Page 92 of Espíritu

Julian’s wrist twitched as he tried to follow Carlos’s instructions and the line smeared into a shaky zigzag.

He hissed under his breath. “Dude, come on—focus.”

Julian lifted his hand to try again, but even that made the world tilt a little. His arms felt heavy, fog curling somewhere between his ribs and spine. The brush dipped the wrong way and a fat bead of paint dripped onto the fender.

Carlos clicked his tongue gently. Not mad—never mad, just concerned. “Hey. Hey. It’s fine.” He took the brush from Julian’s hand before it could fall. “Look at your hands, man. You’re shakin’ like you had three Red Bulls for breakfast.”

“I’m good,” Julian lied automatically. His legs trembled with exhaustion, that cold susto-pulse buried deep in his bones. “I can keep going—”

“Nah, you ain’t.” Carlos tipped his chin toward Julian. “Be real with me, Jules. You look like you’re about to face-plant into my clear coat, and I just buffed that shit.”

Julian tried to laugh but it came out weak, his breath catching on the way in. He rubbed the heel of his palm over his eyes, trying to steady himself. The air hummed. Even the shop lights felt too bright.

“I’m fine,” he muttered again, though the wobble in his voice betrayed him.

Carlos set the striping brush aside. “Wrap it up, Jules. You’re done for today.”

Julian’s shoulders sagged. “Fine,” he sighed, wiping a smear of grease across his forehead with the back of his hand. He set down the tools with shaky hands.

Carlos looked Julian up and down and let out a whistle.

“You’re too skinny, bro,” he said, pinching Julian’s upper arm. “You eating?”

“Yeah,” Julian said automatically. Then, after a beat. “Well, not today,” he corrected himself. He’d thought about a bowl of cereal, but he felt too queasy to eat without repercussions.

Carlos grunted and jerked his chin toward the office. “I got some food in there,” Carlos said. “You wanna plate?”

“Nah, my stomach’s messed up, man,” Julian replied, pressing a hand to his gut.

Carlos narrowed his eyes like he didn’t believe that for a second, but he didn’t push. “Go upstairs and take it easy,” he said, pulling out his phone. It looked comically small in his large hand.

Julian managed a shaky smile. “Got it.”

He barely made it through the door before collapsing face-first onto the couch. The cushions weren’t comfortable so much as available. The springs let out a tired groan. He didn’t even bother kicking off his shoes—just shrugged out of his hoodie and let himself sink.

His whole body was one big ache. His fingers still tingled from the wrench. The cold hadn’t left his bones even in the warmth of the apartment.

He wanted to head over to Yadriel’s, but the sheer exhaustion kept him melting into the couch.

His stomach twisted again. He pulled a throw pillow over his head like it could shut out the memories.

Julian exhaled slowly through his nose. He closed his eyes—just for a minute.

The couch dissolved.

He was standing in the cemetery again—but it wasn’t right. The sky above him pulsed with a deep, unnatural blue, like he was looking up through the surface of water. The ground breathed beneath his feet, like something was shifting just under the soil.

Tombstones stretched out into the dark, hundreds of them—too many, crowding each other, names he didn’t recognize and some he did.

Julian.

The voice slithered around him, closer this time. Not a whisper— a presence, brushing the edge of his mind like a finger dragging through wet paint.

He turned in circles, trying to find it.

Then the closet door appeared—just standing there in the middle of the graveyard. Slightly ajar, glowing blue light spilling out through the cracks. The same wrong blue as the sink. As his closet. Like every door was the same door.

He took a step toward it, and the ground gave way. He plunged downward, weightless and breathless, the whisper curling tighter around him like smoke.