Page 33

AUTUMN

A utumn stood barefoot in the middle of the garden, toes sunk into the cool dirt, the sky above stretching pale and wide as the morning bled into gold.

Dorian’s necklace lay warm against her collarbone, the silver pendant he’d crafted for her earlier that morning from a smoothed piece of pine and an inlaid moonstone, threaded onto a leather cord.

It was simple. Solid. Her fingers kept drifting to it like it was a compass pulling her forward.

It had been two days since she’d come back.

Two days of working side-by-side with Dorian like they’d never fought, never shattered, never tried to undo what had been slowly sewing them together.

They moved through the inn like two halves of the same body—comfortably quiet, occasionally teasing, frequently brushing fingertips and passing each other looks full of words neither of them had to say anymore.

But under it all, the air still pulsed with something unfinished.

The Hollow Man was still here.

And if she was staying— really staying—then it was time to help him leave.

Dorian stepped out from the porch, barefoot too, carrying the carved bowl filled with salt and ash. His hair was tousled, eyes heavy but focused, and he looked like the man she’d finally let herself love: strong, steady, and so full of heart it threatened to spill over.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low as he joined her in the clearing.

She nodded, not trusting her voice yet.

They’d planned it together.

The ritual had to be done inside Briar Hollow. Within the bones of the house where it had all begun. Where Hollis had lived, loved, and lost. The sorrow was bound to these walls, soaked into floorboards and fireplace mortar. It wasn’t the earth outside that needed release.

It was this place.

They’d chosen the east parlor for the preparation.

The room most affected by the spirit’s presence, where mirrors had cracked on their own and cold spots hovered near the hearth even in August. Autumn had set the perimeter earlier that morning, tracing sigils in salt along the molding, anchoring the corners with bundles of sage and hawthorn tied with red string.

Missy had stopped by briefly, arms full of protective wards and unsolicited advice.

Markus and Rowan lent their energy too, reinforcing the charms with quiet murmurs and a few unsanctioned puns.

Nico, in true Nico fashion, handed Autumn a small glass vial of swirling golden truth-oil and said, “If the ghost won’t talk, this’ll loosen his dusty tongue. ”

Now it was just her and Dorian, moving through the parlor in a rhythm that felt familiar, unhurried. She carried her chalk in one hand, sketching the preliminary circle in wide, steady curves, each line deliberate, each breath syncing with the gentle hum of her magic.

Dorian knelt at the cardinal points, placing their symbolic offerings with a reverence that made her chest tighten—rose petals for what was lost, silver coins for the debt owed, and a piece of briar root, dried and splintered, for the pain still lingering in the walls.

They didn’t speak much but there was no real need to.

When the last symbol was drawn in the center, Autumn stepped back, wiping her palms on her jeans. The room didn’t feel heavy anymore—not hostile. Just... waiting.

She looked at him then, Dorian crouched beside the hearth, hands resting loosely on his knees, his eyes trained on her like he was taking in something sacred.

“This isn’t just about sending him on,” she said quietly, echoing what had lived in her chest for days. “It’s about showing him he doesn’t have to stay.”

He nodded, rising. “It’s about giving him peace.”

She hesitated. “And maybe… giving me some too.”

He moved closer, fingers brushing hers, anchoring her in a way no ward ever could. “You’ve earned it. Whether you think so or not.”

She exhaled, gaze sweeping the room. “This house… it’s seen so much.”

“It’s survived it too.”

Autumn nodded slowly, her eyes drawn to the way the sun filtered through the parlor window, casting honeyed light across the rug. Dust swirled in the beams. It didn’t feel like a haunted house right now. It felt like a memory, waiting to be rewritten.

“I didn’t think I’d ever be able to call something home again,” she said.

He didn’t press. Just let the silence stretch between them until she filled it.

“But this place… this town. You.” Her hand lifted, fingers brushing the moonstone necklace resting against her chest. “It’s starting to feel like something I might be able to stay for.”

Dorian smiled. Soft. Certain.

She stepped into him, not because she needed to be held, but because she wanted to be close. The kind of close you only get when you stop running.

They stood there for a long moment, the room quiet around them, the air no longer holding its breath. It wasn’t finished. Not yet.

But finally, Autumn didn’t feel like she was borrowing peace.

She felt like she was building it.