The next morning came too soon, gray light slipping through the blinds like it was apologizing for showing up at all. I hadn't slept more than an hour or two—every time I closed my eyes, I saw molten gold staring back at me, or Mr. Patterson's soul drifting upward into that soft, impossible light. My grandmother was already in the kitchen when I dragged myself out of bed, the smell of frying plantain and eggs filling the small apartment. She hummed under her breath the way she always did when she was trying not to worry.
"You look like death warmed over, child," she said without turning around. "Sit. Eat something before you go back to that hotel."
I managed a weak smile. "I'm fine, Mama. Just tired."
She set a plate in front of me anyway, piled higher than I could possibly finish. "You always say that. Then you come home looking like you've carried the world on your shoulders." She touched my cheek with the back of her hand, cool and steady. "Something happened yesterday, didn't it?"
I swallowed. "A guest passed away. In his room. I was the one who found him."
Her eyes softened with the kind of understanding that only came from living long enough to lose people. "Oh, baby. I'm sorry. You want to talk about it?"
I shook my head. "Not yet."
She didn't push. That was one of the things I loved most about her—she knew when silence was kinder than questions.
I ate enough to keep her from hovering, then kissed her cheek and left for work. The hotel was quieter than usual when I arrived. Police tape had already been removed from Suite 412, the room cleaned and turned over like nothing had happened. Mrs. Norman caught me in the hallway and pulled me aside.
"They asked about you," she said quietly. "Routine questions. I told them you did everything right—called for help immediately. You're not in trouble, Lilith. But if you need the rest of the day…"
"I'm okay," I lied. "I'd rather keep busy."
She studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "If you change your mind, just say the word."
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of carts and bleach and folded towels. But every time I passed Suite 412, the air felt thinner, like the room was still holding its breath. And every time I blinked, I saw that single golden thread, the same one Thanatos had shown me in the ambulance—not Mr. Patterson's anymore, but others. Thin, glowing lines stretching from strangers in the lobby, from the bellhop pushing luggage, from the woman checking in at the front desk. Fragile. Temporary. Beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
I didn't know what the mark was doing to me, but I knew it wasn't nothing.
By early afternoon I couldn't stand it anymore. I needed to find her—Mr. Patterson's daughter. I'd promised.
It wasn't hard. The hotel kept emergency contact information in the system, and I knew the passwords from years of covering extra shifts. Her name was Emily Patterson. She lived in a quiet neighborhood twenty minutes away by bus. I told Mrs. Norman I had a headache and needed to step out for air. She waved me off without asking questions.
The bus ride felt endless. I kept my hood up and my eyes on my lap so I wouldn't have to see the threads flickering around every passenger. When I got off, the street was lined with modest duplexes and old jacaranda trees dropping purple blossoms onto the sidewalk. Number 17 had a small front yard with a single rose bush and a faded welcome mat.
I stood on the porch for a full minute before I could make myself knock.
The woman who answered was in her late thirties, maybe early forties. Dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back in a messy knot. She looked like she hadn't slept either.
"Yes?" Her voice was polite but guarded.
"Hi. I'm… I'm Lilith. I work at the Grandeur Hotel. Your father—Mr. Patterson—was staying there."
Her expression shifted from wariness to something raw and unguarded. "You're the one who found him."
I nodded. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
She stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come in. Please."
The living room was warm, cluttered with framed photos and half-packed boxes. She gestured to the couch. I sat on the edge, hands clasped tight in my lap.
"I don't know how to say this without sounding crazy," I started. "But your father… he was still conscious when I got there. He asked me to tell you something."
Emily's breath caught. "What did he say?"
"He said he loves you. And that he's not in pain anymore."
She stared at me. For a second I thought she might tell me to leave, or laugh, or cry. Instead she pressed both hands to her mouth, eyes filling.
"He was always worried I wouldn't believe him if he said it first," she whispered. "That I'd think he was just being sentimental."
I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything. I just sat there while silent tears slid down her face.
After a minute she wiped her eyes and looked at me again. "How did you know to come here? The police didn't say anything about a message."
"I promised him I would." It was the truth, even if it left out the part where a god of death had escorted his soul into the light.
Emily reached across the space between us and squeezed my hand. "Thank you. You have no idea what this means."
I squeezed back, then stood. "I should go. I just… I needed you to know."
At the door she hugged me—sudden, fierce, like I was the last tether to something she was losing. I hugged her back and let myself feel it for a second: the warmth of another person who believed me, even if only for this one small thing.
When I stepped back onto the sidewalk, the sun was lower, shadows stretching long across the pavement. And that was when I felt it.
A faint tug, like someone had brushed a finger along the back of my neck. Not cold exactly—more like the memory of cold. I turned slowly.
No one was there.
But across the street, under the jacaranda, a figure stood half-hidden in the dappled light. Tall. Cloaked. Hood up. Even from this distance I could feel those eyes on me—gold and unblinking.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs.
He didn't move closer. Didn't speak. Just watched.
Then the breeze stirred the blossoms, and when they settled again, he was gone.
I stood there for a long time, breath shallow, skin prickling.
He'd said our paths would cross many times.
I hadn't realized one of those crossings might already be happening inside me—quiet, inevitable, like the slow turning of a thread that had only just begun to tighten.