A woman in a tuxedo greeted us at the archway, clipboard in hand, smile practiced but kind.
“Welcome to Hallow Noir,” she said. “Our hosts send their gratitude.”
“Will Hansel and Gretel be here?” I asked, because curiosity still lived in me.
“Never in person,” she replied, a secret smile ghosting her lips. “But always in the details.”
And they were.
The entry gallery held a tapestry of Black Pittsburgh—steelworkers with hands like oak roots, stage performers mid-pose, children with braids and bold eyes.
Plaques beneath each photo told stories of lineage, labor, and light.
The next room pulsed with generosity—a silent auction stretched along both walls: oil paintings, hand-thrown pottery, photographs like hymns.
Above it all, a banner: Art & Wellness for Black Youth.
Tonight’s offerings would fund therapy scholarships, community fitness programs, artist residencies.
Our world, reflected back in gold and care.
Lennox’s fingers brushed mine. “Feels like home.”
We moved through the crowd, champagne coupes in hand, and found a terrace washed in candlelight.
A quartet played—a waltz kissed by jazz, syncopation threaded with yearning.
Couples spun across the stone, skirts sweeping like whispers.
Lennox set his glass down and extended his hand. “Dance with me, Bear.”
I smiled, placing my hand in his.
“Only because Goldie asked.”
We slipped into the music. Bodies aligned. His palm at my back, warm through the velvet. My fingers tracing the gold embroidery near his heart.
We turned beneath chandeliers that shimmered like constellations, our steps writing a language only we knew.
“I’ve been thinking about fairy tales,” I murmured near his ear. “How they always start with loss.”
“And end with rescue?” His voice rumbled low.
“End withchoice,” I whispered. “Rescue’s optional.”
He smiled, that quiet ache in it. “Spoken like the bear who let Goldie stay.”
“Or the one who made him want to.”
We turned again. The music shifted—minor chords and haunting strings, the kind that slip under your ribs. Across the far wall, light bloomed into words:
Reimagine Your Story.
Applause rippled, soft and reverent.
A host lifted the mic. “Hansel and Gretel Noir cannot be here tonight. They never are. But they asked us to remind you—if the woods taught us anything, it’s that a trail back is something you build together.”
Lennox tightened his hold, breath warm against my temple.
