t think you did."
She got so close I could see every fleck of blue and silver in her furious eyes.
"And this town — broken, stubborn, scared — it loves you."
She swallowed hard, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
"I—"
The word hung between us.
And then —
The world shattered.
The sound had started earlier and it hadn’t stopped — a low, mournful hum that rattled up through the soles of my feet, into my ribs, into the back of my skull.
The Moon’s Calling — they warned me about it — but no warning does justice to the sound.
A weeping sky, hollow and endless, layered over with a glassy, off-key wail, like a choir singing through broken crystal.
The sky darkened.
The earth trembled.
The white tulips dropped from my hand, crushed beneath our boots.
Neither of us moved. The sound kept rising.
Scene 8 - The Calling
The sound was unbearable now.
Not sudden. Not sharp. Just constant—a low, aching hum that crawled up through the soles of my boots and sank into my ribs. It settled behind my eyes, throbbed at the base of my skull.
They had warned me. About the Calling. About how it builds.
But no warning prepares you for resonance.
It was louder than I remembered. And deeper. Not noise. Pressure. Like being inside a throat mid-scream.
The buildings around us vibrated—not shaking, but responding. As if Moonrest itself remembered what was coming.
The sky wept color. Red. Gold. Ash.
And the fog returned.
Not thick. Not hiding. Just enough to suggest the outline of what shouldn’t be there.
Figures moved in the fog.
Not people. Not truly.
Apparitions, thin and flickering, darted between buildings, slipping through the dim light of the Everglow Lanterns.
Shapes that looked like neighbors, friends, family — but when you looked closer, the faces were wrong. The movements were wrong.
Grief made flesh.
Longing made dangerous.
I turned to Brina.
"What do you see?" I asked, my voice hoarse against the thick air. "What do you hear?"
She didn’t answer.
She didn’t move.
Brina stood frozen, staring down the path, breath caught somewhere in her throat.
I followed her gaze.
There — a figure climbing the gentle slope toward us.
At first, my heart misfired.
It was Brina — walking calmly, serenely through the dust and broken light.
But no — not Brina.
Something like her.
The form shimmered at the edges, smoke trailing off her like strands of unraveling memory.
I pushed outward with my blessing, willing the apparition to dissipate, to slow, to falter.
It barely hesitated.
The Calling was too strong.
The reality around us was threadbare and trembling.
The figure came on — arms reaching.
I braced for another Mirror Night.
But Brina — Brina gasped — not with fear, but with joy.
Her face broke open — the raw, desperate happiness of someone seeing something they thought was lost forever.
And I knew.
I knew before she spoke.
This was not Brina’s reflection.
It was her sister.
Mariel Gale.
Mariel Gale.
Brina started forward, her hand reaching.
Tears blurred her vision, but I didn’t need sight to know the danger.
Every instinct I had screamed the truth.
I grabbed Brina hard and spun her behind me, planting myself between her and the ghost.
The figure surged forward — and with it came a tidal wave of grief so pure, so searing, it nearly tore me in half.
Brina's memories — her guilt — her sorrow — slammed into me with the force of a hurricane.
I staggered but stayed upright.
I forced the blessing forward again — a barrier of will and stubbornness — as the ghost’s form disintegrated against my back.
The blast of emotion still hit Brina — but I took the brunt of it.
I ground my boots against the stones, forcing my body to stay upright against the tide.
The grief repeated — again, and again — moments of loss, helplessness, hollow screaming inside a mind that couldn’t save the ones it loved.
It could kill.
It could drive you mad.
It could put you into a coma so deep you never woke up.
Brina broke against me in a storm of sobs — deep, tearing, ragged.
Her tears soaked through my shirt. Her arms clung to me like drowning ropes.
She clutched me so tightly it hurt, anchoring herself against the collapse of the world.
I held her — tight, steady, unmovable.
I let her cry.
I let her tear herself down against me because it was better than letting the Calling tear her apart.
We stood like that for a long time.
Her sobs slowed — the tremors in her body weakening.
I pulled back slightly, lifting her tear-wrecked face toward mine.
And that's when the deeper horror sank in.
Brina gasped it out first:
"Oh no, Jay. Oh no."
I knew without her needing to say it.
It wasn’t just Brina the Calling had come for.
"They're out there," I said roughly, my hands tightening around her shoulders.
"Moonrest... it’s full of them."
"And my family," I whispered, the realization burning cold through my veins.
"They’re out there too."
Brina stiffened.
Terror twisted her beautiful features — but also determination.
She broke free, scrubbing her sleeves across her eyes.
We didn’t speak again.
We ran.
Back toward the inn.
Back toward whatever we could still save.
The fog didn’t follow. But the grief did.
9 Just Stay
The fire was dying.
One last tongue of flame flickered over a bed of grayed coals, trying to pretend it wasn’t already over.
I watched it curl, sink, disappear. Then nothing—just the soft glow of embers trying to remember what warmth felt like.
I didn’t take off my jacket. Or my shoes. I just sat there, dripping onto the stone like a ghost that hadn’t realized it was dead yet.
