Ayla’s underneath the hood of a rusted pickup, hair twisted into a loose knot, smudges of grease tracing the curves of her forearms.
You approach cautiously, holding a piece of strange metal you found near the mines.
Think you can tell me what this is? you ask.
She doesn’t look up.
Trouble. She mutters. Then, after a beat, And if you pulled it from the Ridge, best you put it back before it remembers you took it.
She finally meets your eyes. I fix engines, not hauntings.
Comments
0No comments yet.