Darius needed air. The library books sat heavy in his duffel back at the house, but the walls had started closing in again—same creaks, same smells, same quiet that felt too loud. He walked without direction, boots scuffing the sidewalk, until he found himself in front of the old Piggly Wiggly on the edge of town. It had been remodeled since high school—new sign, brighter lights—but the parking lot still had the same cracked asphalt and the same faded lines.
He went inside on impulse. The fluorescent buzz hit him like memory: the smell of cold produce mist, bleach, and cheap bakery sugar. He wandered the aisles, not really shopping, just moving. Past the cereal. Past the canned goods. Past the pharmacy where he used to buy condoms in secret when he was sixteen.
That's when he saw her.
Nyxara Reed stood in the magazine aisle, flipping through a thick paperback she'd pulled from the rack—something with a black cover and silver lettering, probably dark fantasy or horror. She looked different and exactly the same. Short black pixie cut streaked with crimson, like dried blood in moonlight. Smoky gray eyes rimmed with liner, porcelain skin that looked almost translucent under the harsh lights. She wore a black leather jacket over a band tee (something obscure, faded logo), ripped black skinny jeans tucked into scuffed combat boots, silver choker glinting at her throat. A few rings on her fingers caught the light when she turned a page.
She sensed him before she saw him—head tilting slightly, like she'd caught a scent on the air. When her eyes lifted, they narrowed, then widened.
"Darius Kane," she said, voice low and dry, edged with that sarcastic lilt she'd always had. "Back from the dead."
He stopped a few feet away. "Hey."
She closed the book with a soft snap, tucked it under her arm. "You look… alive. That's something."
"Better than the alternative."
A ghost of a smirk crossed her lips. "True." She tilted her head, studying him. "Heard you got banged up. Shoulder, right? Shrapnel?"
"Yeah."
She nodded once, like she'd filed the information away. "Sucks."
He shrugged. "Could've been worse."
"Spoken like a man who's seen worse." She glanced around the aisle—empty except for them—then stepped closer. The faint scent of clove and vanilla drifted off her, mixed with the leather of her jacket. "You here for groceries or just haunting the place like the rest of us ghosts?"
"Needed to get out."
"Understandable." She tapped the book against her thigh. "I come here when the house gets too quiet. Aunt's working nights again. Leaves me with too much headspace."
He remembered that—her aunt raising her after the car wreck took her parents. Nyxara had always carried it like a shadow, sharp edges and all.
"You still read the dark stuff?" he asked.
"More now." She held up the paperback—title in silver foil: *The Hollow King*. "Poe would approve. Or maybe Lovecraft. Same difference."
He almost smiled. "You always quoted them when you were pissed."
"Still do." Her eyes flicked to his scar—quick, then away. "You ever read to keep the noise down?"
"Sometimes."
She nodded, like she understood more than he'd said. "High school was shit, you know. For me, anyway."
"I remember."
She looked at him then—really looked. "You stood up for me once. That day in the cafeteria when those idiots were calling me 'witch girl.' You just… walked over. Didn't say much. Just stood there until they shut up."
He remembered. He'd been seventeen, angry at everything, and Nyxara had been sitting alone at the end of a table, head down, black hair falling like a curtain. The words had been loud enough for everyone to hear. He hadn't thought—just moved.
"Didn't think about it," he said.
"That's why it mattered." She shifted her weight, boots scuffing the linoleum. "You didn't have to. But you did."
Silence stretched between them—not awkward, just full.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. "I should pay for this before they think I'm shoplifting." She held up the book.
He stepped aside. "Yeah."
She started toward the registers, then paused, turned back. "You sticking around?"
"For now."
"Good." A small, almost shy smile broke through the sarcasm. "If you ever want to sit in the dark and read something depressing… my porch light's always on. No talking required."
He nodded. "Maybe."
She smirked again—sharper this time. "I'll take maybe."
She walked to the front, hips swaying under the leather jacket, boots clicking softly. At the register she paid quick, didn't look back.
Darius wandered the aisles a few more minutes—grabbed a bottle of water he didn't need, paid at self-checkout. When he stepped outside, the heat had eased into early evening softness. The sky was turning lavender at the edges.
He walked home slow, water bottle swinging from his fingers.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed once. A text from an unknown number.
*It's Nyxara. Got your number from your mom. Don't be weird about it. If you need to talk about ghosts, you know where I am.*
He stared at the screen a long moment.
Then he saved the number.
No reply.
Not yet.
The cicadas started up as the sun dropped lower, their song rising like a wave.
And somewhere in the quiet spaces between the notes, he felt the faint echo of a cafeteria chair scraping back, the weight of eyes on him, the choice to stand.
Still standing.