The newspaper lay folded on the breakfast table like a quiet dare. Aurora didn't notice it at first — too busy buttering toast, laughing softly at Margaret's imitation of Ruth's sonnet voice. But Ruth nudged it toward her with a sly little smile, ink smudging her fingertips.
"Page six," she said. "Youth Voices."
Aurora blinked. "What?"
"Read," Margaret urged, already grinning.
Aurora unfolded the paper, eyes darting, breath quickening. And then she saw it: her poem, printed neat in black type, her name — Aurora Randall — at the bottom.
The little house watched the city grow,
watched smoke rise where fields once lay,
and still, inside its wooden ribs,
someone lit the lamps each day.
Her hands shook. "It's there," she whispered. "It's real."
Margaret clapped. Ruth actually smiled. Even Mrs. Greene, passing with the tea urn, paused long enough to nod approval. "Well written," she said simply, which from her was thunderous praise.
Aurora's cheeks glowed. Luxe, across the table, forced a small smile. But her stomach knotted. Names in ink weren't just pride. They were targets.
By mid-morning, the whole Y knew. Girls stopped Aurora in the hall, asking her to read the poem aloud. She obliged, voice trembling at first, then growing steadier with each recitation.
Luxe lingered at her side, watching faces: genuine delight, polite envy, and — once — Helen's faint smirk that didn't reach her eyes. Luxe filed it away.
Later, at Ellis Cleaners, Mrs. Devine handed Aurora a copy of the paper wrapped in brown butcher paper. "Keep it," she said briskly. "Proof you've got more than soap in your hands." Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
Aurora held the paper to her chest like armor. Luxe scrubbed collars harder than ever, trying to wash off the feeling that ink and ash were more alike than different.
That evening, just before curfew, the Y's front door rattled with a heavy knock. Mrs. Greene was at the desk; Luxe and Aurora froze in the stairwell above.
The knock came again, louder. Then the door opened without waiting. Daniels stepped inside, uniform crisp this time, cigarette dangling from his fingers.
"Evening, ladies," he drawled. "I hear one of your girls made the paper."
Mrs. Greene's chin lifted. "Our residents are encouraged to pursue education and expression."
"Expression, huh?" Daniels flicked ash onto the mat. "Funny, because I read that poem. Sweet thing. About a little house that keeps its light on." His eyes slid up the stairwell, catching Aurora in his gaze. "Shame when houses burn."
Aurora gasped. Luxe gripped her arm so hard her nails left half-moons.
Mrs. Greene's voice cracked like a whip. "Out."
Daniels chuckled low, sauntering toward the door. "Just keeping an eye out for strays. Wouldn't want your little house attracting wolves." He tipped his hat, smirk wide, and left.
The lock clicked. The silence afterward was suffocating.
Upstairs, Aurora sat on the edge of her bed, trembling. "He read it," she whispered. "He really read it."
"He twisted it," Luxe said sharply.
Aurora hugged the paper. "But it reached him. Even if he hated it — it reached him." Her voice shook but burned with something fierce. "Words can get inside places fists can't."
Luxe crouched in front of her, gripping her hands. "Words also put your name in his pocket. He'll use it."
Aurora's eyes filled, but she didn't back down. "Then we make more words. Enough that he can't twist them all."
Luxe stared, torn between pride and terror. Aurora's fire was growing. And fire drew hunters.
The next day at the library, Ruby met them with a thin smile and tired eyes. "Congratulations," she said, sliding a second copy of the paper across the desk. "The editor liked it. Says he wants more."
Aurora lit up. "Really?"
"Really," Ruby said. But her voice carried warning. "Publication is light. Wolves hunt light. So you must decide — more lamps, or fewer shadows."
Aurora clutched the paper, torn. Luxe answered for her. "Shadows are safer."
Ruby's gaze sharpened. "Safer isn't always living. Sometimes it's just waiting to die quieter."
Aurora nodded fiercely. Luxe's stomach turned.
At Grace Chen's shop, the bell chimed as always, but Grace's eyes were harder than usual. "Saw the paper," she said, handing over a bag of oranges. "Good words. Dangerous words."
Aurora flinched. "Dangerous?"
Grace sliced a fruit clean in half, juice spilling bright. "When people love your words, wolves hate your throat." She handed half to Aurora. "So you eat, you write, you stay loud. But—" Her eyes cut to Luxe. "You build salt lines thicker."
Luxe nodded grimly.
That night, the writing circle buzzed with excitement. Margaret begged Aurora to sign her copy of the poem. Ruth critiqued the enjambment but admitted she'd clipped the page for her scrapbook.
