A Crown of Ash and Starlight

The mirror in the studio hallway warped my reflection just enough to make the hand-stitched seams look flawless. I tugged the final strap tight across my ribs, the charcoal linen whispering like dry leaves. Lets see if anyone at the warehouse party in Kingsbridge gets it,” I muttered, tasting the nervous metal of anticipation on my tongue. The costume had taken three weeks, two thrift-store coats, and one near-disaster with a sewing needle at 2 a.m. The result was less a garment than a shadow I could step out of when the night ended.

Metro Line 4 rattled above the avenue as I surfaced at Liberty Plaza. Riverside had already surrendered to Halloween: luminous pinions flickered from shoulder blades of strangers; an inflatable T-rex waddled past, batting at pedestrians with stubby vinyl claws; three kids in retro Eggo-waffle shirts high-fived each other while balancing flashlights shaped like lightsabers. My own look—layered charcoal, asymmetric hem, cowl hood that swallowed half my face—was subtler, the kind of thing you noticed only when the streetlights hit the matte black embroidery shaped like dying stars.

Inside the converted loft, the air tasted of nutmeg and dry ice. A stranger in LED antlers slapped my shoulder. Dude, that cloak is sick!” he shouted over the bass. Before I could answer, a plastic cup of spiced cider appeared in my hand as if conjured. The lofts brick walls sweated condensation; somewhere above us, a disco ball spun slow as a planet. I sipped—too sweet, but warm—and felt the partys gravity reeling me in. No one here was pretending to be cool; that was the magic of Kingsbridge on Halloween. We were all exaggerated versions of our secret selves, and anonymity made us kinder.

I drifted toward the far wall where the music thinned. That was when the lanky guy leaned in, his Victorian beaked visage inches from my cheek. Under the masks hollow eyeholes, candle-colored light pooled. Youre rocking the deathly aura hard,” he said, voice soft, maybe Greenridge upstate. The accent curled at the ends of words like smoke.

I laughed, covering the sudden skip in my chest. Nice mask! But I cant tell—are you supposed to be a crow or a nineteenth-century dentist?”

He lifted the beak an inch, revealing freckles splashed across pale skin like cinnamon on steamed milk. Neither. Its my own… interpretation of the Grim Reaper. DIY, mostly thrift store.” A modest shrug, but his eyes—storm-gray, long-lashed—held mine longer than necessary. Something in them flickered, as if he recognized the embroidery on my hem.

The song changed to something synth-heavy. Around us, bodies pulsed, but the small pocket we occupied felt suddenly still. I realized I was balancing on the balls of my feet, ready to bolt or lean closer; I couldnt decide which. You sew?” I asked, mostly to keep the moment from tipping.

Some.” He tapped the beak. This started life as a broken umbrella and a busted colander. Morbid origami.” His fingers were long, knuckles ink-smudged. Names Miles.”

Clara.” I didnt offer my hand; somehow the costume made touching feel dangerous. Instead I raised my plastic cup in salute. To creative recycling.”

We clinked. Overhead, a strobe flashed white, bleaching the room for a heartbeat. In that instant Miless shadow stretched monstrously across the brick, cloak wings spreading far wider than his actual shoulders. When the light normalized, the shadow snapped back to ordinary. I blinked, unsure Id seen it.

Miles tilted his head. You came alone?”

Friends bailed. Ones working late, others sick.” I shrugged, fabric rustling. You?”

Same. Solo operations are safer.” He said it lightly, but the word safer landed with weight. Before I could probe, he gestured toward the freight elevator repurposed into a photo booth. Want a memento? The props box is legendary.”

I hesitated. The elevator cage looked like a mouth waiting to swallow us whole. But the cider had thawed my caution; curiosity stepped into its place. Sure.”

We threaded through dancers. A girl in a crown spun, petals slapping my arm like tiny hands. Inside the elevator, fairy lights flickered along the grating. A plastic bin overflowed with feather boas, neon sunglasses, rubber axes. Miles plucked out a half-face veil embroidered with tiny silver skulls and held it toward me. Compliments the deathly aura,” he teased.

