33. Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Three
Charon
“Hey! Stay back, you thief.”
The dock holds steady under my weight as I place down another board, smiling to myself when Hector curses Nyx for trying to steal from his pile of nails.
He’s arguing with her between hammer swings, and she caws indignantly before fluttering just out of reach, the smug little menace.
Wiping sweat from my brow, I lower myself onto the sand where we keep our tools, stretching my sore legs out in front of me. We’ve been fixing the deck for a couple of weeks now, and it’s nearly finished.
My shoulders ache, but it feels good. Before, the pain served as a reminder of a life condemned to the boat, but now…
Now it’s proof of what we’re building here.
“I swear, murder bird, if you nip my elbow one more time…”
Hector scoffs, glaring at Nyx with an annoyed mix of affection.
My heart warms at the sight. Behind him, our lighthouse stands tall on the bluff, cracks in its foundation slowly being repaired.
We’ve managed to barter supplies from a nearby outpost up the coast with the coins and bullets that the soldiers had forgotten to unload after dragging me away. I’m still amazed every day at our luck.
We’d tried to liberate Aster’s Hollow from Lena’s lies months ago, even going so far as to offer them half of our rations, but the fear ran too deep.
They wouldn’t listen to a rotter or a monster, still believing that someone would save them from the infection, so we’d left them to their own devices.
Either they survive on their own…or they don’t.
But we will.
A contented sigh leaves my lips as I reach beside me, pulling my mother’s book from beneath a folded tarp.
The pages are more fragile than ever, cover barely clinging to the spine.
When we’d found it still tucked away inside my nightstand on the boat, I’d nearly wept.
It’s a miracle the thing has survived this long, and yet here it is. Still holding on, just like me.
Like us.
Hector tosses his hammer down, groaning as he pushes to his feet. “Alright, I’m done with this for now. It’s time to check the traps. ”
He limps past, bending to kiss the top of my head on his way down to the shoreline where we keep our nets for catching fish.
I drop my gaze to the prosthetic foot I’d made as soon as we’d gotten back from Zone T, pleased with how well he’s walking now.
It may be rudimentary in nature, whittled from wood and screws and old springs, but it gives him his range of motion back.
Helping me fix up our home is his new favorite thing.
Absently, I trace the worn leather cover in my hands, my mind slipping to the epics buried within. Stories of war, wrath, and loss. Pages filled with profound grief. As I listen to Hector bicker with Nyx in the background, I know our story isn’t like the ones inside these pages anymore.
This isn’t a tragedy.
Our lighthouse that we’ve grown to love will probably never be perfect. Half the windows are gone, and the stairs to the top will take years to mend, but it’s ours . We’ll fix it piece by piece. We’ll leave our mark here, in every board and beam, every part we make brand new.
This book might fall apart before we finish reading it.
But the life we’re building—the one we chose, the one we bled for… that’ll stay.
Just like these tattered pages and the photos Hector keeps on the wall, this place won’t forget us, even if the rest of the world does. Not while our hands have touched it.
Not while our love lives on.
“We’ve got a good catch this morning,” Hector says quietly, drawing me from my thoughts. I raise my gaze to find him standing above, emerald eyes searching my face. “I bet we could trade the fish for yeast or something. Learn how to bake bread. Or get some chickens.”
He drops into my lap with a soft grunt, pulling my arms around his waist. Nyx lands at our feet a moment later, a small fish clamped in her beak.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, those stale crackers in the cellar aren’t bad soaked in water, but I’d probably kill someone for scrambled eggs and toast.”
I huff a laugh through my nose and offer him the book, running my palms over his newly muscled chest. He takes it carefully, turning it over in his hands as he stares down at the title.
The Iliad.
Slowly, as much as my throat will allow, I’m teaching him to read it with me—just a few words at a time.
“We should write our own someday,” he murmurs, glancing at me sideways. “So no one ever forgets us.”
A soft, shy smile pulls at his cheeks when I kiss him deeply, my heart so full it could implode.
“I’ll never forget,” I mouth against his lips, returning the smile he’s gifted me.
Let the world move on. Let it crumble and rebuild a thousand times over, we’ll still be here.
In the salt-soaked wood of the dock beneath our feet and the lighthouse walls we’ve patched with our own hands. In every kiss and every scar.
The pages may run out and our world might end, but for now…
Our story has just begun.