Nobody runs.
Walnut Falls has seen stranger things.
I walk slow down Main Street, boots echoing on cracked boards, past storefronts splintered but standing. Light drips through leaves overhead—morning sun scattering gold onbroken concrete. The scent of fresh coffee drifts from the bakery; crisp air tastes like clean rain after fire.
Peggy Sue limps beside me, still wrapped in blankets from the fight, her eyes red but bright. She clears her throat and holds out something wrapped in waxed cloth. “Kursk,” she says, voice small but steady, “I dunno how you feel about this… but—job at the library. I mean, co-librarian, maybe keep the books safe, help people find their stories.”
I blink. My hands are stained with rot, grime, pain. My ribs still ache. But I see her trying. I nod, my throat thick. “I’d like that,” I say, voice low. “Very much.”
Booger lurches forward, grinning, holding out a battered cassette tape tied with twine. A mixtape—songs he says he burned, tracks that remind him of us, of lost nights, of fights, of hope. I take it, fingers brushing the tape-shell. The plastic is warm. I can feel edges rough. I smell tape, of static, of memory.
“Play this sometime,” he says. “When the world’s quiet. When you sleep.”
I tuck it in my coat. It weighs nothing, but feels like everything.
Burnout claps me on the shoulder. “Hey man, do me a favor—once you're official, officiate my wedding.”
I stagger a laugh. “Officiate your wedding?” I echo.
He nods. “Yeah. Peggy Sue and me—they want you to be there. You know… for vows and stuff.” His eyes are hopeful.
I look at Peggy Sue. She blushes. Booger laughs. My heart clenches. I try to imagine what vows are. Words. Commitments. A future. Something I used to believe was only for stories.
I swallow. “Yes,” I say softly. “I’ll officiate.”
Olivia, walking a half-stride behind me, slips her arm around my waist. Warm, real. Her breath hot against the back of my neck. The sense of peace is weird. Fragile. But I let it fill me.
“Welcome home,” she says.
I press her hand tight. I feel the sun fully on my face. No illusions. No disguises. I am Kursk. Wounded, scarred, changed—but home is here.
The world is safe, for now.
CHAPTER 21
OLIVIA
Iwake to a Sunday dawn that has not forgotten its grief. The air is crisp, honeyed by early sun warming dew. Walnut Falls is gathering already—quiet murmurs in skirts or over cups of coffee, the smell of fresh paper from the bakery, wood smoke rising from chimneys. I breathe deep, tasting hope, bittersweet.
The library steps have been cleared; florist’s wreaths line the doors. Inside, the reading room is half-lit by lanterns, half-bright from windows letting light slice through book-dust motes. Wooden chairs arranged in semi-circles, people gathered—some in tears, some with arms crossed, others expectant. A vigil, they said. Half celebration, half confusion.
Kursk stands beside me at the front, looking as solemn as a mountain in mourning. His ribs still ache; his skin, warmed by light rather than struggle, glows with faint scars. He is cloak-less now, green skin revealed, tusks visible. Some children stare. Adults glance, shift. Nobody runs.
I raise my voice for them. “Thank you,” I begin, throat tight. “For staying.” My fingers curl around the edge of the podium. I smell old paper, candle wax, faint incense from Peggy Sue’s jar. “For believing, cautiously or wholly, in what you heard.”
A man in a plaid shirt in the back whispers to his neighbor. A woman nods, eyes glassed. Some fold arms.
“There was fear. There was darkness. But the Veil is sealed. The creature is no more.” My voice cracks, but I straighten, because Kursk’s eyes are on me—solid, fierce.
Then I gesture to Kursk. “He did what no legend could. He stood between us and oblivion.”
Booger—standing near the front—claps softly. Burnout does too. Peggy Sue wipes her eyes. They are small firm sounds of belief.
A teen raises a phone. “Is this legit?” she whispers, not loudly. Other teens whisper back: “Saw the lights.” “Saw the crater.” “He was fighting inside the Veil.” Some laugh, others downward nod. Half of them treat this as a ghost story; half treat it like maybe the myths are true after all.
After speeches are done, we move outside. I hold Kursk’s hand. The sun is warm; strangers share space. There’s a table under the oak with photos: the festival, burned booths, the wrecked Smarthome, the caves. People leave candles. Someone places a flower at the library’s entrance.
The registrar arrives—a stern woman with spectacles. She opens a ledger. “By order of Walnut Falls Council,” she says. “We officially list Mr. Kursk…” she pauses, looks up at him. He meets her gaze. “…asOlivia Wilkins’ tenantat 12 Elm Street.” Some titters. Some warm smiles.
