Page 58 of Silent Shadows

As someone who has had their tarot cards read a handful of times and does cling to certain crystals, I understand her. Probably not the dimensions part. But the rest of it.

The idea that maybe humans don’t know nearly as much as we pretend to.

That some things are sitting just outside our understanding, waiting for us to catch up.

I glance down at my laptop again, at the frozen waveform of the sound from the canyon.

Taylor watches me for a second before her expression softens, giving me a look that makes me feel more seen than I appreciate. Not Miles-level sincere. Not Maya-level assessing. Taylor is different. Like she clocks things sideways, through energy and instinct, then says something devastating with a smile.

“You’re listening to the sound, aren’t you?” She nods to the laptop.

I’m tired of pretending I’m not. I close my laptop halfway. “What do you think it was?”

Taylor’s grin amps up a few notches as she raises her eyebrows. “I have no idea, but I'm excited to find out.”

It’s the least comforting answer possible.

Then she steals another fry and leaves.

Maya passes through later with a stack of receipts and a phone pressed between her shoulder and ear, speaking in that eerily calm tone women use when they’re two seconds away from destroying someone’s life via spreadsheet. She sees me, points once in greeting, mouths “Working?”

I nod.

She gives me a thumbs-up and keeps moving. I love her for it.

And Miles… Miles doesn’t come back in.

I catch glimpses of him outside the diner window throughout the afternoon. On the phone again. Leaning against the Machine in the RV park. Pacing near the gas pumps. Once, standing alone with one hand on his hip, forearm flexing, head tilted back toward the sky like he’s either praying or calculating cloud movement.

Maybe both.

I should stop watching him. But I don’t stop watching him.

By the time the sun starts dipping, my notes are a mess.

Not bad.

Messy in a way that feels alive.

The first episode no longer reads like a clean, jokey piece.

It reads like uncertainty. Like the moment skepticism meets something it can’t immediately swallow. Like me, sitting in a diner, replaying a sound until my coffee goes cold.

I don’t feel 100 percent about it yet, mostly because I’m terrified of how Marissa and listeners are going to vibe with it. But I like it. I hate how much better it feels than the last twenty episodes I’ve done.

When I get back to the Machine, it smells like garlic and tomatoes. Something warm and rich, absurd for a vehicle parked in the middle of nowhere.

I climb the steps slowly, suspicious.

Inside, the RV has transformed. It’s still cramped and gear-filled and feels like a bunker for hot nerds. But the energy is different. Softer.

It seems Sunday dinner is not casual.

Taylor is heading outside to set mismatched plates on a folding table, humming along to music coming from a tiny speaker. Jax is slicing a loaf of grocery-store French bread with a knife that looks too dramatic for bread. Maya is pouring salad from a bag into a bowl with the expression of someone who does not consider salad “cooking” but is participating for morale.

And Miles is at the tiny stove.

Cooking. Actually cooking.