Chapter 14 Evie
Evie
My morning off is not a real morning off. It’s just a morning where the diner can’t claim me first.
The sun is out, which feels like a lie after nights that keep trying to eat me. Fog still clings low to the street, but it’s thinner now, pulled apart by the bustle—people hauling folding tables, stringing lantern frames, taping posters to windows like the town is dressing itself up for a date.
Harbor Lights is tomorrow.
I carry a laundry basket of towels down the hallway and find Grandma in her chair by the front window, squinting at the porch like she’s supervising the world into behaving.
Her hair is loose, silver and soft, and she’s wearing her favorite cardigan.
“Morning,” I say, setting the basket down.
She blinks at me like she has to bring me into focus. Then her face brightens. “There you are.”
“Here I am,” I reply, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. It smells like lavender shampoo and the powder she’s used since I was little.
She squints. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically.
She makes a sound of disbelief. “Mm.”
She seems more coherent today—eyes clearer, voice steadier. Some days are like this. Little pockets of lucidity, or close enough that it feels like I’ve been handed her back for a minute and I’m supposed to pretend I’m not terrified of losing her again.
I grab her brush from the side table and stand behind her chair. “Want me to fix your hair?”
She lifts her chin. “If you do it the way I like.”
I snort softly. “Yes, ma’am.”
As I brush through her hair, she hums under her breath an old tune that used to be a hymn and now is just something her body remembers. Her shoulders relax a little as I gather the strands, twist them gently, pin them into place the way she’s taught me a thousand times.
There’s something soothing about it. The simplicity. The care. The fact that some things still make sense.
When I’m done, I tilt a hand mirror up so she can see.
“Alright." I keep my voice light. “Verdict?”
She leans forward and squints at her reflection as if she’s grading me. Then her mouth softens.
“Pretty,” she murmurs.
“You’re always pretty,” I say.
Grandma pats my hand.
Outside, a hammer thunks. Someone laughs on the sidewalk. A truck rumbles past hauling booth panels.
Grandma turns her head slightly toward the sound. “They’re busy.”
“They’re always busy before Harbor Lights,” I say.
“Yes,” she agrees, and then adds, casually, as if she’s asking about the weather, “Did the Rhee girl sing last night?”
My stomach does that stupid drop.
I keep my face neutral. I keep brushing a nonexistent strand like it matters. “No.”
Grandma nods slowly. “Shame. She always had a nice voice.”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
Grandma studies me through the window reflection. She’s not as sharp as she used to be, but she has her moments—little flashes where the woman who raised me looks right through my skin.
“You should go enjoy the festival,” she says abruptly.
I blink. “I have enough to do—”
Grandma lifts a finger. “Evie.”
I stop because that tone still works on me at any age.
She looks toward the porch again where lantern frames are stacked, waiting. “Help me hang these. Then you should go for a walk.”
“Gran—”
“Walk,” she repeats. “Pier. Fresh air. The town’s pretty too when it’s trying.”
I huff, but I’m already helping her outside and reaching for the lantern frames because arguing with her is like arguing with the tide.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But be careful. Remember the porch steps are crooked and the railing is basically decorative. Don’t you dare fall.”
She laughs, delighted. “Bossy girl.”
I freeze for half a second.
Bossy.
Kaia used to say that too—laughing, eyes bright, like it was a compliment.
I shake it off.
The porch smells like sun-warmed wood and salt. Grandma shuffles out behind me, slow but stubborn.
The lanterns are cheap paper lanterns—cream-colored with little gold flecks, because Grandma likes anything that sparkles. I hook one to the porch rail, then another, then another, spacing them evenly like I’m building a tiny altar.
Grandma watches with approving hums. “Higher,” she directs. “No, not like that. Like you want the wind to see it.”
“The wind does not have eyes,” I mutter.
Grandma ignores that. “Tie it tighter.”
I tie it tighter.
She pats my shoulder when I’m done. “There. Lovely.”
I step back, hands on my hips, looking at the line of lanterns. They sway faintly in the breeze, catching the morning light like little captured suns. For a second, it’s… nice.
Then Grandma points at me as if she’s sentencing me. “Now. Go enjoy the festival.”
“It’s tomorrow,” I remind her.
She waves a hand. “Go enjoy the build-up. That’s half the magic.”
Magic.
I flinch internally. The word rings different now.
Grandma’s gaze softens. “You look like you’ve been carrying something heavy.”
“I’m fine,” I say again, because it’s my favorite lie. I’m like Kaia in that way.
Grandma huffs. “Then go.”
I roll my eyes and grab my jacket. “Okay, okay.”
As I head down the porch steps, she calls after me, voice suddenly bright with mischief, “And if you see that Rhee girl, tell her to come over for pancakes!”
My foot catches on the step.
I don’t turn around. “Sure,” I lie.
Grandma hums to herself and goes back inside, blissfully unaware that she just twisted the knife in my ribs.
I walk.
