Page 12

But it’s home now. Because we haven’t left. Because we can’t.

The house leans at odd angles, hunched like it’s waiting to collapse. Like everything here. The village outside it is half dust, half whisper. Every night, I hear the cathedral bells echoing through the Hollow, even though there’s no one left to ring them.

If I sit still too long, it crawls under my skin. Makes my fists itch. Makes me want to burn something down.

So I don’t sit.

I work.

The ground is stubborn beneath me, packed and dead like it’s forgotten how to hold life. But I dig anyway—spade cutting through clay, roots, old bones I pretend not to notice. I carve a space out of nothing, turning soil into something she can sit in. Somewhere she can breathe, without the weight of everything pressing down on her.

A garden. For her. Because I can’t fix the Hollow, or the curse Branwen left snarled around our throats, but I can give her this.

The sky is still gray, smudged like ash across the horizon, when I hear her.

“Riven.”

My name, soft and worn on her lips, like she’s spent the whole night chewing on it.

I glance up. Luna stands barefoot at the edge of the makeshift porch, a chipped mug cradled between her hands. Her hair’s pulled back, loose and messy, strands sticking to her cheek. She’s wearing one of my shirts—oversized, sleeves pushed to her elbows—and it makes something sharp twist under my ribs.

Her eyes catch mine, and her mouth curves, tired and crooked. Without a word, she crosses the yard, the brittle grass crunching under her steps, and holds the mug out to me.

Tea. Because there’s no coffee here, no electricity, no way to pretend we’re anything but ghosts playing house at the end of the world. I take the mug from her fingers, careful not to touch, because if I do I won’t stop.

“Thanks,” I murmur, voice rough from hours of being alone with my thoughts and the dirt.

She doesn’t leave. She stays, watching me work, the weight of her gaze heavier than the shovel in my hands.

“You’re building something,” she says quietly, like it surprises her.

“For you,” I answer, before I can think better of it.

Her breath hitches—just a little—and she glances at the patch of ground, at the half-dug rows and broken fence posts.

“You don’t have to.”

I look up at her fully now, sharp and sure, letting her see every jagged thing in me.

“I do.”

She swallows, shifting her weight, toe tracing a line in the dirt. “You don’t have to make it better.”

“I’m not trying to make it better,” I tell her, voice low, pulling tight at the edges. “I’m trying to make it bearable.”

“You’re gonna make me soft,” she mutters, voice half a laugh, half a confession.

I shake my head, sipping the tea. It tastes like ash and something bitter, but it’s warm.

“Too late.”

I drain the mug, set it down on the nearest fence post.

“You wanna help?” I ask, voice light but sharp.

Her gaze flicks back to mine, something dangerous in it now. “What, you think I can’t dig?”

I smirk. “I think you’ll complain.”