I cook.
Not for customers.
For the ghosts.
A stew from my grandfather’s region. Rich, muddy, bitter in a way that demands respect. I stir slowly, like time might stop if I move wrong. The broth clings to the ladle like memory.
I think of her.
Her hands, soft against my jaw the night of the festival.
Her voice, quiet and cracking when she whispered my name.
Her silence when it mattered.
It guts me, still.
And that’s the problem.
Not that she betrayed me.
That she still has the power to make it feel fresh.
I dip a spoon into the stew.
Taste.
Too much salt.
I don’t fix it.
CHAPTER 13
KRISTI
Ipace the perimeter of my apartment like it’s a cell. Twenty-two steps from the window to the bookshelf, seventeen back to the kitchen counter. I’ve counted. Recounted. Rearranged the armchair twice. Still, the loop pulls me back like gravity. Each pass scrapes something raw inside me. Every time my heel hits that creaky tile near the wine rack, I hear his voice again.
“You can’t fix a bullet after it’s fired.”
I said I was sorry. Quietly, pathetically, like an apology whispered through a locked door. But sorry doesn’t undo what I did. Intent doesn’t matter when you're holding the match that burned down someone's home.
The comm pad on the table lights up again—an empty pulse. I’ve sent three messages. The last one was two lines long.
Kenron—Please. Just talk to me.
Read: No. Delivered: Yes.
No response.
I drag my hands down my face and exhale so hard it rattles my ribs. Then I grab my coat.
The air is colder than it should be for this district. It bites. I take the lift to the street level and ride a railcar in silence. The buzz of city light doesn’t soothe tonight—it stings. I walk the restof the way to the restaurant. It's just past dusk. The signs are lit, the windows glowing gold.
I’m not dressed for a visit. No formalwear, no badge, just a long coat and the bags under my eyes.
Kiv opens the door halfway.
“Hi,” I say. I smile, weak but hopeful. “I was just hoping?—”
