Page 37

Thirty-Seven

The camera was already rolling.

I’d angled it carefully—low enough to catch my hands, high enough to frame the dolls on the altar shelf. Sun’s glue-seamed form rested in his cradle of orange peels and sunflower petals, golden light flickering across his softened, sun-warm smile. Moon was just beside him, wrapped in his swatch of deep navy velvet, the lavender arranged like it had bloomed just for him.

I didn’t speak yet.

Didn’t need to.

The candlelight did all the talking—tall twin flames, one gold, one silver, swaying gently as if in rhythm with something only they could hear.

I exhaled softly. Rolled my sleeves up.

The offering bowls had burned low—ash curling like script in the little glass dishes. I swept them out with reverent fingers, brushing the soot into a ceramic bowl. The scent of charred dandelion and citrus peel clung to my fingertips like a blessing.

Then the whisper of new things: Fresh lavender. Orange rind. A small piece of dark chocolate I unwrapped slowly, like it was sacred. I set it at Sun’s feet.

He made a soft noise behind me—pleased, indulgent. His presence skimmed along my spine like sunlight through gauze. I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to. I felt him settle on the couch, elbows on his knees, chin in his palm, watching like I was his favorite movie.

Moon didn’t say anything.

But I caught his reflection in the glass-front cabinet just beyond the altar—he was standing just behind me, arms crossed, head tilted like he was trying not to smile.

I placed a small white feather beside his velvet, careful not to let it drift.

My voice was soft when I finally spoke—barely above the hush of the candle flames. “Altar reset,” I murmured for the video. “Offerings refreshed. If you want to join, light a candle. Something citrus for Sun. Something herbal for Moon.”

I glanced toward the camera, let it catch just a flicker of me smiling.

“Let them know you see them.”

Then, a fade to soft footage—my hands smoothing cloth, the flicker of a match, the jars of herbs being tucked gently into place. I layered in soft chimes for audio. Nothing flashy. Just peace.

It was supposed to be easy. A quiet little upload for the #witchchyme crowd.

But as I placed the final piece—a tiny, carved sunstone—I hesitated.

Just for a second.

The candle flames didn’t flicker. The room didn’t tilt.

But I felt it.

Like something holding its breath.

Waiting.

I reached to end the recording.

Then—

Knock. Knock.

Two sharp raps at the door.

My spine stiffened. The camera caught it.

Sun straightened behind me, his warmth withdrawing like the light before a solar eclipse. Moon’s head turned. Slowly.

A third knock.

Harder this time.

I froze.

Because that voice— It didn’t belong to this life.

It belonged to the one I thought I’d left behind.

“Open up, Dawn. I know you’re in there.”

My hands were still visible in the frame. One held a jar of honey. The other trembled.

“Keep filming,” Moon said, voice low and even.

“I—I should stop it?—”

“No,” Sun whispered. “Let them see.”

I stepped out of the frame slowly.

The candles flickered like they were listening too.

My heart beat so loud I thought it might clip the mic.

I moved to the door like I was walking into a test I didn’t study for. I didn’t check the peephole this time. I already knew.

Elliot.

He didn’t say my name.

He just said, “Open the fucking door.”

My hand hovered over the knob.

“Sunshine,” Sun warned gently, all brightness gone from his voice.

“He’s here for violence,” Moon added. “Not closure.”

But it didn’t matter.

Because the second I touched the knob, Elliot kicked the door.

It flung open before I had the chance to step back.

And there he was.

Angry. Hollow-eyed. Starving for a reason to hurt something.

“You really thought you could run?” he spat, taking a step inside without permission. “That I wouldn’t find you? That some shitty little restraining order would keep me out forever?”

His eyes were on me. Just me.

But then the scent hit him—orange peel and smoke and lavender heat.

And then he saw them.

“What the fuck is this?” he said, sneering.

He stepped toward the dolls.

Moon moved in silence.

Sun’s fury pressed against my chest.

“You’re insane,” Elliot muttered, reaching— reaching —for them.

That’s when it happened.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t dramatic.

One toe caught the edge of the rug.

A stumble.

A twist.

And he fell.

His head hit the hardwood with a sound I felt in my teeth.

No scream. No second chance.

Just blood and breathless silence.

The incense still burned.

The camera still rolled.

Moon exhaled like the moment had been waiting for them.

Sun didn’t speak. He just wrapped around me like light desperate to reach skin.

I stood frozen in the center of the room. My hands still open like I’d meant to catch him—but hadn’t. My heart was still racing, but the edge of panic had dulled into something else now. Something flat. Disbelief tinged with exhaustion.

My wide-eyed face reflected back to me on my phone screen, “I… I need to call the police.” Leaving my lips before I hit the red button to stop the video.