The funeral suit clung to me, soaked and stiff—the same one I’d worn when I confronted Brina with flowers in my hand and questions I couldn’t let go. The collar felt too tight now, the tie like a noose.
The inn was quiet—too quiet for Moonrest.
But not silent.
Celeste’s voice carried from the hallway, clipped and urgent, cutting through the hush like a blade: “If she’s glued to his side, I can’t get him a message. I need him thinking, not drowning.”
She was pacing—I could hear it. Her heels ticking like a metronome. Mayor-mode, brittle with worry. “He can't help us if we can’t reach him. And he won’t listen with her in the room.”
Vanessa answered, low and even: “She’s not the weight, Celeste. Maybe she’s the rope.”
Celeste didn’t reply.
Out of sight—just beyond the edge of my vision—Brina crouched low to the floor, whispering into the wind, not pleading, but commanding. Her voice carried names. Her hand wrote fast, not in fear, but in rhythm. Beside her, Cecilia logged returns like a tactician—posture tense, but eyes clear. These weren’t women waiting for orders. They were holding the town.
I sat with my elbows on my knees, my hands empty except for the one thing I hadn’t let go of all day:
A fake cigarette.
The same one I’d carried since the first night I arrived in Moonrest. Plastic, cheap. A habit from a life that wasn’t this one. Something to fidget with when the silence got too heavy.
I should’ve been running into the street.
I should’ve been dragging people out of the fog, lifting them off the ground, shouting their names over the wind.
I should’ve been saving someone.
But I wasn’t. I was sitting here. Paralyzed. Drenched. Watching the walls breathe around me.
I could barely slow the apparitions anymore—shadows slipping past my reach, dragging pieces of memory with them. My blessing flickered, dim and unreliable. Or maybe I just couldn’t tell the difference between the Calling and myself anymore.
Grief wasn’t something I carried.
It had rooted in me.
I looked at the hearth. The dying fire. The empty room. The walls that had heard too many stories and never interrupted.
Was this what I’d been doing all along?
Holding back the Calling not out of strength—but fear?
Because letting it in meant letting myself be broken again.
Because letting it in meant I had to admit I was already broken.
And maybe—
just maybe—
that was the only way forward.
I turned it over between my fingers. Raised it to my lips. Not to smoke—just to breathe.
The Calling still pressed at the edges of the town. It always did. I could feel it flickering just beyond the walls, like a tide waiting to return.
And then I did something I never do.
I called it inward.
Peace Calling.
It flared inside my ribs like a struck match—bright, sharp, too much all at once. The power bucked against my grip, and still, I drew it in deeper.
The end of the fake cigarette began to glow—white-hot, edged in silver and deep gray.
Not magic. Not a trick. Just power recognizing pain.
I didn’t want to stop the Calling anymore.
I wanted to hold it.
Know it.
Understand the shape of what I'd been carrying for so long.
A sharp note rang through my chest like a single piano key pressed too hard.
I stood.
Section Two – The Ghosts We Love
Vanessa blocked the hallway, arms folded, unreadable as ever.
“Where do you think you’re going, Holloway?”
I didn’t stop. Vanessa—beautiful, dangerous—my biggest foil and my friend.
"What, are you going to propose too?”
She blinked—just once. Off balance. The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Holloway—”
“You want honesty or charm?” I said. “Because I’ve only got energy for one.”
Then I slipped past her.
“Holloway!” she called after me. “Jay!”
But I was already moving.
The first thing I felt was the cold.
Not on my skin—inside my ribs. Behind my eyes. It pushed outward, pressing against the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I didn’t run. Not at first.
I walked past Vanessa, out the door, into the night.
The street was empty. Not quiet—empty. The kind of empty that hums.
The front doors of the inn creaked open, the Peace Callin curling in around my shoulders. The night was quieter now—but not safe. Never safe.
I stepped into the street.
No boots—just formal shoes already soaked through from sweat and street, the slick stone beneath me cold and unfamiliar.
And everywhere I looked—
Shadows.
Not just people.
Memories.
Half-made faces slipping through lanternlight. Old grief, new pain, things I thought I’d buried pressing against the edge of sight.
The Calling wasn’t screaming anymore.
It was breathing.
And I could feel it inside me now—drawn in and coiled behind my heart like a living thing.
I took the cigarette from my lips, held it between two fingers, and exhaled.
A slow stream of silver-gray smoke curled from my mouth—not illusion. Not trick.
Peace Calling, tempered.
It drifted toward the nearest ghost—an old man with a smile too sharp to be kind—and as the smoke touched him, he faltered.
Flickered.
Faded.
Not destroyed. Not erased. Released.
It worked.
It actually worked.
But then I turned—like memory told me to.
The world didn’t shift. It waited.
And then they came.
They didn’t rise from the floor or crawl out of shadows. They just… appeared. Like memory made manifest. Smoke with shape. Regret with faces.
First the girls.
Tiny shoes. Bright coats. Hair in braids and barrettes they’d chosen themselves.
Then June—just behind them. Not younger. Not softer. Not some idealized version of grief.
The real one. The one who called I called back to myself.
