The bell above Candle's door wheezed as Lorelei pushed inside. Fluorescent lights stuttered overhead, casting the cluttered supply store in a harsh white light. The air hung thick with the competing scents of coffee beans and industrial paper goods. Behind the counter, towers of cardboard boxes created narrow aisles that seemed more like a maze, designed by someone with questionable spatial awareness.
Lorelei's fingers drummed against the scarred wooden counter in an erratic rhythm. The clock on the wall—a plastic monstrosity shaped like a coffee cup—showed five-twenty-seven, and she'd already been waiting for eight minutes.
"Anna?" she called. But the only response was the hum of refrigeration units and the distant murmur of a radio playing somewhere in the back.
A muffled crash came from somewhere behind the cardboard towers, followed by a string of colorful expletives. Boxes shifted and scraped against concrete, and Lorelei caught glimpses of graying hair pinned in what could generously be called a bun, but looked more like a bird's nest that had survived a violent storm.
"Found it!" Anna's voice was triumphant, muffled by clutter.
More scraping, more muttered complaints about whoever had reorganized the storage room, and finally Anna emerged from behind the counter, carrying a box. Her hair had escaped its pins entirely now, silver strands framing a face that bore the exhaustion of someone who'd spent forty years wrestling with inventory and customers, including Lorelei's parents for the last thirty of those.
"Lucas's order," Anna announced, setting the box down. "Straws, napkins, and those little plastic cups you specifically requested. Though I still say those paper triangle water cups would be more environmentally friendly."
Lorelei smiled, the normalcy of Anna's presence a comforting thing. "Thanks. What do I owe you?"
"Already settled up when he placed the order," Anna said, but instead of handing over the box, she leaned against the counter, clearly settling in for conversation. This was Anna's way—she collected stories like some people collected stamps, filing away details about her customers' lives for future reference and unsolicited advice.
"How's business at the club these days?" Anna's eyes held the particular gleam of someone who'd already suspected the answer but wanted confirmation. "Haven't seen much activity when I walk by lately."
Lorelei's shoulders tensed, focusing her gaze on a display of sugar packets that had been arranged with the kind of precision that suggested either extreme boredom or mild obsessive tendencies.
"Things are going fine," she said, the lie sliding off her tongue with ease. "Just the usual ups and downs of the business, you know?"
Anna's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something that might have been sympathy or skepticism. She had the unsettling ability to see through people's carefully constructed facades, a skill that made her both an excellent clerk and a dangerous conversationalist.
"Your parents used to say that, as well," Anna said, her voice taking on the particular softness reserved for memories of the dead. "Your mother would spend twenty minutes picking out the perfect cocktail napkins, and your father would stand right there,"—she pointed to a spot near the door—"telling me about your latest photography project."
The words hit Lorelei like a physical blow, stealing her breath. She blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the sudden moisture that threatened to spill over. Her parents had been gone for four years, but grief doesn't have expiration dates. It had a way of ambushing her at the most unexpected moments, turning ordinary conversations into minefields.
"They were so proud of you," Anna continued. "Always talking about how talented you were, how you had such an eye for capturing the soul of a moment. Your mother used to say you could make even the most ordinary thing look extraordinary through your lens."
Lorelei's fingers tightened around the edge of the countertop. "Yeah... that sounds like them," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Anna studied her for a long moment, those sharp eyes taking in details that Lorelei wished she could hide. "You know," Anna said finally, reaching across the counter to gently touch Lorelei's hand, "grief has a way of making us forget who we were before the loss. But your dreams don't die just because the people who believed in them are gone."
The kindness in Anna's voice was almost harder to bear than her usual probing. Lorelei felt tears threatening again, a hot pressure behind her eyes that she couldn't quite contain. She thought of Lucas's words that morning, his accusation that she lived her life through a lens while everything around them crumbled. She thought of the mask still hidden in her bag, of the mysterious guy from the alley who might or might not have been Echo, and of all the ways her life had become a careful balancing act between truth and fiction.
