Chapter 22 · The People Who Put a Price on Memory

The mother-shaped shadow leaned away from Lin’s ear.

For one impossible second, it wore her mother’s face.

Not the face Lin remembered from photographs—the soft, tired smile, the loose strands of hair escaping a kitchen braid—but a face made from black water and reflected candlelight. Its mouth opened without moving. The voice came from everywhere inside the room.

Your father signed the second contract.

Then the shadow slipped beneath the floorboards.

Lin’s fingers closed on nothing.

“Lin.” Nara’s voice scraped through the dark. “Don’t follow it.”

Lin turned. Nara stood beside the restored coat, one hand pressed against her ribs. The black garment hung from its hook, breathing slowly. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath pushed a faint silver ripple through the leather, as if the coat had swallowed a piece of moonlight.

Nara was solid again, but only barely. Rain showed through the edges of her shoulders. Her hair clung to her cheeks. Behind her, where a shadow should have been, the floor remained empty.

Lin looked at that emptiness and felt the room tilt.

“My father signed it,” she said.

No one answered.

Soren Pike sat against the repair table, one hand wrapped around his bleeding side.