“Some days,” he admitted. “But this—” he gestured to the water, the trees, the quiet hum of wind “—this feels like the first real silence I’ve ever had. And somehow it isn’t empty.”
I tilted my head, curious. “What does it feel like?”
He thought for a moment. “Like something alive. Like the earth is talking if you just stop long enough to listen.”
I rested my chin on my knees. “That’s how I’ve always felt here. Every creek, every tree—it hums. Not in sound, but in energy. Like it’s remembering.”
He glanced at me, eyes soft. “Then maybe I came here to learn how to remember, too.”
We fell quiet again. A hawk cut across the sky. The air carried the sharp scent of pine and moss. He reached for my hand, his thumb drawing lazy circles against my palm. I let him.
For a long while, we didn’t speak. We just breathed—slow, steady, in rhythm with the earth itself. It felt sacred, somehow. Like the kind of peace you don’t ask for twice.
I turned to him, studying the man who had once shown up here restless and unsure, carrying grief in his shoulders and ambition in his eyes. “You’ve changed.”
He smiled faintly. “You did that.”
“No,” I whispered. “You just let yourself exhale.”
He kissed my temple, lingering. “I think this is what forever sounds like.”
I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath it. Hoping that the beat stayed between us always. “Then let’s not rush it.”
And maybe that was the lesson—peace doesn’t always mean stillness. Sometimes it’s the quiet between two heartbeats, waiting to see if love will hold when everything else goes still.
25
NAIMA
October 25 came in on a breath of cold air and a sky the color of bruised plums.
By late afternoon, the mountains gleamed—dipped in copper and red-gold, every tree a flickering torch against the fading light.
The drive curved along the ridge road like a hymn, the kind you hum without meaning to. I sat quiet, palm pressed to the glass, chasing the last rays that burned like truth on the horizon. Lennox’s hand rested on my thigh, steady and warm—a silent language that saidI’m here, no translation required.
The Williams Estate rose through a thicket of pines, gothic and grand. Lanterns flared along the gravel drive, their light soft against wrought iron gates. At the circle, valets in black stood like sentinels, and the air smelled faintly of cedar smoke and rose.
Inside, the air shifted—rich with perfume and shadow. Walls were washed in deep wine and aged claret, their surfaces breathing with the warmth of candlelight. Velvet drapes spilled to the floor in burnished copper and scarlet, while tables shimmered beneath rose-gold accents and glass that caughtevery flicker of flame. Candlelight danced across crystal and silk in soft petal blush, turning the space into something sensual and reverent—elegance with an edge, like passion wrapped in prayer.
Music floated from the ballroom—a blend of jazz and waltz, strings stitched with upright bass, the rhythm moving like heartbeats under silk.
Lennox cut the engine and turned to me, eyes lit gold beneath the low light. “You ready?”
I smoothed the skirt of my bronze velvet gown, its corset bodice gleaming softly under the moon. Sheer sleeves whispered at my wrists. My mask—a half-face of metallic bronze edged with lace—caught the lantern glow like embers. My thick hair was free tonight, a crown of softness and strength, and at my throat, my red amethyst pendant glimmered like a small promise.
I exhaled. “Let’s be legends.”
He laughed before circling the car to open my door.
His hand waited.
Black suit, gold-thread lapels, three claw marks stitched near the heart. His mask matte black, eyes unhidden. My Goldie, reimagined and real.
We stepped into the night, and the air wrapped us in cold and candle smoke.
Inside, Gothic Elegance made flesh. Roses—blackened crimson—filled stone urns. Candelabras reached like silver trees.
The flicker of flame caught the bronze in Lennox’s locs and turned his eyes to molten amber.
