We actually slept through the night. No knocks, no screams, no broken lights — just silence and the steady breath of someone I trusted too much.
But somewhere in that silence, I dreamed.
There was a couple lying in the same bed we were in — not us, not exactly. Shadows of something older. And in the corner of the room sat Solas — the demon owl from old southern crossroads tales. Eyes like melted amber, feathers blacker than guilt. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Kaito.
"You know they don't respect it," Solas said, voice a deep hoot soaked in weariness. "They use my name like it's seasoning. No honor. No offering. Just mess. You think I want to show up for this kind of foolishness? I'm tired of paying the cosmic fines, Kaito. I'm tired of being invoked by fools with no sense of balance."
He didn't shout. He didn't threaten. He just looked like a disappointed father who's had to clean up one too many messes.
Kaito met his gaze, quiet but steady. "That's why I'm here."
I woke in a cold sweat. Kaito was still asleep beside me, his arm draped across my waist like he'd never moved. I tried to slide out of bed without waking him, but he stirred.
"You good?" he murmured, eyes still half-closed.
"Yeah," I whispered. "Just a weird dream."
Even if I had told him, he wouldn't have thought much of it. Dreams like that aren't exactly uncommon in our world. Not when spirits hitch rides in your shadow and crossroads still hum with old songs. But even before I met Kaito, I had dreams like that — vivid, layered, too sharp to be called imagination. Mama used to say I was born with a veil over my face, just like her cousin down in Houma who could predict death by the smell of cinnamon.
Folklore says babies born with the caul — that's the veil — can see spirits, speak to the dead, walk between what's real and what ain't. Some cultures treat it like a blessing. Others call it a curse. In my family, it just meant you got visited more than most. Dreams weren't dreams. They were messages. And some messages you don't repeat out loud.
Other kids didn't think it was mystical. They thought it was creepy — called it demon business and said I must've been cursed. Teachers acted like I was touched, but not in the good way. The church folks didn't help either. Our pastor once tried to put me on stage and called me an angel sent from heaven. Said I had 'the sight of righteousness' and tried to parade me like a prophecy. My folks pulled me out the moment they saw where it was headed. We stopped going to church after that.
For other families, a veil-born baby was special. Revered. For mine, it was something to be hidden until it got too loud to ignore.
He stretched, then grinned, sticking out his tongue to flash a silver piercing. "Want me to help you sleep?"
I blinked at it, smirking. "So that's new? No wonder you weren't kissing with tongue earlier — saving the surprise for the encore?"
"Got it from a salesman out west," he said. "Claimed it was forged from temple bell metal. Said it vibrates at a frequency tied to pleasure and peace. Sound magic."
I didn't say no.
Kaito always brought back weird things when he got his cut. Not dangerous or wasteful — he made sure I had most of the money. But every now and then, he'd come back with something strange: antique keys, talking shells, cursed rings that refused to leave a pawn shop. Part of me was always a little nervous when he came home with something humming in his pocket, but that's just who he was.
Then there was the tattoo.
I'd joked once, during a post-show wine haze, that if he really loved me, he'd get my name tattooed somewhere no one else could see it. I meant it as a joke — truly. But damned if he didn't come home three days later, drop his pants, and show me 'Loretta' inked along the side of his dick.
Lucky for both of us, it still worked after.
He got to business slow, teasing like he had all the time in the world. I leaned back, letting my body soften into the mattress — until I looked up.
There it was again. An owl carved into the ceiling, its wide eyes locked onto mine. And suddenly, I wasn't in the mood.
Kaito noticed the shift and didn't push. He just wrapped himself around me and started to hum. A song I didn't recognize — not a lullaby, more like a dirge wrapped in velvet.
He sang me to sleep.
Those owl carvings got me thinking again about the dream. Got me thinking about him. Solas. The way he sat in that corner, not like a monster, but like a father too tired to ground his kid one more time. The kind of stare that made you feel like you let down something older than blood.
Somewhere deep in folklore, there's always been gods and demons who punished folks for using their names wrong — not out of ego, but out of order. The Greeks had their Furies, the Haitians their lwa, and in old Gullah tales, a name spoken without honor could summon wrath hotter than fire. The old ones didn't care about body counts — they cared about balance. Ritual. Meaning.
But people today? They treat power like costume jewelry. Flashy, hollow, no weight behind the wear. They invoke names they barely understand, chase clout with chalk circles and chicken bones, then cry foul when something ancient actually answers. And it always does, sooner or later.
That's what made Solas so tired. Not the death. The disrespect.
I didn't know what that dream meant. Or if it was a dream.