Page 5

JULIE

I t starts with a phone call.

Torack’s eyes flick to his vibrating phone like it’s trying to ruin his life on purpose, which, honestly, it probably is. The guy juggles more chaos in one afternoon than most people do in a year.

We’re outside near the half-built amphitheater—well, “amphitheater” is generous. It’s a circle of logs and some marked-off stones that might someday become a firepit. Lillian’s poking at a pile of sticks like she’s deciding which ones are worthy of combustion.

“Can you keep an eye on her?” Torack asks, already pulling the phone to his ear.

I blink. “Seriously?”

“I won’t be long.” His tone says he doesn’t have time to debate. “Don’t let her light anything she can’t un-light.”

And then he walks away. Just like that. Leaves me with a fire-happy eight-year-old and a half-eaten bag of marshmallows like that’s a normal Tuesday.

Again.

I glance at Lillian. She glances at me. We regard each other like two suspicious cats.

“So,” I start, crouching beside her, “what’s the firepit plan? Are we summoning something, or just cooking marshmallows like mortals?”

She snorts. “We’re doing a ritual.”

“Oh. Cool cool cool. Should I be concerned?”

She grins. “Only if you’re scared of pixies.”

I lean in, whispering, “I’m terrified of pixies.”

That gets a laugh, and I take it as a win.

She gestures to the pile. “We have to build a shape. A moon circle.”

I nod seriously. “A moon circle. Got it. I am very qualified for this.”

“You don’t know what a moon circle is, do you?”

“Not a clue.”

Lillian sighs like a tiny professor dealing with the village idiot. “You use bendy twigs to make a circle that catches moonlight. Then you put something inside it to make a wish.”

“What kind of wish?”

She shrugs. “Anything. But it has to be something real. Not, like, a pony.”

“Well, there goes my entire plan.”

We start building. The twigs are not cooperative. They snap when they shouldn’t, and poke when they really shouldn’t. I end up with a splinter in my thumb and a piece of leaf in my hair.

“Do you miss your mom?” Lillian asks out of nowhere, voice quiet.

I freeze. My hands still mid-circle.

“Yeah,” I say, just as quietly. “I miss her a lot.”

She nods. “I miss mine too.”

There’s a silence that settles between us—not awkward, not heavy. Just real.

“She used to tell me stories,” Lillian says, sticking a twig into the dirt. “About fae who lived under roots and gnome kings that rode bunnies into battle.”

“Okay, I’m gonna need to hear all of those.”

She giggles and leans back, brushing her hands off on her shorts. “She made up new ones every night.”

“Your mom sounds incredible.”

“She was.”

And just like that, we go quiet again.

I glance over at the camp box nearby—one of those big plastic totes labeled "EVENING PROGRAM MATERIALS." Inside, there’s a bag of marshmallows, a chocolate bar half-melted in the sun, and a suspiciously smooshed sleeve of graham crackers.

“You ever made s’mores?” I ask.

She lights up like a lantern. “Real ones? Not microwave ones?”

“Girl, I don’t even own a microwave.”

“That’s a crime.”

“Probably,” I grin. “You got any fire magic in that little backpack of yours?”

She jumps up. “We’ve got a spark charm!”

“Is that legal?”

She shrugs. “It’s effective .”

Fifteen minutes later, we’ve got a little fire going—contained, safe, and monitored, I’d like to note for insurance purposes. Lillian’s squatted on one side, I’m on the other, and we’re both holding sticks like we’re performing a culinary ceremony.

“Mine’s on fire,” I say, staring at the marshmallow torch I’ve accidentally created.

“Blow it out! Quick!”

I do, flinging bits of charred sugar across my lap.

Lillian cracks up. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in Marshmallow Theory.”

“What class was that?”

“I made it up.”

We toast a few more, layering them onto crackers and chocolate like gourmet chefs. The first bite is molten bliss, and I let out a noise that probably isn’t safe for polite company.

“Worth it,” I mumble.

Lillian nods, already smeared with chocolate. “Ten out of ten.”

She flops back on the grass, mouth full, eyes aimed at the dusky sky. Stars are just starting to poke out—shy and flickering.

“You think she can see me?” she asks.

I glance over. “Your mom?”

She nods.

I follow her gaze, the sky stretched wide and endless above us.

“Yeah,” I say. “I think she sees you. Especially when you do stuff like this. I think she’d love the moon circle. And the marshmallows.”

“And the fairy stories?”

“Especially the fairy stories.”

She’s quiet for a second, then turns toward me. “You should make a wish too.”

I blink. “I don’t know what to wish for.”

“You don’t have to tell me. Just… wish.”

I stare at the glowing embers. At the little moon-shaped twig ring we made, the burned chocolate on my fingers, the way her hair curls around her ears when she’s smiling.

I wish I could make this feeling last. This warmth. This weird, lovely little peace.

I don’t say it out loud. Just let it float.

A shadow moves behind us, and we both turn to see Torack returning, phone no longer in hand. He stops when he sees us—me with one graham cracker in hand, Lillian covered in marshmallow.

He blinks.

“Did you build a shrine?”

“No,” Lillian says sweetly. “We summoned moon spirits.”

I wave. “They brought snacks.”

He eyes the fire. “That safe?”

“Safe-ish.”

He steps closer, kneels beside his daughter, eyes softening in a way I haven’t seen much. He brushes her hair back from her forehead.

“She did good,” I say before I can stop myself. “Real good.”

He looks at me, like he’s trying to figure something out. His jaw flexes, but he nods.

“Thank you,” he says.

I shrug. “We were just waiting for you.”

And then I feel it—that click. That tiny, shifting thing that says we’re not just coworkers in a weird woodsy project anymore. We’re something else now. Co-conspirators. Maybe something even more dangerous.

People who care.