The words hit me like a physical blow. My little brother. The kid who used to build elaborate Lego cities and cried during sad movies and held my hand at our parents' funeral and promised he'd be okay.
Needs me to save him. Again.
"I don't have the money," I say, and I hate how my voice wavers. "Even if I wanted to help, I can't."
"Then I'm dead." He says it so simply, so finally. Like he's already given up.
"Don't say that."
"Why not? It's true." He stands up, and I see him swaying slightly, like standing costs him. "I came here because you're all I have left. Because I thought," he shakes his head, as though disgusted with me. "I don't know what I thought. That you'd care, maybe. That family would mean something."
"That's not fair?—"
"Don't come to my funeral." His voice is cold now, distant. "I'd rather just rot with the rest of the losers in the Hudson. At least then you won't have to pretend you tried."
He turns and walks away, and everything in me screams to call him back. To promise I'll find the money somehow. To fix this like I've always fixed things.
But I don't.
Because if I keep saving him, he'll never save himself.
I sit there as he disappears into the lunch crowd, my hands shaking so badly I have to grip the edge of the table. Around me, the café continues like nothing happened. Someone laughs. The espresso machine hisses. A child whines for more chocolate milk.
My little brother just walked out that door expecting to die, and I let him go.
The thought hits me like a punch to the chest. I can't breathe. The café is too hot, too loud, too full of people living their normal lives while mine falls apart.
I grab my bag and stand on legs that don't quite feel steady. My throat is tight and my eyes are burning but I will not cry in a Midtown café. I will not.
I make it to the register, pulling out my wallet with numb fingers.
"Just the coffee and croissant?" the barista asks.
"And the broken cup," I manage. "My brother, he threw it. I'm so sorry."
She waves me off. "Don't worry about it. Are you okay?"
The kindness almost breaks me. "I'm fine. How much?"
"Twelve fifty."
I hand over fifteen dollars, my one indulgence this week, and walk out into the October heat.
Outside, Midtown assaults me. The smell hits first. Exhaust fumes mixing with rotting garbage from the overflowing bins on the corner, hot dogs from a nearby cart, someone's perfume so strong it makes my eyes water. Car horns blare in a discordant symphony. Someone shouts in Russian. A bike messenger nearly clips me and yells something obscene.
I taste copper in my mouth and realize I've bitten my cheek hard enough to bleed.
Gabe is gone, swallowed by the sea of strangers. And I'm standing here having made a choice I'm not sure I can live with.
My phone buzzes. For one desperate moment I think it's him, but it's just a reminder: Restoration deadline 5pm.
Right. Work. The one thing in my life that makes sense.
I start walking.
"Seraphina! My favorite assistant!"
Mr. Bolinger's voice is warm and jovial as I step back into Antiquarian Rare Books, and for a moment, I can almost pretend the last hour didn't happen. The shop smells like it always does old leather, paper, and the linseed oil I use for restoration work, underlaid with the faint vanilla sweetness of deteriorating lignin. It's the smell of home. The only home that's ever felt safe.
