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twenty-nine

T he night was uneventful, and by morning, I woke to an empty nightstand—again. Anger struck sharply as I patted the surface with closed eyes, searching for Grim’s usual note. Today, of all days, I thought he would be here. Today, I thought he would have written. Unless…

I shoved the quilts aside and pulled his sweater over my head, slipping my feet into thick wool socks. Day’s snores echoed from the living room down the hall, while Reaper dozed in a tangle of limbs across Grim’s bed.

About to dart down the hall to check the kitchen counter, I noticed his office door ajar, a slant of light escaping the crack of space.

Elation surged, pushing my body forward before my mind could catch up. My hand closed around the knob, hesitating. All it would take was one moment of bravery, and then I would be standing inside Death’s space.

I pushed the door open.

It was him. All of it. The scent of oleander and salt perfumed the air, a tether straight to my chest. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, grounding myself in it, before tiptoeing inside. The room was empty, even though I half expected to find him sitting at the desk. He wasn’t here.

And I didn’t need to search the cottage to confirm. I felt his absence—a hollow ache, as if my heart had carved out a space meant only for him.

It was a large room compared to the rest of the cottage. The desk sat in the center, two windows flanking it, dressed in heavy plum velvet curtains. One wall was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, bursting at the seams with books piled high, and strange objects stacked on every surface.

A telescope stood poised in front of one open window.A standing globe spun lazily in the corner.His desk was buried under scrolls, vials of murky liquid, feathers dipped in pots of ink, and even…

A letter, addressed to me, sitting atop the chaos of his desk. Thick parchment, crisply folded, placed with deliberate care.

My Darling Tempest

It would be wrong to open it. My stomach twisted into knots, my gaze clinging to the sharp edges of the fold.

The paper felt impossibly light between my fingers, as though it might drift away if I breathed too hard.

He must have written it and gotten sidetracked before delivering it.

The thought sent a fresh wave of longing spiraling through me.

Suddenly, it struck me—I didn’t even know how Grim delivered the letters.

Did he come home every night, placing them on my nightstand himself?

Or was he sending them through some quiet flicker of magic?

The former seemed improbable. But the thought of him pausing in the doorway, his gaze catching on my sleeping form…

A shiver skated down my spine.

In every version of my life, Grim’s attention burned.

It was intimate. Singular.

A connection I realized, with an aching clarity, I did not share with anyone else.

In a haze of reckless hope, I lifted the letter. Closed my eyes. Unfolded it…

Astoria,

You have held many names, spoken on many tongues, but none are so sweet as the truth. Spoken on mine. My darling curse. My sweet night. Wild, unruly girl, with emeralds for eyes… I fear you may be my undoing. As you linger between life and death, uncertain which way to be led…

Choose life. For your sake, and mine.

I have not known peace since you. So if this is love, let that be enough. Or I fear I must let it die.

Wholly yours, G

Tears pricked my eyes as they settled on the curved ending of his initial. He loved me. Could that even be possible? Was it possible? Except his words were filled with sorrow, a crushing weight I couldn’t ignore as I read the letter through again.

He didn’t want to love me.

I was his heart’s demise.

I wiped the tears away, folded the letter, and placed it back on top of his scattered belongings. And that’s why you don’t snoop through things that don’t belong to you.

I thought I’d known love when I married James. But this wasn’t that. This was all-consuming fire in my veins, stars behind my eyes, rattling my teeth, a riot on my senses…

It felt like the moment my gaze first fell on my newborn children. Or the sunlight warming my face on a cold, cruel day. It was a glimpse of the beyond, whether heaven or hell, in a single, stolen moment.

And he didn’t want it. How could he? My existence alone had upended his.

But I wanted it. I wanted him .

He spoke of truth as if it would set me free…

Well, this was mine.

I wanted Grim the same way I wanted to breathe. As fiercely as I wanted my children back from the dead. As desperately as I wanted to know my grandmother’s name.

A glimmer of light caught my eye. I turned from the desk, wandering toward the shelves, committing to memory the things he had chosen to keep, those few precious objects that had survived the churning tides of centuries. I wanted to know more. Everything.

Who he was before he became this—Death incarnate. If there had ever been a life before the end.

A faint, otherworldly glow pulled me closer.

At first glance, I thought it was a standing globe.

I was wrong. It mimicked the design, the spindle-legged base, the wide sphere set to roll, but it wasn’t printed with any map of the world.

It was made of milky, translucent glass.

I cocked my head, squinting to make out the words etched in gold along the side.

“Astoria!” Day called, startling me. I hesitated, reluctant to leave the letter on Grim’s desk or the strange globe.

The glass swirled, reminding me of smoke rising.

“Birthday girl! Wake up!” Day yelled again, combined with the sound of Reaper’s paws padding down the hall.

I looked back at the globe. I’d come back later. Besides Grim would probably be gone for a while. Leaving the letter, I set everything back how it was, and tip-toed out of Grim’s office, leaving the door just as I found it.