I slid it on, adjusting the elastic. The mirror panel reflected us: cloaked figures, one beaked, one veiled, disco shards glinting off our shoulders like frost. Miles lifted his phone. Say entropy.”

The shutter snapped. For a second the screens glow lit his face from below, turning eye sockets into voids. He glanced at the result, expression unreadable. Perfect. Ill airdrop it.” My phone buzzed—an image already arriving, no number attached. The file name was a string of symbols I didnt recognize.

The elevator lurched upward a foot, then stopped, triggered by someone outside. We rocked gently. My pulse hopped. Think the warehouse has more floors?” I asked, voice thinner than intended.

One, technically.” Miles tapped the grate. But the roofs accessible if you know the route.” He pushed the safety gate; it rolled halfway, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling into darkness. Up for trespassing?”

Every cautionary tale my mother ever told me flashed across my mind. Yet the night had already peeled me out of my routine; climbing seemed inevitable. Lead the way, Angel of DIY Death.”

He chuckled—a low, surprisingly warm sound—and started upward. I followed, one hand skimming the cool rail. Each step creaked, wood protesting our weight. Below, the party shrank to a single heartbeat of bass. The air grew colder, sharpening with tar and chimney smoke.

At the top, a heavy hatch groaned open. City night rushed in: horns, river brine, the distant carnival screams from Sunset Pier. The roof stretched wide, gravel crunching underfoot. Miles strode to the edge where a short parapet overlooked Kingsbridges glittering spine. He set his phone down, screen up, flashlight mode painting the gravel ghost-white.

I joined him, hugging my cloak tight. Across the river, the Iron Spire blinked red for aircraft. Great view,” I said, breath fogging. Feels like were balanced on the citys shoulder.”

He nodded, beak silhouetted against skyline. I come up here when I need to remember scale. Problems shrink when you see how big everything else is.”

Philosophical for Halloween.” I nudged his boot with mine. What problems does the Angel of Death have?”

He was quiet so long I thought he wouldnt answer. Then: Delivery quotas. Deadlines. Lost packages.” He said it lightly, but the joke felt practiced, hiding something heavier. He turned, resting elbows on the parapet. You ever feel like youre… borrowing someone elses life? Costume fits, but the seams itch?”

The question struck too close. I thought of my day job designing ads for products I didnt believe in, of apartments that never felt like home. Every day,” I admitted. Tonights the first time the itch stopped.”

His head tilted. Maybe that means youre closer to the real fit.”

Wind whipped between us, carrying a stray plastic bat that spiraled like a wounded bird. Miles caught it, turning the toy over in ink-smudged fingers. When I was a kid,” he said, I thought Halloween was the only honest night. Everyone admits theyre pretending. Rest of the year we fake authenticity.”

I laughed, surprised by the ache behind it. And which are you doing now?”

He faced me fully. Gray eyes searched mine; the beak muted his expression, but I felt the scrutiny like static. Right now Im thinking about kissing a stranger on a rooftop and pretending tomorrow wont reset everything.”

My heartbeat stumbled. The city noise blurred, replaced by bloodrush. Thats a very specific pretend,” I whispered.

Only if youre interested.” He raised a hand, offering the plastic bat like a bouquet. No pressure. We can climb back down, finish our cider, forget the roof.”

I took the bat, fingers brushing his. Cold, but not unpleasant—like river stone in October. Or,” I said, stepping closer, we skip tomorrows reset.”

He drew a sharp breath that whistled inside the beak. For a moment we hovered, two frauds in fake wings, balanced on the lip of maybe. Then headlights from the street below swept across us, illuminating the gravel, the toy, the tremor in our clasped hands. In the glare I saw something tucked inside his cloak lining: a slim object, metallic, catching light like obsidian. The glimpse lasted half a second before darkness reclaimed us.

The hatch downstairs banged open; laughter spilled upward. Miles released my hand, stepping back. Audience,” he murmured, tone unreadable.

I slipped the plastic bat into my pocket, pulse hammering. Whatever the object was, it wasnt part of the costume. And for the first time tonight, I wondered what delivery quotas actually meant to him.

