My eyes widen, chest tight and tingly.
It’s even more beautiful up close—the little embossed buds catching on the spill of light. I wrap my fingers around the hilt, surprised to find it perfectly balanced in my hand.
Drawing a deep breath, I let it out slow and steady before I smile up at the man. “I’ll have it.”
“Superb.” He takes it from me and spins, practiced hands folding it amongst some creamy tissue paper. “That’ll be one drab.”
Warm relief rushes up my throat with a shuddered sigh. Thankfully, I have one of those.
Just one.
There’s a creak in the floorboards somewhere behind me as I slide my single coin across the counter with the tip of my finger.
Turning, his beady gaze drops to the bench. “That’s achip.” He looks at me over the rim of his glasses, reaching out his hand. “The other nine hundred and ninety-nine?”
My blood chills, heart drops, sweaty palms wrap around my knapsack.
No.
His eyes narrow. “Is that all you have, boy?”
Please no.
He sighs, setting my precious parcel on the bench before he stalks around the counter. “On your way, you little street rat. This is not a charity house!”
“Wait!” I squeal, scrambling back a step when he’s so close the reek of his body odor overpowers the smell of dust. “I ... I have something else.”
I hate how my voice breaks at the end. How my hands tighten around my knapsack now flattened to my chest, as if every cell in my body knows what I’m about to do.
Is fighting against it.
He stops, eyes cutting over me, like he’s considering the many ways he could slice me up and profit from my flesh. “Something else?”
A milky breath blows out of me.
“Yes. Something”—precious; irreplaceable; something not one single piece of me wants to part with—”of worth. At least ... I think.”
He sets his hand between us, palm up.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I give him my back and dig into my knapsack, pulling open the side pocket to reveal my diamond pickaxe—pristine, despite the thousands of times I’ve used it to chip blank whispers from the wall.
This tool ... this beautiful, mighty, delicate tool ... it’s felt the wear of my sorrow. My shame. My anger and my heartache.
It’s seen my greatest fears come to life.
I grip its small, smooth handle and pull it free from the darkness. Light catches on its many facets, reminding me of my brother’s eyes. I hesitate, glancing over my shoulder to the blade … back again.
It feels like my heart’s being ripped in two.
One half is more than happy to drown in the murky waters of my past so long as it’s curled around that one luminous seed—the sparse remnants of the boy who saved my life, only for me to turn around and do terrible,horrificthings I’ll never be able to take back.
The other half is swimming frantically toward the airy surface, lungs burning for a gulp of air.
I can’t keep living in the past.
With him.
I have to find a way to move forward, one fallen whisper at a time, until the wall is deconstructed in my mind. Until it’s no longer weighing me down like stones stacked in my belly.
