Chapter 62
The clatter of cutlery and the low murmur of conversation in the bustling diner were a familiar comfort to Ghaya, a symphony she had orchestrated with practiced ease for the last century. She picked up her order pad, a small, worn notebook with a pen clipped to the top, and glided towards the table where Rylee was seated.
"Good evening, can I get you something to drink?" Ghaya asked, her voice a soft, practiced melody.
The young woman turned, and their eyes met.
The air in the diner, which had lately been filled with the comforting smell of fried food and stale coffee, suddenly grew cold and thin. A wave of pure, unfiltered wrongness hit Ghaya, a silent scream echoing deep within her bones. It wasn't the kind of wrongness caused by meanness or awkwardness. Her powers as a da