Footsteps clanged on the stairs—more climbers, drunk and loud. Miles tilted his head toward the opposite stairwell. Service exit,” he whispered. Leads to the alley. Quick.”

I hesitated, glancing at the hatch where silhouettes gathered. Part of me wanted to stay, to ask about the hidden thing, to finish the almost-kiss. But the night felt suddenly fragile, like a soap bubble about to burst. I nodded.

We crossed the roof, gravel spraying. At the far edge, a rusted ladder descended into shadow. Miles went first, steady and swift. I followed, cloak snagging on a rung; fabric tore with a soft rip, releasing a faint scent of cedar from the thrift-store lining. The alley below smelled of sour beer and burnt sugar. We landed in darkness broken only by a flickering neon sign for a pawnshop.

Miles checked the sky—clouds now covering stars—then faced me. I have to go,” he said, voice low. Delivery window closes at two.” He reached into his cloak; I tensed, remembering the metallic glint. But he produced only a business card, matte black, no text, just a single white symbol resembling an hourglass missing its top bulb. He pressed it into my palm. If you ever want to skip another reset, tap this against any lamppost after midnight. Someone will find you.”

Before I could answer, he melted into the cross-street crowd, beak bobbing once before disappearing. The alley felt colder instantly, as if hed taken more than his presence with him.

I looked at the card. It was warm—unnaturally so—like it had absorbed all the almost-kiss energy and stored it for later. I slipped it into the same pocket as the plastic bat, where both items pulsed faintly against my thigh, keeping time with my still-racing heart.

Somewhere above, the warehouse music swelled, but the night had already shifted. The itch was back, but different now—like a seam had split open to reveal something underneath I hadnt known was waiting. I pulled the torn cloak tighter, stepped onto the street, and let the current of strangers carry me forward, unsure whether I was heading home or deeper into the costume I hadnt realized I was still wearing.

Thats awesome—totally original. And the feathers are LED? Smart.” I bump his fist before he can escape the conversation.

The boys cheeks bloom the color of late-season strawberries. He stares at our joined knuckles as if Ive wired them to a battery.

Internal: God, Ive always had a thing for shy guys. And the freckles? Game over. Theyre not the cute dusting people brag about—his are reckless, like someone shook a paintbrush across the bridge of his nose and let the drops land where they wanted. I want to count them, connect them into new constellations, name one after me.

He fumbles the fist-bump into a handshake. I-Im Glenn. Grant Holloway.” His palm is cold from the October air that sneaks through the cracked warehouse door, but the center of it warms against mine so fast it feels like Ive cupped a lightning bug. His fingers tremble the tiniest bit, a hummingbird heartbeat transferred to skin.

Great meeting you, Glenn!” I grin, letting the last consonant click like a seat belt snapping shut. His pupils dilate like Ive flipped a switch labeled *sudden future*. The green in his irises is the exact shade of the neon sign above the bar—*Artisan Row Aleworks*—and for a second I wonder if hes borrowing the glow.

He freezes, mouth half open, a single breath caught in customs. I realize Ive stepped into his personal bubble—classic city mistake, the kind of territorial blunder people file under *rude transplant*. I back off an inch, give him the invisible buffer Midwesterners treat like holy ground. My heel scuffs sawdust that still smells of pine even though the warehouse has been here since the trolley days.

Pain spikes behind my eyes—sharp, sudden, like someone drove a knitting needle through the pupil and out the back of my skull. The room tilts, carnival-funhouse style; the LED wings on Glenns back smear into comet tails. I press my fingers to my temple. Whoa… head rush.” The words echo inside my head as if spoken into a tin can.

Glenn steadies my elbow. You okay?” His voice cracks on the second word, the *kay* splintering like thin ice. His thumb brushes the inner crease of my arm, a reflex so gentle it feels accidental, but the skin there registers it as capital-letter Touch.

The pain recedes as fast as it arrived, leaving a chalk-dust outline of ache. I blink, and the warehouse snaps back into focus: bass line thrumming through the floorboards, costumes stitched from thrift-store contradictions, the buttery smell of popcorn mixed with craft-beer hops. Somewhere a werewolf howls along with the DJs transition into synth-wave.

