Careful.
“I think I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And survived.”
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
“Unlikely things happen.”
His gaze does not leave mine. “You are not afraid.”
“I am.”
“Show me.”
My throat tightens, and I let a breath out slowly, allowing a controlled amount of tension to show—not too much, not too little, just enough.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” I say quietly.
“Honesty.”
“Then I am afraid of saying the wrong thing.”
A long pause stretches between us.
“Good,” Verr says softly.
The word settles colder than it should.
He straightens slightly, stepping back just enough to restore space. “You will continue your work.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will report any irregularities.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you will not attempt to leave.”
My chest tightens.
“I will not.”
The answer sits somewhere between truth and lie, and I am no longer certain which it is.
He studies me one last time, then turns, his presence receding as he walks back toward the archway, and the moment he passes beyond it, the air shifts again, the pressure easing, sound returning, the garden exhaling.
I remain exactly where I am until he is gone, then let out a hard breath, my hands shaking as I press them into the soil, grounding myself in something real—wet earth, living roots, something that grows.
“Yeah,” I whisper under my breath, my voice unsteady despite my best efforts. “This is going to be fine.”
It isn’t.
But I am still here.
And that, apparently, is enough to make me interesting.
