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S USENYOS WAS IN HIS ROOM, ADDRESSING A LETTER. K IDAN LEANED against the doorframe, watching the sunlight stream into the space. It was refreshingly different from the punishing observatory. Perhaps he had designed it that way. For a moment of peace.

He wrote as he spoke. “Everything is ready for Rufeal. It’s just a matter of time.”

Yesterday, Susenyos burst the pipes of the toilets near Rufeal’s art room. Many disgruntled art students rushed to book library rooms ahead of the exhibition, but Rufeal received a tip about a storage space where the old archaeology department used to keep artifacts. It was quiet enough that the ancient Muses could be heard speaking. By the end of the day, Rufeal had moved his work into the space. There were no cameras there.

Kidan’s shoulders relaxed. She wasn’t sure about their arrangement, but the moments when Susenyos didn’t question murder really made her appreciate it.

“What are you writing?” she asked.

“Come and see.”

The room melted away the tension in her body with each step, the sun chasing away the cold. She shut her eyes for a moment, letting it wash over her. Her senses filled with soft rain and earth. Why was this room so calming?

When she lifted her lashes, Susenyos was watching her, a strange intensity in his eyes. She cleared her throat and walked to him, reading over his shoulder.

“Letters to the Immortal?” she said, hoping to break his quiet regard.

Slowly, his eyes shifted away from her face. “Yes, letters addressed to me.”

Kidan took in the shelves reaching the ceiling. There must have been thousands of scrolls.

“What exactly is it?”

“A service.”

“For what?”

His voice brimmed with surprising light. “For Black women mainly, who historically and today remain the least protected individuals in society. When I lived outside Uxlay, I thought of a way they could request my aid. I couldn’t be everywhere, couldn’t be inside their homes or their workplaces, but a piece of parchment and ink could. A letter was the most accessible mode of communication back then, and we told who we could find. At first, no one wrote. Now they write every day, every hour. Some requests are immediate, some not; some are simply seeking more to life.”

He seemed proud of what he’d created, and it was startling to find him in a new role once again. Kidan couldn’t begin to understand which version of him was true. But the magnitude of the letters astounded her, some dating as far back as the nineteenth century.

“You write back to each one?”

“Yes.”

“What do you say?”

“I tell them the truth. They may never see me, but they’ll feel my presence in their life. Today, tomorrow, ten years from now. Just as the shadow of a cloud or a gust of wind that feels personal, they’ll know I heard them.”

She leaned over the desk, absentmindedly reaching for another letter, when her bracelet caught on his pen and broke free, cracking open. Before she could catch it, the small blue pill clattered onto the table.

He collected it, question darkening his brows.

Shit. Her heart squeezed.

She had to think fast, but no words came.

“Kidan?” Her name tightened on his lips. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just in case.” She shrugged.

“You wear something that can kill you, just in case?” A thread of unease disturbed his voice.

“I want it to be my choice. In case I get attacked… to end it before it gets bad, you know?”

From his facial expression, he didn’t know. Kidan took it from him, walked away, and tried to fix her bracelet. She didn’t want his judgment.

She couldn’t get it to clasp, and the pain of the observatory crept in. June’s presence leaked into this space, reminding her not to break her promise.

Kill all evil.

She didn’t feel him move until he reached around her and opened his palm. A piece of the clasp was in his hand. Fingers unsteady, she took it, unsure if her nerves were from his sudden proximity or because he’d accidentally glimpsed her darkest secret.

He said nothing as she tried to fix the metal, hurting her thumb’s flesh. The metal wouldn’t close. His hands rested over hers. She surrendered the work over to him, and he pinched it closed. It was like their artifact workshop, only this wasn’t a treasure they were mending. It was a piece of Kidan, laid bare to be dissected.

He let them sit in silence long after the work was done. The space of time made her racing heart calm down.

She felt compelled to share its history. This room whispered that it was safe to do so.

“It was Mama Anoet’s. I made one for her and one for June. Butterflies are a symbol of transformation, she’d say—but never what kind. Some people are better unchanged, don’t you think?” Sadness enveloped her. “I changed, and it killed her.”

His words were low, serious. “You did what you had to do.”

Of course he wouldn’t judge her. He didn’t see anything wrong with murder.

“You think death will free you from this,” he murmured. “It will burn hotter than any sun, that nothingness.”

“It’s not poetry I want but its punishment. What if I want to burn?”

“Because you are so wicked, so vile, so rotten.” Mocking light swam in his voice. “If you are all those things, what hope is there for the rest of us?”

Her voice became hard. “I know what I’ve done.… What I’m capable of.”

He was silent for a long moment. “It’s a shame that when I finally find my potential equal, she cannot love herself enough to remain in this world.” Her brown eyes blinked at him. “How will you ever conquer the observatory when you carry such hatred of yourself?”

Kidan, almost spellbound by his question, couldn’t look away. His stillness always struck her, flat black eyes without a natural blink to interrupt their gaze.

“Do you truly love yourself?” she whispered.

He was always so anchored, immovable. She wanted to taste what such certainty felt like. To have lived so long and keep doing so.

He gave her the courtesy of thinking about it. The sunlight danced in waves across his perfect dark skin, and it struck her how violently eternal he was.

“Yes. One doesn’t continue to pursue immortality if they don’t.”

It was her turn not to blink now. Her eyes dried with the need, and water slipped over them like film, but still she kept looking. “How?”

He drew closer, bowing his head and brushing his thumb along her cheek. The sudden intimacy startled her, but she didn’t pull back.

“I will teach you. If you let me, I can teach you a thousand different ways of loving yourself.” His promise unsettled her very soul.

It was a dangerous thing, loving herself. Because when Kidan loved, she loved entirely. Selfishly.

Ignoring the sudden coldness that seized her, Kidan stepped away, self-conscious. She ran her fingers over the scrolls as she left. Their whispers, pleas, and wants fit neatly into words, all waiting to be visited by him.

Later that night, she found herself writing her first letter to him. The words forced her to concentrate, to choose what to talk about. June. Mama Anoet. Her parents’ deaths. The options bubbled up, but other words came out on the page, surprisingly honest.

Letter to the Immortal,

I think I was born to die. Everything I do feels pointless or, worse, hurts those around me. Even the thoughts I believe are good just end up craving blood. There’s something inside me that doesn’t belong. Something solid and sharp-edged that wants out. It wants to destroy and break the world and rearrange it, shatter it entirely just to please me. The more I fight this hunger, the more I lose. It’s taking over my body, my mind, my heart. I can’t stand it. I want quiet and peace. I need to end it myself before it wins. Please, tell me how to stand it all.

Her fingers shook, and she fought the urge to scratch it all out. She didn’t write her name or country or year. She didn’t want him to know it was hers. The next day, when the house was empty, she slipped it under one of the scrolls, burying it entirely. The curtains rippled, and although her words were lost, and her request would go unanswered, the house hummed and listened as if it understood.