Yeah, just stood up too fast.” I lie because the truth—*a ghost just tried to jackhammer my brain*—isnt first-conversation material. I rotate my shoulder, testing for leftover vertigo. These shoes have zero blood circulation. Theyre basically circulation Scrooge.”

Glenn glances down at my sneakers—hand-painted galaxies, the stars done in phosphorescent ink thats already drinking the black-light. You did those?” he asks, courage returning in small denominations.

Yup. Fabric ink and a lot of Q-tips. My roommate calls it *star vandalism*.” I lift one foot, rotate the ankle so the Milky Way swirls. I figured if I cant travel in space, Ill wear it.”

He laughs, a startled hiccup of sound that makes the freckles rearrange themselves. I made the wings out of polycarbonate and addressable LEDs. Programmed the patterns with an open-source microcontroller.” The sentence tumbles out in one breath, like hes afraid someone will confiscate the syllables if he doesnt use them fast enough.

So youre an engineer disguised as the Grim Reaper.” I nod, impressed. Dual citizenship in tech and myth—rare combo.”

His shoulders inch downward, relief lowering the drawbridge. Most people just ask if the batteries last all night.”

Batteries are pedestrian. Im more curious how you coded the flicker to look like actual feathers ruffling.” I lean in—respectful distance this time—eyes tracing the edge where luminous pinions meet the matte black of his jacket. Up close the LEDs arent pure white; theyre platinum-edged plumes, a gradient so subtle it feels like cheating reality.

Glenns tongue touches his lower lip, a tell I catalog for future reference. I sampled high-speed video of pigeons landing on Riverside rooftops, then mapped the motion to a sine wave with randomized micro-delays. Mimics air turbulence.”

Beautiful and nerdy. Dangerous combo,” I tease, and watch the color re-flush his ears. Somewhere behind us, a storm-trooper drops a glow stick into a solo cup; the resulting light looks like radioactive lemonade.

Another throb pulses at the edge of my vision, softer this time, a warning knock instead of a break-in. I breathe through it, counting heartbeats: one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi. The ache smells like ozone, the way sidewalks do right before rain.

Glenn notices the micro-flinch. You sure youre alright? You look… flickery.”

Just dehydrated,” I lie again, this time with a smile calibrated to *casual invincible*. The bartenders handing out themed shots called *Soul Contracts*. Rum with a black-salt rim. Probably a one-way ticket to headache city.”

He fishes a bottle of water from the messenger bag slung under one wing—because of course hes the type who plans ahead—and offers it like its evidence in court. Plain, no hexes added.”

I accept, fingers brushing his. The plastic is cold, real, grounding. I twist the cap, drink, and feel the liquid rinse the static from my veins. Life-saving Reaper. Irony noted.”

He shrugs, wings giving a soft electronic rustle. Part of the uniform. Occupational hazard prevention.”

A new song kicks in, bass dropping like an elevator with cut cables. The crowd compresses toward the dance floor, forcing us closer. Glenns breath grazes my temple; it smells faintly of cinnamon gum and solder smoke, an odd cocktail that somehow fits him

Want to head outside?” I ask, surprising myself. I never abandon a party mid-peak, but the headache is a neon sign flashing *exit strategy*. I saw a food truck doing aged-cheddar scones. Could bribe the cook for extra butter.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking toward the exit sign haloed in red. I—uh—was supposed to meet my friends by the synth-drum set.”

Bring them along. Scones are a group activity.” I step back, giving him runway to decide. My grin turns conspiratorial. Unless youre scared Ill critique your code in public.”

That earns a full smile, shy but unafraid, and I feel it land somewhere south of my ribcage. Deal,” he says, voice steady now. But I get first dibs on the corner piece.”

We weave through bodies painted with constellation glitter and thrift-store lace. Every few steps I glance sideways to make sure hes still there—six-foot-something Reaper with glow-forged wings, ducking under paper bats and fiber-optic braids. Each time, hes closer than expected, like gravitys experimenting.

