The Lore Legacy

Sirena hated Sundays.  On Sundays, she was the designated “seer” for Kismet–the unlucky employee who was tasked with fabricating fortunes for the kind of broken people who flocked to a new age store for guidance. None of them were ever real mages. No, they were just occult-oriented dilettantes who bought cheap crystals and questionable oils and claimed they were “manifesting their best lives.”

Despite the uninspiring minimalism of Carwin’s home, mornings were beautiful. The large windows of his loft filled the bedroom with golden eastern light, and Nova was thankful every time she woke up to the warm glow. She pressed her ear on Carwin’s bare chest. His heartbeat was slow, the steady beat of a runner. She closed her eyes and listened. “You know, it’s uncomfortable when you do that,” his voice rumbled in his chest. “Sorry,” she lifted her head up and beamed at him. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” “It’s fine,” he leaned in, his lips dangerously close to hers. She pushed his hair out of his eyes, but it stubbornly fell back into place. It was becoming a pattern, that her days would both start and end like this. “Blegh,” she stuck her tongue out, “morning breath.” He laughed. “I’ll make breakfast after I brush my teeth. Protein pancakes?” Nova beamed. “Yes, please!”

Nova didn’t know how to dress for a date. Sirena had told her that “stinky gym shorts” were “out of the question,” but there wasn’t much else in her closet. So she turned to Sirena’s. “I like that one,” Sirena remarked. “It feels really tight,” Nova pulled at her neck. “I think you’re just not used to wearing real clothes,” Sirena laughed. “Shorts are real clothes,” Nova muttered.

 Nova was supposed to be resting in savasana. But her arms wouldn’t stay still, and she couldn’t keep track of her breath. She sighed and placed her hand on her chest. Her heartbeat was slow–the yoga flow she had just done had hardly been challenging, but she had hoped that it would at last calm her. There was nothing for her in Lucky Palms. No friendships to draw on (other than Sirena’s), no place to go (other than the gym), and nothing to look forward to each day (her nightly jog hardly counts). The only highlight in recent memory was one of her only memories: the night at Diamondbacks. She felt herself diminishing, becoming nothing more than a ghost. She tried to convince herself that remembering one small thing each day made it worthwhile. And it was true that as memories came back, one by one, she felt a little more complete. But it wasn’t happening fast enough, and the memories were too small: the smell of her mother’s perfume, for example, or the way the sunlight filled her chi

Nova often couldn’t sleep at night. For whatever reason, it didn’t feel safe, and she was rarely tired. So she jogged. It didn’t get truly dark until the wee hours of the morning, about 2:00 or 3:00 am.  By then, porch lights were off and streets were empty. She could enjoy the night, the stars, the wispy clouds, the moon. She explored the brand new world she had supposedly lived in for months.

  “Nova!” She blinked. Why was she so hot? And her arms–they were so heavy. “You’re overwatering it!” “What?” her voice croaked. She blinked again. It was so bright, and the sand beneath her feet was so gritty. She looked up to the sky. Rain clouds were forming, slowly passing in front of the sun. A shadow crossed her face.