Harbor’s Edge is dressed up and loud even in daylight. Booths line the main street like ribs of some enormous creature being assembled. Kids run with armfuls of glittery paper. Vendors argue about placement. Someone is already selling festival pins, because capitalism never sleeps.
And everywhere—everywhere—are the posters. They’re on telephone poles, shop windows, the side of the florist’s cooler. They’ve been layered over old posters as if the town is burying itself in fresh ink.
MIDNIGHT HALO — SPECIAL HARBOR LIGHTS APPEARANCE
Kaia’s face is at the center. Perfect skin. Fierce eyes. Glittering costume. Haloed lighting.
She looks like an angel… or like a product.
Like someone who never tripped on a pier and laughed until she cried. I stop in front of one without meaning to. The paper is glossy under my fingertips. Kaia’s face stares down at me with a confidence so polished it feels like a weapon.
As stupid as it is, it feels like the town took our private memories and replaced them with propaganda.
A version of her that belongs to everyone.
A version that doesn’t get to be mine.
Good, I tell myself bitterly. She chose that.
I keep walking, faster now, as if speed can outrun memory.
But it doesn’t. It never does.
The pier road comes into view, lined with lantern frames waiting to be lit tomorrow night. The water is bright today, sun glinting off it in sharp flashes.
I step onto it.
The wood boards creak under my boots in the same old rhythm.
Halfway down, the air shifts. Not demon-shift. Not danger.
Just… time.
My brain does what it always does here. It rewinds.
I’m sixteen again with a cheap paper lantern crinkling in my hands, sneaking down the pier late at night. Kaia beside me, breathless with laughter, carrying one of her own. We carry those lanterns like they're contraband. We wrote wishes on them with cheap markers that bled through the paper.
I can't remember what I wrote any more, but whatever it was… it must not have come true.
The pier boards under my feet now are the same boards. The air smells the same. The ocean sounds the same.
But Kaia is not here.
And now more than ever, her absence is a physical thing, like a missing limb.
I keep walking anyway, hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets, until the pier opens up and I can see it in the distance—the festival grounds half-built, the little Harbor Lights stage.
Even from here, I can make out the rickety platform and the crooked mic stand.
The string lights are up early, flickering in the fog like nervous stars.
Kaia’s first amateur performance was on that stage. Her hands shook so badly she had to grip the mic with both of them.
She looked like she might run.
I’d shoved my way through the crowd and planted myself front and center like a barricade.
“Kaia!” I’d yelled. “KAIA!”
People around me had laughed and shushed me.
I’d ignored them.
Kaia’s eyes had found mine, wide and panicked—
And then, because I was there, she’d steadied. Like my belief in her could hold her up.
She’d opened her mouth and sang. And the whole town had gone quiet.
She’d always had that power, even then. That resonance. I just didn’t know what to call it.
In the present, a shop radio on the pier blares cheerfully from the bait shack.
A jingle floats out on the breeze:
Come back, come back, the lanterns will light your way—
My skin prickles.
It’s the same melody. Cleaner than the demon version, but the bones are identical. The tune the Chorus used. The one that tried to shove its way down my throat like a hook.
I stop mid-step. My heart beats faster.
A couple walking past me hums along without thinking.
A kid on a bench swings his legs and sings it softly to himself.
Two elderly women argue about booth placement while the radio plays in the background, and one of them taps her fingers to the beat unconsciously.
The entire town is humming the demon’s song without knowing it.
A chill crawls up my spine. My wrist warms. Not burning, just a sudden heat under the skin, like a hand pressed there. A warning.
Don’t say it.
Don’t tell them.
Don’t spread it.
I stare at my wrist like it might glow. The binding is invisible, but I feel it. The NDA woven into my life like a leash disguised as jewelry. I clench my fist hard enough my nails bite my palm.
“Great,” I mutter. “Even my wrist is bossy now.”
A laugh threatens—hysterical, sharp—and I swallow it down.
I keep walking to the end of the pier, where the water opens wide, sunlight flickering like shattered glass. I rest my hands on the railing and stare out, breathing salt and trying to convince myself I don’t care.
But I do. That’s the problem.
I care so much it made me angry enough to survive without her.
I care so much that seeing her face on every poster feels like someone stole my memories and sold them back to me with a sponsor logo.
I care so much that when she bleeds, my body moves before my pride can stop it.
I care so much that I want to warn the whole town about the song in their mouths… and I can’t.
Because I signed an invisible contract.
Because demons listen.
Because Kaia came back into my life carrying a sword.
The radio keeps playing, bright and cheerful.
Come back, come back—
The words snag under my ribs. I close my eyes.
For half a second, I let myself remember what it felt like when “come back” was a wish, not a threat.
The breeze catches the radio and warps it for a heartbeat. Just enough that I could swear something ugly rides under the melody, soft as breath against my ear.
Stupid kiss.
My eyes fly open, pulse kicking hard, but the song is bright again by the time I look back. I turn back to watch the water, because tomorrow night the lanterns will rise.
And something in the dark is already humming along.