Miriam stays on the bus long after she should have gotten off.
She doesn't realize it at first. She's too busy trying to breathe without shaking, too busy cataloging the strange, humming awareness that has settled into her body since Eli stepped away.
The seat beside her is empty.
It feels wrong.
Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet, unsettling way—like a missing weight, like a silence where sound should be.
The scent is fading now. Not gone, exactly. More like it's retreated somewhere just out of reach, leaving behind a warmth that curls low and steady instead of sharp and panicked.
Miriam presses her palms flat against her thighs and exhales slowly.
Obey. Endure. Be still.
The words come automatically, but they don't land the way they used to. They skim the surface and slide away, unable to anchor her the way they once did.
The bus jolts as it pulls to another stop, and Miriam startles, heart jumping. People move past her, voices overlapping, bodies too close. She flinches at the press of it all, senses straining again—but not spiraling.
Something has shifted.
When she finally pulls the cord and steps off, the air outside hits her like cool water. She stands on the sidewalk for a long moment, unsure which direction to go.
She had a plan once. Simple, safe. Go where Esther had gone. Stay where other girls stayed. Keep herself small and quiet and unchanged.
Now the idea feels… insufficient.
Miriam starts walking anyway.
The town is louder than anything she has known—cars passing too close, doors opening and closing, laughter spilling freely into the street. She keeps her head down, eyes tracking the pavement, focusing on the rhythm of her steps.
But her senses won't fully retreat.
She notices everything.
The way one person's voice carries warmth and ease. The way another's presence prickles uncomfortably against her awareness. Some scents fade into the background, harmless and dull. Others tug faintly, curious but unimportant.
And then there are a few—rare, distant—that make her chest tighten just slightly, like a question left unanswered.
None of them feel like Eli.
That knowledge settles into her with a weight she doesn't know how to carry yet.
She ends up in a small café without remembering how she chose it. The bell over the door rings softly when she enters, and the smell inside—coffee, baked sugar, citrus cleaner—nearly sends her reeling.
Miriam sways, gripping the edge of the counter.
"You okay?" the woman behind it asks.
"Yes," Miriam says, automatically. Then, after a beat, "I think so."
The honesty surprises them both.
The woman smiles, easy and unbothered. "Sit wherever you like."
Miriam chooses a small table near the wall, positioning herself where she can see the door. Old habit. Safety. She wraps her hands around a mug she doesn't remember ordering and lets the warmth seep into her palms.
Her body hums.
Not with urgency. With awareness.
It frightens her how quickly the fear gives way to something else.
Relief.
She thinks of the way the chaos on the bus quieted the moment Eli sat beside her. The way her breath had evened without effort. The way her body had recognized him before her mind had caught up.
Recognition, the word floats up unbidden.
That's what it felt like. Not attraction. Not temptation.
Recognition.
Miriam presses her lips together, pulse quickening again—not from heat this time, but from the weight of the realization pressing in on her.
If that moment was real—if her body hadn't lied—then everything she has been taught to fear might be… incomplete.
A movement near the door draws her attention.
Her heart stutters.
Eli steps inside, scanning the room.
The scent hits her immediately—soft but unmistakable—and her body responds just as quickly, warmth blooming low and steady, a quiet hum of awareness lighting every nerve.
He spots her and stills.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then he approaches slowly, as if not wanting to startle her. "I thought that was you."
Miriam nods, fingers tightening around her mug. "I didn't know where else to go."
"That makes sense," he says gently. He hesitates. "Can I sit?"
She nods again.
The chair scrapes softly as he pulls it out, and the space between them closes. Miriam feels it instantly—the way her body settles, the way the world seems to arrange itself more sensibly with him near.
Eli notices.
He exhales slowly, like someone who's been holding their breath. "Okay," he murmurs. "That's… good to know."
"What?" Miriam asks, though part of her already knows she's afraid of the answer.
"That you feel it too," he says.
Her chest tightens. "Feel what?"
Eli studies her face, careful now. "The way things go quiet when you're close to the right person."
Miriam's throat goes dry.
"That's not supposed to happen," she says. "They say it's—"
"The darkening," he finishes softly.
The word lands between them, heavy and charged.
Miriam's eyes widen. "You know about that?"
Eli's mouth quirks, not quite a smile. "I know what people like you have been told to call it."
Her breath catches. "People like me?"
He holds her gaze, not unkind, not predatory. Just honest. "People whose bodies don't fit inside the rules they were given."
The café fades into the background—the clink of cups, the murmur of conversation—until it feels like there are only the two of them in the room.
"I'm not sick," Miriam says, the words trembling on the way out. "I'm not sinful."
"I know," Eli says immediately. "You don't feel like either."
Something inside her cracks open at that.
Tears prick her eyes, sudden and unwelcome. She looks away quickly, mortified.
Eli doesn't comment. He just waits.
"I've been praying," she whispers. "And it hasn't stopped."
He nods slowly. "Prayer doesn't change bodies."
The statement is simple. Not cruel. Not defiant.
Just true.
Miriam swallows hard. "Then what does?"
Eli considers her for a moment. "Understanding," he says. "Connection. Time."
Her pulse steadies at the sound of it. Connection.
"That's dangerous," she says, even as her body leans toward the word like a plant toward light.
"Only if you've been taught to fear it," Eli replies.
Miriam closes her eyes, just for a second.
When she opens them again, the world feels different—not safer, exactly, but clearer.
Outside, the day continues on, indifferent to the quiet revolution taking place at a small café table.
Miriam takes a slow breath.
And for the first time since the darkening began, she doesn't push the feeling away.
She lets herself listen.