I WAKE TO the sound of tapping—sharp, deliberate, insistent. For a moment I think it’s in my head, some leftover echo from the vision that swallowed me whole last night, but the room is too still for hallucinations. My loft feels suspended, heavy with the kind of silence that waits for you to notice it. I blink through the pale morning light slipping between my blinds and roll over.

The bed beside me is empty. The sheets are cooling, already losing the shape of Elias’ body, and the faint trace of his cologne clings to the air like a whispered apology. Of course he’s gone. Clients always leave before dawn breaks the spell. I tell myself I’m relieved. No questions. No awkwardness. No replay of the moment when prophecy burst through my skin and dragged me into a cathedral under the stars.