Aurora glowed, reading a new draft aloud. But Luxe noticed something: Helen wasn't clapping. She was watching. Always watching.
When the circle broke, Helen approached, smiling faintly. "The paper suits you. But be careful. Wolves read too."
Aurora blinked. "Thank you?"
Luxe stepped between them, voice cool. "Funny. That sounds like something a wolf would say."
Helen's smile didn't falter, but her eyes hardened. She turned and walked away.
Aurora frowned. "Why are you always so harsh with her?"
"Because wolves don't always have fangs," Luxe muttered.
That night, Luxe sat by the window again. The fog rolled thick, swallowing the lamplight.
The car came as always. Daniels leaned against the hood, cigarette glowing. But this time, he held something in his hand — a folded newspaper. Aurora's poem.
He lit the edge with his cigarette, letting the flames curl the paper slowly, deliberately. Then he tossed the burning scrap into the gutter.
The ember hissed out in the wet, leaving only ash.
From behind, Aurora murmured in her sleep, clutching her notebook. "Lamp… roof… fire…"
Luxe pressed her hand to the glass, fury and fear twisting inside her.
"You can burn paper," she whispered. "But you don't touch her flame."
Her vow felt heavier than ever.
The next morning, Aurora found the ash.
She'd slipped outside with Margaret to fetch the milk delivery, laughter soft between them, when she saw the blackened scrap clinging to the gutter grate. The type was still visible on one curled edge. smoke rise where fields once lay.
Her laughter died. Margaret frowned. "What's that?"
Aurora crouched, fingers trembling as she touched the damp paper. "My poem," she whispered.
By the time Luxe joined her, Aurora's eyes shone with tears she refused to let fall. "He burned it," she said. "He burned my words."
Luxe's jaw set. "No — he tried. But the paper printed hundreds. Thousands. He can't burn them all."
Aurora looked up, startled. Luxe rarely gave speeches. The words hit harder for their rarity.
Margaret glanced between them, unease tugging her features. "Maybe you shouldn't print more," she said quietly. "Drawing eyes like that…"
Aurora stood, squaring her shoulders. "If one wolf hates it, then a hundred hearts might love it. That's worth it."
Margaret stared, then gave a small, grudging nod. Luxe tucked the scrap of ash into her pocket, her own vow carved deeper: wolves would choke before they silenced this flame.
Mrs. Devine was quieter than usual that day, her ledger open but untouched. Luxe folded shirts in silence until Mrs. Devine finally spoke.
"Paper words cut deeper than scissors," she said.
Aurora's head snapped up. "You read it?"
Mrs. Devine's eyes softened, just for a second. "I clipped it. Pinned it behind the counter. Customers liked it." She snapped the ledger shut, steel returning. "But customers aren't officers. And officers don't like girls who shine too bright."
Aurora swallowed hard. Luxe saw her resolve waver, but then Aurora squared her jaw. "Then we'll shine brighter."
Mrs. Devine gave a short, humorless laugh. "Careful. Even the sun burns skin."
By afternoon, whispers followed them through the stacks. Ruby waved them into the back, arms crossed. "Your words are spreading. Neighbors talk. Mothers ask when you'll read again."
Aurora's face lit with nervous joy. "That's good, isn't it?"
Ruby tilted her head. "Good and dangerous often wear the same dress." She slid another paper across the desk. "Editor asked for a second submission."
Aurora clasped it like treasure. Luxe leaned close, low voice sharp. "And when Daniels reads that one?"
Ruby's gaze hardened. "Then you make sure your roof has more lamps than his ashtray has embers."
That night, the writing circle split down the middle.
Margaret was ecstatic, pressing Aurora for tips on rhyme. A couple of new girls begged her to sign their copies. But others — older, wearier — whispered about danger, about wolves in uniforms who didn't need excuses.
Ruth finally said it aloud: "Names in print are names in files."
The silence that followed was heavy. Aurora's cheeks burned, her notebook clutched to her chest. Luxe glared, ready to lash back — but Aurora spoke first.
"Maybe names in files mean names remembered," she said, voice trembling but steady. "Maybe that's worth the risk."
Half the circle clapped. Half didn't.
And in the corner, Helen just watched, her expression unreadable.
That night, Luxe didn't sleep. She sat at the window, the ash scrap still in her pocket. The street was quiet, too quiet — no patrol car, no ember glowing in the fog.
At first, relief brushed her. Then unease. Silence was just another trick. Wolves didn't always howl before they bit.
Behind her, Aurora shifted in sleep, murmuring fragments of her poem. Luxe looked at her, then at the empty street.
"If he's pulling back," she whispered, "it's only to strike harder."
Her grip on the ash scrap tightened until it crumbled into dust.