Page 15 of 13 Nights

"I'm telling you to understand what staying costs."

"I'll decide what I can afford."

He holds my gaze. The authority in his bearing hasn't diminished, but there's a tension underneath it I can read in his shoulders, in the careful placement of his hands.

"Severin," I say.

Not Johann. The distinction matters, and something in his expression tells me he knows I understand that.

He stays until the windows begin to lighten, but he never lets me control the interview for long. He answers questions about the regiment and deflects anything personal. When I press, he corrects my assumptions, asks questions of his own, or goes silent until I choose another path.

What he gives me comes in fragments: the taste of salt pork in a ship's hold, the sound of cannon across a valley, the quality of winter light in the Hudson Valley when the trees have dropped everything and the sky opens wide. Each detail is vivid, specific, and offered on his terms.

I'm recording on my phone. He glances at the device once and doesn't ask me to stop.

He also doesn't say anything for the next several minutes that he hasn't already told me.

The dawn comes fast. One moment we're at the kitchen table, his voice low and steady as he describes the regiment's position at White Plains. Mid-sentence, he stops. His gaze cuts toward the window where dawn's pale light is beginning to crawl through. Every muscle locks, his body braced against a force he knows he cannot defeat.

The expression on his face is not surprise. For the briefest moment, fury flashes behind his eyes, replaced by acceptance, albeit reluctantly.

Then he's gone.

The air collapses into the space he occupied. Papers lift from the table. The lamp rocks, and the coffee in my mug shivers against the ceramic.

I sit in the silence with my phone still recording and my heart hammering against my ribs.

The timestamp on the screen reads 7:15 a.m. I check the published sunrise for October 22 on my weather app. 7:15 a.m.

Down to the minute. Exactly at sunrise. As if someone pulled a switch.

I play the recording back. His voice is there, mid-sentence, and then it cuts to silence. The timestamp marks the exact moment.

On the first night I was standing in the doorway, and he was at the bottom of the steps. This time we were at the kitchen table. I felt the papers stir against my hands. I felt the cold leave the room in a single wave. Whatever sat across from me had weight, presence, and physicality, and then it was taken.

I sit at the table until my hands stop shaking.

Then I open my laptop and create a new folder. I don't label it with any of the professional categories that would let me file this alongside the investigative work I've done before. I type Severin and close the laptop.

"Ghost" is no longer a conclusion I can dismiss. It still isn't an explanation.

I have a video file, an audio recording, a historical record, a dead woman's research, and a name. None proves what Severin is. Together, they prove that the question is no longer irrational.

Lena's final text is still sitting at the bottom of our thread. I pick up my phone.

I'll call you tonight. I promise.

You always promise. Also, write something. For the actual book you have an actual contract for.

The contracted novel is about Hessian soldiers in the Revolutionary War. The most compelling Hessian soldier I've ever researched is appearing outside my cottage after dark and vanishing at sunrise. No amount of fiction could compete with what he's telling me.

I open the laptop. The folder labeled Severin waits on the screen.

CHAPTER FOUR

Severin

Tonight the black horse is standing next to Ashley's porch. In all the years I've manifested, I've never seen the animal leave the tree line. It paces the boundary between the woods and the road, watches my movements from a distance, and dissolves before dawn. Tonight it's crossed the entire yard to reach her door.