Her voice is too near.
My pulse does something I’ve never trained for. It steadies. Not slows. Synchronizes.
Three beats. Four. I can hear it.
Not just mine.
Hers.
The hum lowers. Contained. Like something deciding to wait. That’s worse than a spike.
Spikes I can outlast. Waiting implies choice.
She looks away, face unreadable. The silence fractures instantly. And then the pressure returns—sharper now. Almost corrective.
Winnie steps back before I realize we’ve moved.
Distance.
Distance is discipline.
Josephine notices. Her gaze drops to my chest. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sweating.”
“It’s Nevada.”
She doesn’t smile.
The wind gusts suddenly. Stronger this time. Sand lifts in a tight spiral between us before collapsing back to earth.
We both look down.
The glyph catches the light differently now. Shadow fills the carved grooves. The space between the lines darkens first.
Josephine kneels, tracing the air above it without touching.
“You feel that?”
“Feel what?”
“Pressure.”
I shake my head too quickly.
She studies me like I’m another artifact in her grid. “I think the negative space is doing more work than the symbol,” she murmurs.
My stomach drops. Negative space.
Mags again, quiet as dusk:It’s not what’s carved that matters. It’s what’s left untouched.
Josephine doesn’t know how close she is.
“Maybe it’s doing nothing,” I say evenly. “Maybe you’re reading intention into coincidence.”
“Maybe.” But she doesn’t sound convinced.
