“I know,” I say as I help her pack up. My intention is to have her leave my apartment immediately. I fake a yawn. “Jeez, look at the time, I am tired!” I stretch. “I should get to bed.”
“Oh, of course.” She stands up. “Just remember, if it’s meant to be, he will come back.”
I nod, say goodbye, and close the door.
My heart wants to break through my chest. That mug had moved. It fucking moved… he is here. I know it. I peer out my window and see Claudia’s car missing. This is my chance.
I take out my phone and can see it is only 10:30 pm. I have plenty of time to walk back to the office and check out the back alley.
Chapter 20-Bin Lid Lifted
The alley behind the Graves & Pennington stinks of sour milk, wet cardboard, and iron. It had taken me no time to walk here, but I can tell it is late from how high the moon is. I brought nothing with me. No candle. No sage or trash to burn. Just the memory of a ghost of a man who used to rise from this very place and make me feel like more than a janitor with a curse.
It is quiet. There are no whispers, no shadows. No amber eyes peeking from the dark.
Just me and the soft sound of wind rifling through some nearby plastic bags caught in a chain-link fence like forgotten flags of a bin-bound nation.
I crouch near the bin where we had shared our first time together—if you could call it that. Where skin had met skin and laughter had met moans, where the sacred and the disgusting had transformed into something beautiful.
I trace my thumb over a faint scorch mark on the concrete. It looks fresh. I figure that is roughly where he had vanished. Or maybe it is just oil.
It doesn’t matter.
I sit.
The smell of the place settles around me like a memory-worn blanket.
It’s familiar. Ugly. Mine.
There are things I want to say.
Apologies.
Admissions.
Promises.
I had whispered them before—in dreams, in half-drunk monologues to Claudia, in the middle of mop-rinses when the ache had hit hardest.
But now… it doesn’t feel like I need to say them again.
Maybe Eddy had never meant to stay. Maybe he had just been a spark, not a flame.
A glitch in the system? Or maybe a miracle disguised as a Bin-Spirit, with attitude and amber eyes.
Maybe his purpose wasn’t to linger—but to teach.
That I’m not trash either.
That someone could want me. Not because of some cruel curse or rubbish kink. But underneath all the mess and mildew and mop water, I am still worthy.
That I am still something golden, even with rust around the edges.
I sit with that. The thought roots. I let it soften me in ways even grief hadn’t managed.
The wind picks up, tossing a few stray takeaway wrappers down the alley like brittle leaves. Somewhere behind the office, a loose shutter bangs rhythmically, like a heartbeat too slow to save.
I don’t move. Don’t flinch. Just listen. The quiet presses against my ribs like the weight of something ending.