They weren’t really here.
I knew that.
I knew it like I knew how to breathe.
But I couldn’t breathe.
I stepped forward, trembling.
The Calling didn’t rush me. It didn’t scream. It offered.
Grief made flesh. The memory of love with its face turned just slightly wrong.
I whispered their names.
“June… Jessie… Jenny…”
The pain hit so hard it felt like joy.
That’s the trick of the Calling.
It gives you what you lost. Just long enough to forget it’s not real.
I reached out.
My hand passed through them—but they flickered, paused, almost leaned toward me like they remembered, too.
I shouldn’t have done it.
Because that’s all it took.
One touch. One trace of skin and memory and love. One brush of June’s ghost fingers—and all of it flooded in.
The fire. The metal. The screaming. The silence. Her scent. Their laughter. The panic. The seatbelt buckle I couldn’t find.
I dropped like a stone.
My knees hit the street and I howled. Peace Calling fractured inside me—turned from protection to punishment.
And that’s when Brina collided with me.
Her arms wrapped around my shoulders. Her wind flared. She grabbed the smoke and scattered the ghosts like ash.
My daughters shimmered.
Flickered.
Smiled.
And then they were gone.
Not stolen.
Not broken.
Released.
She pulled me into her chest—not because she was stronger.
Because she refused to let me break alone.
Memories I’d buried came roaring back, unfiltered, unshaped.
My girls screaming.
The crash of glass.
The fire.
The silence.
Brina’s arms held me tighter.
“Jay,” she whispered. “By the Moon, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Stop,” I said. “You’ll make me say it.”
She didn’t let go. “I don’t want you to hurt anymore.”
That was better. It was more honest.
I didn’t want her to hurt either.
I wanted her to stay.
And she did.
Because this time, when I fell—someone caught me.
That was Rule Three.
If someone comes to you, let them stay.
Brina came.
And I let her.
I stood.
We stood chest to chest—me exhaling Peace Calling in a long breath over her shoulder, and Brina pushing Wind Whisper outward like a shield. Grief unmade itself in slow spirals. The ghosts began to dissipate, not vanquished, but released.
The town began to gather around us.
Brina reached for my hand and I took it. We walked, her wind and my smoke carrying what remained. No one asked where we were going. They followed.
It wasn’t far—but it was hidden. Up past the oldest house on the edge of the green. Through the trees that still whispered old names.
To the grove.
A small cemetery waited for us—three weathered stones at its center. The middle one read: Mariel Gale. Sister. Hero. Friend.
I let go of Brina’s hand and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. I was there for her—truly there, not just standing beside her.
Celeste stepped forward. Not as mayor, not as command. Just as someone who had loved Mariel. Her voice didn’t tremble as she spoke—because grief had tempered it. She told stories. Brave ones. Funny ones. The kind you only hear after someone is gone. She named what she would miss.
I felt Brina cry beside me—not the wild sobs of earlier. This was softer. Lower. A breaking open, not a falling apart.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For being my sister. For being my friend. For saving me when I thought no one would ever find me again.”
She reached into her satchel and pulled out the tulips—crushed, broken-stemmed, mud-stained.
White petals, still trembling, smeared with the weight of everything we’d carried here.
“They’re not much now,” she said. Her voice was soft, but steady.
“They’re enough,” I replied.
I took them from her fingers, gently—like they were something living.
One by one, I named them.
“June.”
“Jessie.”
“Jenny.”
I knelt beside the grave and laid the tulips down. Not as apology. Not as offering.
As memory.
Not as apology. Not as offering. As memory.
And then I wept. The kind of cry that carves through ribs and doesn’t stop until something breaks open.
Brina bent beside me. Her shoulder touched mine.
“I can’t replace them,” she said.
Her voice shook. Her hands did not.
“But I’m here. We are here.”
She kissed me.
Not gently.
Fierce. Demanding. Certain.
A declaration.
A survival.
A promise.
I bent my head, overcome—and would have fallen—but Vashram grabbed my shoulder, pulling me up
Vanessa slid in behind me, arms around my chest, cheek pressed to my back. “That’s enough of that,” she whispered.
And Celeste—bright with unshed tears—took my hand, leaning against me like a friend who finally knew where to rest.
Brina took the other.
The town stood around us—silent, weeping, whole.
“I don’t want to carry it alone anymore.”
"Just stay."
The following characters were inspired by or created in collaboration with community artists and Civitai creators. Thank you for building the bones of Moonrest:
Moonrest - @Average_Cute_Girl_Enjoyer
Jay Holloway – @P_GM
Brina Gale – @P_GM
Celeste – @Average_Cute_Girl_Enjoyer
Vanessa – @Yunohiro
Cecilia – @fateno4455131
Thalia – @Buzz_lover
Evelyn Thorne – @QuasarBahamut
Vashran Barristan - @Haburo
Seraphina Valmont – @eirikakaka556
Rhoen – P_GM Born from memory, silence, and the need to hold what others could not.
Thank you to all Civitai creators and the PigPen community for your worldbuilding sparks. This story walks because of you.