The scent of lilies and stale desperation clung to the air, thick enough to taste. Rain lashed against the cathedral’s stained glass, each drop a mournful applause for a life cut tragically short by Q3 reports. Inessa Vargo adjusted the borrowed black blazer, its shoulders digging into her. She stepped up to the podium, her smile a thin, brittle thing, not quite reaching her eyes. “Folks, friends, fellow corporate casualties,” Inessa began, her voice crisp and bright, betraying none of the numbness calcifying her ribs. “We’re here today to mourn Ronan Wexler. Or, as I liked to call him, ‘Project Overtime,’ ‘The Spreadsheet Whisperer,’ and occasionally, ‘Is That a Pulse?’ ” A nervous cough rippled through the pews. Inessa ignored it, running a thumb over the polished wood of the podium. “Ronan… he loved his job. Adored it, really. Probably more than he loved his own circulatory system, which, ironically, is what gave out. Heart attack at forty-two, mid-pivot table. A true hero of the quarterly earnings. He died doing what he loved: making upper management even richer. Godspeed, Ronan. May your afterlife be free of performance reviews and ‘urgent’ emails sent at 2 AM.” The silence that followed wasn't reverent; it was stunned. Inessa lowered the microphone, catching the enraged glare of her team lead. “Too soon?” Inessa mouthed, a flicker of genuine exhaustion finally breaking through her practiced flippancy. The woman's lips thinned into a line that promised swift, brutal retribution. True to form, a termination notice awaited her on her desk the next morning, nestled between a half-eaten protein bar and a spreadsheet detailing Q4 projections. Inessa didn’t even bother to read it. She simply packed a single, overstuffed bag, hailed a rickshaw through the perpetually weeping streets of Morvalis, and headed for the skyport. Her life, a meticulously arranged pile of data, responsibilities, and unread self-help books, was officially crumbling. Good. She felt lighter already. The flight to Pellaris was a blur of clouds and the rhythmic hum of the engines, a lullaby of escape. When she disembarked, the world had inverted. The air wasn’t just warm; it shimmered. The sun, a brutal, unapologetic disc, bleached the sky to a colour Inessa had only ever seen in heavily filtered vacation brochures. Shadows stretched long and distorted, like ink smudges on a canvas too bright. A wiry man with a permanently wind-tousled mop of hair and eyes that darted like startled fish waved her over. “First-timer, eh? To Pellaris?” he chirped, already hauling her ludicrously heavy luggage onto a small, brightly painted ferry. “Name’s Tavi. I’m the island’s official gossip-monger, delivery boy, and occasionally, its sole mode of transport. Where to, city-mouse?” “The Salted Fig Inn,” Inessa managed, shielding her eyes. The heat was immediate, oppressive. “If it still exists.” Tavi laughed, a brassy clatter. “Oh, it exists. Always has. Always will. Just… not quite the same as it used to be. Old Merrick runs it now. Bit of a mystery, that one. Never talks much. But keeps the place tidy, for an ancient relic.” The ferry cut through water so clear it seemed to defy physics, revealing jagged rocks and waving kelp beneath. As they approached the shore, the Salted Fig Inn emerged from a cluster of gnarled, sun-starved trees. It was a sprawling, crumbling villa, its whitewash flaking like old skin, its roof a patchwork of sun-bleached terracotta. Windows, dark and vacant, stared out at the sea like ancient, unblinking eyes. It looked less like an inn and more like a ghost, tethered precariously to the cliff face. “Last stop, city-mouse,” Tavi announced, nudging her duffel onto the pebbled beach. “Try not to get too… ensnared. Pellaris has a way of holding onto things.” He winked, then spun the ferry around, leaving Inessa alone on the shore, the roaring silence of the island pressing in. The walk up the winding, overgrown path felt endless. The roller bag snagged on every loose stone, each jolt vibrating through her collarbone. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of salt and something else – dry dust, ancient wood, and a faint, metallic tang. The inn’s front door, a heavy slab of sea-weathered timber, stood ajar, as if perpetually awaiting a visitor who never quite arrived. Inessa pushed it open, stepping into a cool, shadowed foyer. The silence inside was profound, broken only by the distant, rhythmic sigh of the ocean. Sunlight, fragmented by grimy panes, striped the floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, forgotten spirits. Antique clocks adorned every wall, their faces faded, their hands frozen at various, arbitrary times. None ticked. The air, though cooler, felt strangely stagnant, as if time itself had paused here. “Hello?” Inessa called out, her voice swallowed by the cavernous space. No answer. “Anyone home? I have a reservation. I think.” She dragged her luggage deeper into the inn, past a grand, curving staircase that groaned under the timber's own settle. Each room she peered into was sun-bleached, filled with shrouded furniture and a peculiar sense of abandonment. This wasn't just an old inn; it was a museum of forgotten moments, eerily preserved. “Look, I just need a bed and about a month of uninterrupted sleep,” Inessa muttered to the empty air, her patience wearing thin. “Preferably one that doesn’t require me to fight a ghost for the duvet.” She heard a faint grunt from a room at the back, followed by a soft, squelching sound. Curiosity, a dangerous trait she usually reserved for dissecting financial data, pulled her forward. The door was ajar, spilling a ribbon of pale light onto the dark hallway. She pushed it open further and froze. The room was a spartan office, dominated by a heavy wooden desk and shelves overflowing with ledgers. But it was the man in the center of the room who commanded all attention. He sat shirtless on a worn leather chair, his back to her, a single lamp casting his lean, muscled frame into stark relief. His dark hair was damp, clinging to his nape. His skin, a warm olive tone, was taut over broad shoulders. But it was the livid, angry gash just beneath his left shoulder blade that made her stomach clench. He was meticulously, methodically, stitching it closed himself, a needle glinting in the lamplight. Blood, fresh and dark, bloomed on the white towel draped over his lap. It wasn't an accident. That was a bullet wound. He tensed, his hand freezing mid-stitch. Inessa hadn't made a sound, but he knew. He slowly turned, gray irises pinning hers. They were flat, assessing, devoid of shock. A thin trail of blood ran down his arm, past a crudely bandaged forearm, to the hilt of a hunting knife clutched in his hand. He didn’t drop the needle. He didn't flinch. Inessa swallowed the prickle of bile and found her voice. “Well, this isn’t quite the welcoming committee I expected. No complimentary fruit basket?” The man moved with a speed that belied his previous stillness. In one fluid motion, he was off the chair, the knife now pointed at her throat, pressing her back against the doorframe, pinning her. His breath, hot against her ear, carried the scent of salt and copper. “Are you always this… dramatic when checking in?” Inessa asked, a dry humor she didn’t quite feel cracking through her voice. “Or do you offer a discount for being manhandled?”

The Eulogy and the Edge