Outside, October hits us with crisp hands. The warehouse sits on the edge of Kingsbridge, where old factories convert into pop-up carnivals overnight. Food trucks line the curb, generators humming like contented cats. Steam rises, carrying the smell of browned butter and burnt sugar. String bulbs sway overhead, throwing copper light onto cracked asphalt.

Glenn folds his wings, LEDs auto-dimming to candle-level. The polycarbonate clicks softly, settling against itself. He notices me staring. Hinges printed on a resin printer,” he explains, cheeks lifting. Took four prototypes before they didnt snap under torque.”

Beauty born of failure,” I say. Story of every good night.”

We order two scones so hot they scald our knuckles through napkins patterned with tiny skulls. The cook—a woman with a beard of sugar crystals—winks when I ask for extra butter, slathering it until the edges turn translucent. We retreat to a curb between two parked mopeds, sitting close enough that our jackets brush.

Bite one: flaky shell shatters, releasing cheese steam. Glenn makes a small involuntary sound, half sigh, half groan. I file that away with the tongue-tell and the freckles, evidence accumulating.

So,” I start, mouth full, what brings a code-wielding Reaper to Art Rows Halloween rave? Besides beta-testing wings.”

He swallows, wipes a crumb from his lip. My roommate entered the costume contest. Needed moral support.” He gestures toward the warehouse doors where a drag-angel in seven-foot stilts is currently voguing against a disco ball. I figured wearable tech might impress… someone.” The last word is almost lost under truck-generator hum, but I catch it, feel it spark across my skin.

Mission accomplished,” I say, bumping his shoulder. Consider me thoroughly impressed.”

Another headache ripple—this one softer, like a cat stretching inside my skull. I breathe past it, focusing on the scone, on Glenns profile lit by food-truck fairy lights: the slope of nose, the way his lashes cast tiny scythe shadows on freckle terrain. He turns, catches me mid-study, and doesnt look away. Something electric arcs between us, brighter than any LED, and for a moment the night holds its breath.

Then a cheer erupts from the warehouse doors; the contest winner must have been crowned. Applause spills into the street, clapping that sounds like wings. Glenn straightens, wings responding with a faint shimmer. We should probably head back before they send a search party.”

I nod, brushing crumbs from my jeans. Lead the way, Reaper.”

He offers a hand—not for shaking this time, just an open palm resting on the air between us. I take it, interlacing fingers. His skin is warm now, pulse tapping against mine like a second code. Together we walk toward the music, toward the strobing dark, toward whatever hex or heartbeat waits next.

The half-pipes neon rim still pulsed behind my eyes like a bruise when the girl in the weather-beaten Nostromo jumpsuit knelt. She smelled of fog machine and cherry lip-gloss, the exact combo my brain catalogued right before it sloshed sideways. Saw you kiss the railing,” she said, thumbing her phones torch so the beam split my skull. Pupils uneven. Urgent care, now.”

I started the automatic protest—no insurance, no time, no desire to spend Halloween in fluorescent purgatory—but Grant Holloway was already stepping forward, keys jangling. Civics three blocks, meter still has twenty. Ill drive.” He flicked his gaze to the girl. Grab his scythe and that duffel, yeah?”

The girl—Sloane, shed introduced herself with a sarcastic salute—hoisted my shadow blade like it weighed nothing. The collapsible scythe folded smaller than a travel umbrella, but the matte fiberglass still glinted sinister under the boardwalk lights. My luminous pinions rustled, servos whirring as I leaned on Grants shoulder. One wing crumpled; the other beat once, scattering silver dust across the concrete. Lets roll, Death-Boy,” I muttered, tasting iron where Id bitten my tongue.

We moved through the crowd in a lopsided triangle: Grant steering me, Sloane clearing path with the scythe like a parting staff. Around us, Riversides Halloween river surged—superheroes, anime escapees, and at least three rival Grim Reapers giving me the territorial nod. I catalogued them the way a fisherman counts competitors rods: store-bought wingspan, LED seams too even; couture cape, probably cost more than my monthly rent; one guy had even airbrushed bone patterns on his face, commitment level admirable if anatomically dubious.

