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As a teenager?

I reached out, fingers hovering over the jagged edge. A few weeks of practice had given me a decent grasp of the weave. Zhenjun had taught me that much. His finesse with stitches far outmatched anything I’d thought possible. If I moved a few strands carefully, I could repair this scar with something more durable. Not remove it completely, but close enough.

I began to repair the weave.

Slowly at first. Careful with the frayed ends. The threads responded to my touch, settling into place, until I got too close to the edges, and dark bits unraveled beneath my fingers.

I hesitated. Something was caught in the scar.

A mote?

It was tiny, barely visible, tucked into the seam where the scar had been. Like it had been hiding there all along, waiting for someone to find it. Or perhaps clinging to the last dregs of its existence.

I hadn’t realized until that moment that the house was strangely absent of them. Motes weren’t everywhere, they drifted from place to place, sometimes following me, other times clustering where life had been extinguished. But here, in this sterile showroom of a house, they’d all abandoned me.

Which meant this one had been here a long time.

Here, in my room. It had to be mine, right? A fragment of me, left behind when I’d slammed the Veil shut and run.

But motes held little more than a half-heartbeat of emotion. Not entire snippets of time. What could it possibly carry?

I sucked in a breath and held out my hand, coaxing the mote free as I’d done with the others. It hesitated, flickering, then drifted toward my palm.

That’s it, I thought. Come on. I’ve got you.

It touched my fingers.

A memory. A kiss. Soft and warm, like it had been waiting to be remembered.

I blinked.

And I knew that mouth. I knew that boy. The memory slipped through my fingers like smoke⁠—

Dozens of motes ripped free from the scar, tearing themselves out of the weave like they’d been waiting for permission. Hundreds of them, hidden in the folds of a chaotic repair, breaking free and converging at once.

They smashed into me, a flood of light and heat and stolen fragments, driving me to my knees. The world exploded with color, sound, emotion, and madness.

I screamed as a thousand shards of my shattered past wove themselves back into place inside my mind.

37

JUDE

A soft scrape, like a branch breaking loose in the wind, turned my attention to the night outside. I set my book down and crept toward the window, pulling the curtain back.

The night was still. The air was calm, just a mild breeze trickling through the open pane. But the sound hadn’t been the wind.

Someone tiptoed toward my window, quiet as a mouse, but the sound gave rise not to terror, but excitement.

He must have scaled the garage. I’d told him how I’d done it a half dozen times. Up the tree, jump to the garage, cross the roof to reach my window. He’d listened.

I shoved the window open as far as it would go and reached out a hand to steady him. Jason wriggled his way inside, his hair mussed from the climb, leaves stuck in his dark waves, shirt untucked. He grinned like he’d just pulled off the greatest heist in history.

“Hi,” I whispered, heart pounding, breathless just from his presence.

“Hi.” He cupped my face, his eyes reflecting the same excitement hammering in my chest. “I missed you.”

I leaned into his touch. The warmth of his hand awakened something deep in me, an ache to be held, to be close to someone. Sixteen years of never being close to anyone or anything, burning low and quiet until this moment.