"Don't let grief overshadow your dreams, dear," Anna said, finally lifting her weight from the counter. "Your parents wouldn't want that for you."
Lorelei gave a thin smile and gripped the box with hands that felt weak all of a sudden. She wanted to say something meaningful in return, something that would honor Anna's kindness and her parents' memory, but the words stuck in her throat.
"Thank you," she said instead, and Anna smiled, the expression transforming her tired face into something warmer.
"Take care of yourself, honey. And tell Lucas I said hello."
Lorelei nodded, clutching the box against her chest as she navigated through the aisles toward the door. The bell wheezed again as she stepped outside, and she found herself standing on the sidewalk, breathing deeply of air that tasted of exhaust fumes and distant rain. The weight of the camera bag, the box, and all her unspoken truths pressed down on her shoulders, Anna's words repeating in her mind like a song she couldn't quite forget.
The box partially blocked her view as she hurried through the city streets back to Club Seven. Her camera bag bounced against her hip with each step, creating a steady rhythm. She took the familiar shortcuts between buildings, ducking through narrow alleys that most people avoided but that she'd memorized during years of running errands for the club. The late evening sun cast long shadows that stretched across the pavement. A bead of sweat traced its way down her temple as the club came into view, its faded sign with missing letters still hanging on. The building squatted between a laundromat and a liquor store, its brick facade stained with years of weather and neglect. Someone had spray-painted a crude drawing of a guitar on the wall beside the entrance, and though it was technically vandalism, none of them had bothered to paint over it because it was probably the most artistic thing about the building's exterior.
She stood outside for a moment, gathering herself. The weight of the morning's disagreement with Lucas pressed against her chest, and she wondered if he'd still be angry when she walked through those doors. Part of her hoped he would be—anger was easier to deal with than the disappointment that had crept into his voice when he'd given up trying to make her understand their situation.
She used her shoulder to push the door open, and the familiar creak announced her arrival to anyone who cared to notice, though most of the nightly crowd was too absorbed in their own thoughts to pay attention. The interior was dimly lit by a collection of mismatched lamps and string lights that their parents had hung long ago. The main floor was dotted with small tables and chairs that had been acquired through a combination of recent thrift store expeditions and donations, resulting in a furniture collection that could charitably be described as "eclectic."
The sparse crowd of a few regulars nursed their drinks while someone played acoustic guitar on the small stage that had once hosted bands with actual followings. The performer was a kid who couldn't have been older than twenty, his voice carrying the strain of someone trying to sound like his heroes. But the audience had immersed themselves in the music anyway, gentle and appreciative of the raw honesty that comes with sharing a piece of oneself on stage.
Lorelei scanned the room automatically, taking inventory of the familiar faces. There was Meredith, the creative writing professor, who came in to listen to music and grade papers while nursing a single beer for two hours. Near the bar sat Tommy, whose construction job had ended three months prior, but he still showed up every day at five o'clock, as if he had somewhere else to be all day. In the corner booth, a couple she didn't recognize shared a plate of nachos and spoke in the intense whispers of people either falling in love or planning a crime.
The normalcy of it all should have been comforting, but instead, it felt like a reminder of how small their world had become. These were the people who comprised their audience now, not the crazed fans and industry scouts who had once filled these seats, but the lonely and the lost who had nowhere else to go on a slow evening.
She was midway through her mental catalog when her gaze landed on a figure seated alone, and her entire world shifted on its axis.
The guy from the alley sat along the side wall, watching the performer. His face was illuminated by the stage lights in a way that left no doubt about his identity. Healing cuts above his eyebrow and lip were like a signature she'd memorized, and his eyes—carrying the suppressed weight of things unspoken—were exactly as she remembered from those moments in the darkness.
I'm so sorry.
Her eyes widened, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. The box slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a sound that was too loud for the small space. Straws scattered across the wood like plastic pickup sticks, clattering enough to make him turn his head toward the disturbance.
Their eyes met, and the world went perfectly, impossibly still.