None of them carried an essence tally on their belt, though. Amateur hour.

Grants Civic waited beneath a flickering streetlamp, windshield dotted with parking tickets older than the pandemic. He yanked the passenger door—hinges squealed like a kicked raccoon—and folded my wings manually, joints clicking. Sloane tossed the duffel across my lap. In you go, angel face.” The door slammed, muting the carnival outside to a dull throb.

Seat belt clicked. Engine coughed awake. I rested my forehead against cool glass and let the night rewind: me threading through costumed arteries, scanning faces for someone who wanted to debate metaphysics instead of nicotine percentages. Then the half-pipe stage, the plague doctor hopping down, beaked visage tilting, hazel eyes meeting my kohl-rimmed stare. His whisper—Death looks different up close, huh?—still vibrated in my ribs like a second heartbeat.

Grant caught my expression in the rear-view. You smiling or grimacing?”

Unclear,” I said. The city blurred into streaks of pumpkin orange and witch purple. Pull over if I puke.”

Copy that.” He cranked the window. Night air slapped me sober-ish.

We stopped at a red. Across the intersection, another Reaper—this one on a skateboard—saluted with a plastic scythe. I lifted two fingers off my thigh in reply, monarch to subject. Grant chuckled. Whole damn towns cosplaying you tonight.”

Not me,” I murmured. The idea of me.” The light flipped green; we slid forward. Difference matters.”

Sloane leaned between seats. Philosophy later, concussed boy. Stay awake. Tell us your birthday or your social security number, something sequential.”

March fifteenth. Ides of March. Apt.” My tongue felt thick. Also, Im left-handed. And allergic to sulfa drugs. Favorite prime: thirty-seven.”

Grant snorted. Nerd.” He swung into the urgent-care lot, tires chirping. Fluorescent sign buzzed: RIVERSIDE QUICKCARE, OPEN HALLOWEEN UNTIL MIDNIGHT. Witch-hour deadline—thirty minutes.

Inside smelled of antiseptic and cheap coffee. Plastic ghosts dangled from the ceiling like exhausted spirits. Reception nurse wore cat-ear headband; her whiskers twitched when she saw the wings. Costume stays outside,” she said automatically.

Theyre prosthetics,” I lied. Medical necessity.” She rolled eyes so hard the whiskers tilted.

Grant filled forms with the efficiency of someone whod done this for siblings, maybe parents. Sloane paced, scrolling trauma websites, reading symptoms aloud like horror haiku: Sensitivity to light, check. Nausea, check. Mood swings—well, you always gloomy or is that new?”

I lifted one shoulder. Baseline goth.”

The nurse called me back. Grant started to follow; I waved him off. Wait with the car. If tickets multiply theyll tow.” He hesitated, then squeezed my good elbow. Holler if you need death-related puns.”

Doors swung shut. Fluorescents buzzed louder than cicadas. Doctor Patel—Spider-Man tie, tired eyes—flashed lights, asked me to track his finger. I did, but the finger kept sprouting duplicates, a hydra of accusation. Mild concussion,” he decreed. No skateboarding, no alcohol, someone wakes you every two hours.” He peeled off gloves. Also, wings impressive. 3-D printed?”

Carbon fiber and denial,” I said.

He laughed, signed discharge papers. Happy haunting.”

Waiting room: Grant dozed in plastic chair, knit cap pulled over eyes. Sloane had commandeered a wheelchair and was rolling figure-eights. She spotted me. Survived, huh? Shame. I wanted your scythe.”

Get in line.” I accepted the wheelchair—legs still Jell-O—and she pushed me toward exit. Automatic doors parted; night air tasted of burnt sugar and river damp.

Grant yawned. Home, or back to the party to find your beaked prince?”

I considered. Brain throbbed, but the image of hazel eyes lingered. Party. One more sweep.” I stood, wings resettling. Concussion protocol says stay with people.”

People, plural,” Sloane corrected. Were your people tonight. Lets move.”