Sun smiled at me. Soft. Proud. “We told you, Sunshine,” he said, voice like warm honey. “We’d never let anyone hurt you again.”

I looked at Elliot’s body.

Then back at them.

Then back again.

“…So you pushed him?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Moon shrugged. “We didn’t even have to push hard.”

I blinked. “That’s it? No torment? No mental unraveling? No ‘look into the abyss and scream’ bullshit? This is so anticlimactic.”

Sun’s grin didn’t falter. “You looked scared.”

“I wasn’t yet.”

“Well,” he said, voice all sunshine and sugar, “we didn’t want to risk it.”

I stared at him. Then let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I thought you loved me. I thought you wanted to make him suffer . You didn’t even let me have time to panic!”

Moon’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Would you have preferred we waited until he touched you?”

“I mean— no ! Obviously not. But like…” I gestured vaguely at the body. “He just fell. Slipped on the rug. That’s how this ends?”

Sun looked smug. “That’s how it looks . Which was the point.”

Moon stepped forward. “You are ours . We don’t need to perform vengeance like a show for mortals. We make it matter .”

I leaned back against the couch, rubbing my temples. “You guys are the only cosmic entities I know who can simultaneously murder someone and underwhelm me.”

“Underwhelm you?” Sun gasped, placing a hand on his chest like I’d wounded him.

“I wanted drama,” I muttered. “You gave me a safety PSA about rug placement.”

Moon crouched in front of me. “He’s dead. You’re alive. You’re not bleeding. And the camera footage?” He tilted his head. “Will show a tragic accident.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You altered it?”

He didn’t confirm.

Didn’t deny.

Just looked at me with that shadow-deep gaze and said, “He was always going to fall. We just made sure he fell at the right time.”

I stared at them both for another long beat.

Then let out a long sigh. “Next time I want blood,” I said. “Like more blood. Screaming. Maybe even begging.”

Sun leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Whatever you want, Sunshine.”

Moon smiled—barely. “Next time, you get the show.”

And deep down, I knew?—

There’d be a next time.

Because I wasn’t Dawn anymore.

Not just Dawn.

I was the girl with gods on her shoulder and belief in her blood.

And now?

Now, I was untouchable .

After a few steady breaths, I reached for the phone on the altar shelf and my thumb hovered for a breath. Then three numbers.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My ex broke in,” I said. “He forced the door. He tripped. Hit his head. There’s… a lot of blood. I think he’s dead.”

They asked for my address. I gave it. Calmly. Evenly.

Sun reached for my hand but didn’t take it.

Not yet.

I hung up. Set the phone down gently beside a dish of honey.

“I didn’t scream,” I murmured.

“No,” Moon said softly. “You didn’t need to.”

Sirens approached in the distance. Distant. Then closer. Then louder. Flashing lights painted the windows red and blue and back again.

I stood when they knocked.

Opened the door like it was just another delivery.

They came in—officers, EMTs, neighbors in the hallway craning their necks. One officer looked at me like I should be shaking.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see what happened?”

I nodded. “He tripped.”

They looked past me at the altar, the blood, the man who used to own my worst memories.

I hesitated. Then unlocked my phone. “The camera was already recording. It caught the whole thing.”

The officer took it from my hand carefully, brows lifting. “That’ll help a lot. Thank you.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything to happen,” I said softly. “I was just filming video for Chyme.”

He nodded, glanced at the video playing on screen. His shoulders relaxed a little. “It’s clear. Accidental fall. The angle’s good. You’re lucky.”

I wasn’t.

I was chosen.

But I smiled anyway.

They asked for identification. I gave it.

Asked if I knew him. I said yes.

Asked if I was afraid. I said not anymore.

They zipped him into a black bag.

They told me it was lucky, that it could’ve ended worse. That I was brave. That I should consider counseling, even if I felt okay now. They didn’t know I was already going to therapy.

I nodded. Took the pamphlet they handed me.

Signed the statement. Thanked them for coming.

One of the officers lingered by the altar as the body was zipped away. “We’ll send someone to do a biohazard sweep,” he said, eyes darting to the dark smear on the floor. “Blood cleanup team. Standard protocol.”

“Okay,” I murmured, like it was just another errand on a checklist. Like it wasn’t his blood, and my rug.

They gave me another number. Told me someone would be here within the hour. Told me to open a window. Told me not to touch anything.

I promised I wouldn’t.

Not until the mess was gone.

Not until it was only memory.

The air didn’t buzz with panic this time.

It hummed with energy. Cleansed. Settled.

Sun came forward first, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind. He nuzzled into the crook of my neck, voice low, reverent.

“You did so well.”

Moon stepped in from the shadows, gaze softer now. No fury. Just gravity.

“It’s over,” he said. “He’ll never come back.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

Not from fear.

From release.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt it down to my bones:

I was safe.

I was free.

And I wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.