“There you are!” Day beamed, as I walked into the kitchen. Wrapping me up in a giant bear hug, he spun me around the room as my toes brushed the tile. “Happy birthday, Storybook.”

“Agh—” I groaned, wiggling out of his tight grip. “Thanks Day.” I dropped to my feet, glancing around the dressed-up room. The counter was littered with every breakfast food, from muffins to parfaits, pastries, eggs…

“I may have gotten carried away,” Day murmured, scratching his jaw. “But in my defense, it’s the first birthday I’ve ever celebrated.” He handed me a plate, gesturing to the spread.

I dug into the cinnamon rolls first, cutting out the center roll from the pan. “You’ve never celebrated a birthday before?”

Day rummaged through the cabinets, pulling two goblets down. “Nope. Which is why you are going to let me celebrate you to my heart’s content.”

“Alright,” I conceded, taking the orange juice he held out. It had been a while since I celebrated a birthday and I could think of nobody better to spend it with. “Nothing weird. Nothing crazy, and absolutely no singing.” I narrowed my eyes at him, waiting for him to give me his word.

He crossed his heart, holding his hands up in surrender, “No singing.”

It was the most wonderful birthday I may have ever had—even though Day broke almost every rule within the first hour. There was weird , crazy , loud , and he’d sung happy birthday at least a dozen times already.

Reaper snored lightly atop my feet under the table, his breathing slow and even.

Beside me, Day flipped another card into the growing pile between us.

His attempt to teach me some obscure card game Fortune had invented years ago was going miserably.

The very same game Fortune had won repeatedly—leaving Day naked and in Fortune’s bed the next morning.

"See, I think he cheats. ‘Cause honestly, I am killing you right now," Day said, flipping another card with a flourish.

"I've never played before! And I don't know how to tell you this, Day, but none of these rules make any sense. Didn’t you say Fortune created this game?"

"Yeah, but—"

"But what? His rules are nonsense. The game is rigged. Whoever goes first wins."

Day groaned, scrubbing a hand down his jaw, a motion I'd come to recognize as his universal sign of frustration. He cocked his head, thumbing through the cards with fierce concentration as his tongue poked out between his teeth, and dammit…it was cute.

“Fuck, you’re right.”

I laughed and dropped my hand of cards onto the table. “Fortune favors the bold.”

“Yes, he does,” Day added with a salacious wink.

It was my turn to groan.

“I'm full—no, bursting at the seams!” Day dramatically patted his stomach, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Anything else the birthday girl wishes for before we watch the aurora borealis?”

I had one last wish and I’d waited all day, expecting him to show up. Or for a letter to appear. Or a flicker of a sign that he was watching, lingering in the shadows.

It stung more than I cared to admit.

My gaze dropped to the nearly finished basket in the corner. I’d spent almost the whole day working on it, in between writing and the planned birthday festivities with Time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this... at peace. In my own skin.In my own thoughts. In my own life.

Even with the Kapoors, I couldn’t truly be myself. Murder, lying, stealing—it was all part of my survival.

I wanted to hold onto this moment. Tie myself to it like a lifeline.

Lost in thought, I startled when Day spoke again.

“If you could do anything…live any life, no curse, no pledged soul, what would you do?"

With a century under my belt, I had almost nothing to show for it—just a shitty-looking basket and a rap sheet a mile long. Day wasn’t judging me, he never would. But I judged myself.

“I think—I think I'd like to place roots somewhere,” I said quietly. “Maybe marry again. Have children. Do something big and lasting…”

My voice cracked. It was a terrifying thing to give voice to your dreams. All of a sudden, something you'd held only in your spirit was given matter and agency. It took up space in the world—it existed.

“God, I miss my family.”

“I can’t imagine that kind of loss, Astoria.”

Day reached out slowly, his fingers brushing my shoulder. There was no pity in his gaze as his hand traveled toward mine, clasping it gently.

“Whether you see it or not, you’ve made a difference.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop the tears. I wanted to roll my eyes, to brush it off, but I couldn’t. Ishani was the beginning and end of my good deeds. I wanted things to be different after Phoenix. I tried to fix things…

What good was living forever if you couldn’t make any lasting connections?

It wasn’t as if I wanted to be remembered, but I wanted my existence to matter.

I didn’t want to be the shadow I’d turned into.

Bringing back the dead had done a whole lot of nothing, it turned out.

In fact, I’d lost double the number of people I thought I’d saved.

“Enough sadness, you’re here. Another day, another moment. Another chance. Let’s have more cake!” Day’s ability to shake moods like shucking off a jacket was truly impressive. He clapped his hands together, a bright smile across his beautiful face.

I stayed at the dining table, looking out the window while Day fetched the cake he'd made from scratch. Bored of baskets, he had decided to bake, for which I was thankful because he had started to get whiny.

“Here it is!” he squealed, carrying an ornate bone white pedestal cake stand with a dessert that was most definitely lop-sided and one hundred percent either undercooked or over baked.

On second glance, perhaps both.