Civic again, streets narrower now, alleys coughing up confetti. We parked on a sidestreet where bass lines leaked from warehouse brick. Grant handed me water; I swallowed, counted heartbeats. Sloane reapplied kohl under my left eye because symmetry mattered even when concussed.

We re-entered the fray—three Reapers, one Alien, zero patience. The half-pipe stage pulsed with dubstep, skaters launching like comets. I scanned masks, searching for the distinctive beak, the shy smile hidden beneath. Nothing. My pulse synced to the kick drum, urgency or maybe brain swelling.

Then, by the taco truck, he appeared—plague doctor coat replaced by hoodie, mask pushed up like a cap, hazel hair tousled. He held two paper boats of churros, offered one my way. Figured youd return from the dead,” he said. Voice soft, amused. Brought sustenance.”

Sloane elbowed me. Go. Well haunt perimeter.” She and Grant melted into smoke.

I stepped forward, wings folding tight to avoid knocking over a toddler Thor. Accepted churro; cinnamon stung my cut lip. Death with sugar,” I said. On-brand.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling. Names Caleb.” Flour-dusted hand extended.

Miles,” I replied. Shook. His palm warm, mine glacier-cold. Static jumped between us, the small shock you get touching museum exhibits youre not supposed to touch.

We drifted toward the boardwalk rail, away from speakers. Moon silvered the river. Behind us, the half-pipe cycled through ollies and wipeouts, life rehearsing endings. Caleb broke churro in half, handed me the bigger piece. You really clocked that rail. Thought Id collected you for a second.”

Occupational hazard.” I licked sugar off thumb. Thought you were competition.”

He tilted head. We on the same payroll?”

Different departments,” I said. I do endings. You?”

Transitional phases,” he answered, mysterious as fog. Then, softer: Your wings—custom job?”

We compared notes: my servo rig versus his hand-stitched cape weighted with birdshot for realistic drape. Talk drifted—favorite cemeteries, best moon-viewing rooftops, whether Riversides river ever gives back the bodies it claims. No mention of phone numbers, but the spaces between words grew electric.

A rogue firework screamed overhead; we flinched together, shoulders brushing. He steadied me, fingers light on my wing strut. Concussion, right? You okay?”

Better than okay,” I admitted. Brain still throbbed, but the pain felt distant, background static to foreground signal.

Grant texted: WERE BY THE FERRIS WHEEL. TICKETS RUNNING LOW. Cinderella curfew.

I showed Caleb the screen. He nodded, understanding coded in half-smile. Walk you?” Offered arm like Victorian suitor. I took it, scythe slung across opposite shoulder, balancing us like mismatched scales.

We moved through thinning crowd—parents hauling sugar-crashed kids, vampires trading Instagram handles. Sloane and Grant waited under the Ferris wheels neon halo, pretending not to watch. When they spotted us, Grant whistled low. Sloane gave two thumbs-up, Alien tail swishing approval.

At the car, I paused. River breeze lifted Calebs hoodie, revealed coat tails beneath—still plague-doctor, still committed. Next collection night?” I asked.

Full moon,” he said. Mirror Pond. Bring your ledger.”

Bring churros,” I countered.

He laughed, pulled mask down. Beak tapped my forehead, gentle as promise. Try not to concuss yourself before then, Miles.” Stepped back, melting into remaining revelers until only hazel eyes lingered, then nothing.

Grant started engine. Sloane tossed me a blanket that smelled of popcorn. Civic rolled toward east-side bridges, city lights smearing into galaxies on windshield. I touched the spot where beak had brushed, skin tingling like static finally grounding.

So,” Sloane said, kicking my sneaker, you collect him, or he collects you?”

Both,” I answered, surprising myself. Well compare tallies.”

Grant grinned, flicked high-beams. Best Halloween youve had, huh?”

I watched Riverside shrink in side-mirror, wings folded but heart wide open, ticking like a metronome counting down to the next full moon. Best so far,” I corrected. Storys still writing itself.”

And somewhere behind us, on the half-pipes empty stage, a single ebony feather spun in place, waiting for wind—or maybe for a plague doctors gloved hand—to decide its next direction.