Hour of the Moon

Chapter 13. Lingering

Kieran

Morning found me soft and whole for the first time in weeks—no knives behind the eyes, no thunder crouched in my skull. Sunlight slid across my face like warm silk; the headache was a rumor I'd outlived.

I kept my eyes closed and let memory move through me: the press of Ahiga's mouth, the clean heat of his cologne, the way his laugh loosened something tight around my ribs. I owed Amanda a debrief with too many adverbs, but it was Sunday and the bed was a small country I refused to evacuate.

I drifted, woke, drifted again. When I finally rolled out, the clock was a benevolent stranger. Coffee hissed. I padded around in an old T-shirt, bare legs, the apartment sane and bright. No ghosts. No blood. Just the clink of a spoon against a mug and the domestic holiness of a quiet kitchen.

Phone: three messages.

Amanda: Tell me every sinful detail the second you wake up, heathen.
Nani: How's your head? Brunch soon?
Ahiga: Checking in. Can I bring anything by? Tea. Soup. Terrible puns.

I smiled into my cup. Alive. Dangerous, I typed to Amanda. Will call after coffee. To Nani: Head's good. Brunch yes, later this week? To Ahiga I wrote, erased, rewrote: I'm okay. Thank you for last night. Maybe a walk later?

Three dots pulsed. A walk sounds perfect, he sent. Name the place. I'll keep the puns holstered.

I thought of the river path behind the library—the one that braided through sycamores and old stone. Four o'clock. Library steps. His reply came quick: I'll be there.

I moved through small chores as if they were beads on a rosary—laundry, a sinkful of dishes, the notebook open on the table. I paged through last night's scrawl: Felicia Stiggs—coroner—puncture wounds. Moody Blues gossip. Onelasa brothers: friction = history. Wohali / Waya—grief that looks like iron.

The air felt clean in my lungs. The world felt briefly negotiable. I showered, let the water thrum against the back of my neck, and told myself the worst was retreating. I told myself dreams were just weather moving on.

The kettle clicked. The city hummed beyond the glass. Somewhere, a dog barked once—question, not alarm. I pressed my palm to the sun-warmed window and breathed until my breath fogged the pane and faded.

For a heartbeat, the reflection that stared back at me wasn't entirely mine—eyes just a shade too bright, like moonlight caught in dark water. I blinked and it was only a woman with damp hair, a robe, and a cup she'd already refilled twice.

"Get it together," I told her gently. "And call Amanda."

I did. We laughed. We made plans to inventory my closet for the not-a-relationship I was not starting. When we hung up, the apartment was still a good place to be.

I pulled on a sundress and sneakers, braided my hair, and packed a small bag—pen, notebook, chapstick, a tide of courage—and let the afternoon roll toward me like a coin tossed true.

⸻

Waya

The vision came clean as a blade.

Her mouth on his. The club washed in electric blue. Her hands looped around his neck. The dress clinging like dusk to the curve of her body. The way she leaned into him as if gravity had chosen sides.

I didn't feel her the way I used to; that thread had been burned to ash and wish. But spirit has its own roads. Scent travels without permission. I could almost taste the perfume she'd worn—dark fruit, crushed petals—the way it heated when it met her skin.

He held her like possession. She let him. If the dream hadn't ruptured, I would've watched their mouths learn the rest of the room.

Bastard.