But it didn’t matter.
I was already gone.
It was just past six in the evening when I reached the hilltop cemetery. The sun was low, getting more orange, bleeding light across the sky. I could still hear sirens somewhere in the valley below, bouncing between buildings, but up here, everything felt still. The world was quiet around the dead.
I drove to the end of the narrow gravel road and stopped at the edge, just a few feet from his grave. I didn’t get off right away. Just sat there straddling the stolen bike, staring at the headstone like it might say something back.
My father’s name was written into cheap gray stone. No flowers. No visitors. Just cracked earth and weeds curling along the base.
They said he died a year after Ian.
I didn’t cry. Not then. Not now.
Eventually, I climbed off the bike. As my boots hit the ground, I noticed the man I took the bike from had rigged two storage tanks to the sides. I crouched down to see inside them, expecting old clothes or scraps.
In the first tank, cushioned by dirty rags, I found a small glass container. Inside, it was a miniature pylon, curled by side like a toy. On the top, written in thick blackSharpie, was one word.“Nagi.”
I lifted the tank carefully, holding it in both hands. Nagi moved in the sunlight, showing scales and a flicking tongue. My throat tightened.
“You’re mine now, Nagi,” I said, stammering like a child. My tongue always turned clumsy after the adrenaline wore off.
I carried her to the shade of a nearby tree and set her down gently. She pulled herself tighter under the shadow. I took a moment, breathing in, before heading back to check the second tank.
This one held an old phone. Still charged.
I pulled it out and took it with me to the tree. The ride through the heat had drained me, and the relief of sitting in the cool grass made my whole body ache. I opened one of the bags from the bike, grabbed a bottle of water, and stared at the phone for a long time.
I dialed, remembering the number like it was carved deep in my bones.
The line clicked once, then again. A girl answered. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. Young. Maybe new staff.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” I replied, dry-mouthed. “Gloomsbury Manor?”
“Yes.”
“Is Vivienne there?” My tongue slipped again on her name. My voice cracked from too much sun, too little water.
“One moment.”
I heard footsteps. Then the unmistakable sound of heels. That sound was burned into my memory. And then her voice came through, smooth as usual.
“Hello?”
I didn’t wait.
“Hello, Mother. Did you miss me?”
Silence stretched across the line. I imagined her standing in the long hallway near the parlor, hand frozen over her mouth.
“I need a place to stay low for a while,” I said. “I can see you moved on without us. Still hunting kids, or did you find a new hobby?”
She cleared her throat, the same way she always did when she didn’t want to give herself away.
“Dorian, my son,” she said. “My home is your home.”
“I bet it is.”
