The hotel felt wrong from the moment I clocked in today.
The lobby lights were too bright, the kind of white that bleeds into everything and makes edges soft, like the world had been drawn in chalk and someone smudged it with their thumb. My cart wheels didn't squeak the way they usually did; instead they rolled silent, as if the carpet had grown thicker overnight. I told myself it was lack of sleep. Two nights of staring at the ceiling, replaying Mr. Patterson's last breath, the way his soul had smiled at me before drifting into light. Two nights of seeing those molten gold eyes watching from across a street I'd never been on.
I pushed through the service corridor anyway, muscle memory carrying me. Fold sheets. Wipe mirrors. Restock mini-bars. Pretend the world still made sense.
By mid-afternoon the dream-feeling had thickened. Faces blurred when I passed coworkers. Voices echoed like they were coming from underwater. I caught myself standing in the middle of a hallway, staring at nothing, wondering if I'd ever really left the ambulance. Maybe the paramedics had never brought me back. Maybe I was still lying on that gurney, and everything since—the souls, the hotel, the quiet mornings with my grandmother—was just the long, slow fade before the monitor flatlined for good.
Mrs. Norman's voice cut through the haze.
"Lilith."
I blinked. She was standing in front of me, clipboard in hand, eyebrows raised like she'd been saying my name more than once.
"VIP check-in. Suite 1802. Mr. Hargrove. He specifically requested extra towels and a quiet floor. You're on it."
I nodded automatically. My mouth said, "Yes, ma'am," even though my brain was still half in the ambulance, half watching Mr. Patterson's soul rise.
I collected the towels from the warmer—four thick white ones, folded precisely the way Mrs. Norman liked—and rode the service elevator up. The doors opened onto the eighteenth floor with a soft chime that sounded too far away.
Mr. Hargrove was waiting at the entrance to the suite. Mid-fifties, expensive suit, silver at the temples, smile that didn't reach his eyes. He held the door open like a gentleman, but the way his gaze slid over me felt practiced.
"Housekeeping," I said, keeping my voice even. "I've brought your towels."
"Come in, come in." He stepped aside, gesturing grandly. "I appreciate the personal touch."
I walked past him into the suite. Everything smelled of lemon polish and new carpet. The windows overlooked the city, late-afternoon sun turning the glass gold. I set the towels on the bathroom counter, arranged them neatly, checked that the mini-fridge was stocked.
When I turned to leave, he was closer than he'd been a moment ago.
"You're very thorough," he said. His voice had dropped an octave. "I like that in service."
I forced a polite smile. "If you need anything else, just dial room service. The number's on the phone."
He didn't move. Instead he reached out, brushing his fingers along my arm—light, casual, like he was testing water temperature.
"You know," he murmured, "I tip very well for exceptional service."
My stomach lurched. The room tilted. For a second I was back in the ambulance again, weightless, watching someone else's life end while mine hung by a thread. Then I was here, skin crawling, his cologne too strong, his smile too sharp.
My walkie-talkie buzzed—sharp, insistent static followed by Mrs. Norman's voice.
"Lilith, front desk. We need you down here for a linen request."
Relief flooded me so fast my knees almost buckled.
"I have to go," I said, already backing toward the door. "Enjoy your stay."
He opened his mouth—something smooth, something practiced—but I was already turning, already moving. The hallway swallowed me. I didn't run, not exactly, but my steps were quick, too quick, until I reached the elevator and jabbed the button like it owed me something.
The doors closed. I leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
The rest of the shift passed in fragments. I folded towels. I avoided eye contact. When the clock finally let me go, I changed in the locker room, pulled my hoodie up, and stepped out into the evening.
The walk home was colder than it should have been.
By the time I reached our street, the weight of the day—of the year, of the past year —had settled in my chest like wet concrete. Mr. Hargrove's fingers on my arm. The way I'd frozen. The way I'd smiled politely instead of shouting. The way I'd let him think, even for a second, that I might stay.
Tears came hot and sudden.
I stopped at the bottom of the front steps, sat down hard on the concrete, pulled my knees to my chest, and cried like I hadn't since the hospital. Sobs tore out of me, ugly, and ragged. I cursed Mr. Hargrove in whispers. I cursed myself louder. For not speaking up. For not slapping his hand away. For being small and quiet and tired all the time. For letting the world keep happening to me instead of happening back.
I cried until my throat ached and my eyes burned and there was nothing left but hiccupping silence.
When I finally lifted my head to wipe my face, something drifted down through the streetlight.
A feather.
It fell slowly, turning in lazy spirals, black as midnight with thin veins of gold catching the glow. Too large for any bird I'd ever seen. Too beautiful to be real.
It landed softly between my sneakers.
I stared at it, breath caught.
Then I reached out, fingers trembling, and picked it up.
It was warm. Not hot—just alive, like it still remembered the wing it came from.
I turned it over in my palm. The gold edges shimmered, delicate and impossible.
A breeze stirred.
The feather trembled once—then dissolved.
Softly. Silently. Into fine black ash that slipped between my fingers and drifted away on the wind.
I sat there, hand still open, staring at the empty space where it had been.
Above me, the porch light flicked on. My grandmother's voice called through the screen door.
"Lilith? Baby, is that you?"
I swallowed. Wiped my face one last time.
"Yeah, Mama," I called back, voice steadier than I felt. "I'm coming in."
I stood.
The steps felt solid under my feet again.
And the feather was gone.