“Yes.”
“That was beautiful.”
“I delegated violence to Darlene.”
“Still counts.”
Darlene shouts from the register, “I heard that, and I accept tribute.”
On the first clear morning after weeks of rain, sunlight breaks over Halo.
It comes through the bakery windows in warm gold, catching flour dust in the air, turning steam from coffee cups into soft ghosts, shining along Evie’s hair as she stands behind the counter laughing at something Mr. Eddison says. The neighborhood outside remains rough. Patches on pavement. Cracked billboards. Tired workers. Old grief. New repairs.
But the light touches all of it.
I stand near the display case with a tray of cinnamon rolls in my hands and understand something so simple it nearly brings me to my knees.
I was never cursed.
I survived.
There is a difference.
For years, I mistook survival for punishment. I believed everyone close to me would suffer because the war taught me proximity became casualty. But Evie stands across from me alive, stubborn, healing, beautiful, and annoyed because I have stopped moving in the middle of breakfast service.
“Kauss,” she calls. “You planning to serve those rolls or emotionally bond with them?”
I look down at the tray. “They are well made.”
“I know. I made them.”
“Then I am admiring your work.”
“Oh.” Her smile softens in a way that still undoes me. “Carry on for three more seconds.”
Darlene groans. “You two are disgusting.”
Al lifts his coffee. “Let the man worship pastry. Could’ve become a crime lord.”
“Low bar,” Darlene says.
“Still cleared.”
I set the tray in the display case and cross to Evie. In front of customers, neighbors, survivors, children, elders, and every ghost that followed me here, I bend and kiss her.
The bakery erupts.
Cheers. Laughter. One exaggerated gagging noise from Darlene. Applause from Mrs. Pell. Al shouting, “About damn time,” despite the fact that we have been together for weeks and he knows it.
Evie laughs against my mouth.
When I pull back, her cheeks are pink. “Bold choice, big guy.”
“I live here now.”
Her eyes shine. “Yeah. You do.”
The front bell rings, and more dockworkers come in smelling of salt, sweat, rain-dried canvas, and early labor. Evie turns toward them with her bright smile and coffee pot already in hand.
