"Turn here," the passenger instructed, bouncing like a child headed to an amusement park.

  Ashton clenched his teeth, making a sharp turn. They'd been roaming Chicago's north side for hours, coming no closer to their destination—even a hint as to what it might be. With the stranger's directions shifting at every corner, Ashton felt as if he were chasing a fantasy.

  His passenger, however, seemed undeterred. "This route resonates with intent," the man said, smiling. "Persist a moment longer...turn here. HERE!"

  They veered sharply down a narrow alley, nearly flattening a cat. Ashton's stomach tightened, then relaxed, seeing the unharmed cat clamber over a fence into someone's backyard.

  What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

  "Stop!" the passenger bellowed. The door was open before the car had come to a full stop.

  Nice work, Ash. You wanted excitement—now you have a crazy guy in your car.

  The stranger prowled the alley, nose twitching, head cocked as if listening for auguries in the scrape of windblown trash and the flutter of pigeon wings. After a moment, he smiled with satisfaction and rejoined Ashton.

  Strange, Ashton thought. He looks younger.

  Indeed, years had rolled off the man's face, smoothing his wrinkles and igniting his grey beard so it burned like a brush fire.

  "South!" he announced, vibrating with excitement. "Very close now!"

  Ashton's twisted the wheel. "Close to what? What are we looking for?"

  "Echoes of home..." the man replied cryptically. "A message from the monarchy," he clarified.

  "How do you know?" Ashton pressed.

  Silence fell, broken by the man's muttering as he explored the terrain. They hurtled toward a dead end—a stone wall overtaken by withered vines. A vicious crown of barbed wire lined its edge. Ashton eased to a stop, acutely aware of how isolated they were. The El train roared overhead as if sounding a warning growl.

  This is not smart, Ashton chided, glancing at his passenger, sizing him up. The man looked like a bear stuffed into a sardine can. Shoulders hunched, head nearly touching the roof, knees practically kissing the dashboard. Two hundred and fifty pounds of trouble, Ashton guessed.

  Closer now, Ashton noticed the fresh pink scar slashing across the man's left eyebrow. But it was the hands that worried him most—massive mitts built to crush stone, fingers like oak roots. A fighter’s hands.

  If he makes a move, there's not much I can do.

  "Why have we stopped?" the passenger asked, emerging from his trance.

  "Because THAT'S a cemetery, and I don't know what we're looking for."

  "Lend me your faith a bit longer, and all doubts shall dispel," the king said softly.

  Groaning, Ashton rested his head on the steering wheel. "You're killing me, dude."

  "Killing you?" The stranger's eyebrows shot up. "Dear boy, when was the last time your heart pounded with the thrill of the chase? I venture you feel more alive now than in years."

  Ashton opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut. The old lunatic had a point. Despite the absurdity—or perhaps because of it—his body shrieked with exhilaration. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he had no idea how the day would end. The mystery was a heady tonic for the metastatic routine of his life.

  "Fine," Ashton finally said. "What's our next move?"

  The king's grin widened. "Simple. We visit the dead."

  On approaching Graceland Cemetery's entrance, the headlights caught two guards in mid-lock-up. Chains clinked as they secured the gates for the night.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Ashton readied a sarcastic quip, but he found the passenger seat empty, the door hanging open. The King had already slipped out and was halfway to the guards, arms spread wide as if greeting old friends.

  Uh oh. Ashton grabbed the door handle, ready to spring with an apology, but paused when the situation turned unexpectedly. The guards' initial wariness dissolved into... laughter? Soon, they were shaking the king's hand, nodding eagerly. One even waved Ashton forward.

  How does he do that? Ashton marveled, thinking back an hour before when he opened the door for the passenger, ignoring all the red flags of the moment.

  The king slid into his seat, looking overly pleased with himself.

  "What'd you say?" Ashton asked.

  "I simply told them of our noble quest, and how fate had led us to their doorstep. Let’s proceed—we have only ten minutes."

  The wrought-iron archway cast a long shadow, its curves catching the moonlight in a cold shimmer. The specter of death clung to the grounds—even the sound of the maple branches were as rattling bones scratching toward the sky.

  "Steady on," the passenger urged. The cemetery's macabre beauty slowly revealed itself as they drove: marble obelisks pierced the night, snow-dusted angels observed from their plinths, and mausoleums rose from the ground—doorways to the underworld.

  "By Mystery's shrouded face," the passenger breathed, swiveling his head, "what sort of place is this?"

  "You don’t have cemeteries where you're from?" Ashton asked.

  "No," the stranger responded, sinking into his chair.

  "Well...what do you do with your dead?"

  Something ancient and alien flickered in the passenger’s eyes. "Never mind that," he said, suddenly all business. "Our prize awaits in the heart of this... necropolis."

  The headlights slid over a gallery of headstones and evergreen shrubs peeking from the snow. The gnawing silence was suddenly shattered when the passenger slapped his hand against the dashboard.

  "HALT!"

  Ashton yanked the wheel, fighting to control their slide over the icy asphalt, stopping just short of fishtailing into an imposing statue of a knight. The marble warrior, electric under the moonlight, looked down at them with stern, stony disapproval.

  The stranger bounded into the snowy field. Ashton, heart thumping from the near accident, watched him stoop before a headstone. It looked newer than its rain-scarred, lichen-scabbed neighbors—polished, with a saddle of fresh roses laid at its base.

  Ashton stiffened as the man thrust his hand into the flowers and pulled something free. He held his anger in check until the man returned to the car.

  "Behold!" the passenger cried, thrusting a yellowed envelope under Ashton's nose. "Did I not say it would be so?"

  "That’s not yours," Ashton snapped. "You can’t take letters from a grave. It wasn’t meant for you."

  The man flinched as if struck. "I would sooner die than steal from that noble child's grave. This missive," he shouted, shaking it once more, "was meant for my hands. I felt it calling to me."

  Ashton sighed, seeing there was no point in arguing. The damage was done. "Whose grave was it, anyway?" he asked.

  "Darcy Spieglman," the man replied, quieter now.

  "Did you know her?"

  "No, but it would have been an honor to. She was nine years old. She perished saving her brother from a house fire. The boy lived; she did not."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "The love for that girl is not buried alongside her. It burns bright, telling her story."

  Silence hung between them. The man held the letter gently, protecting it like an injured bird. The envelope was weathered, its handmade paper showing irregular texture and visible fibers. A deep crimson wax seal, cracked but partially intact, clung to the flap, its symbol too faded to make out.

  "So... who is it from?" Ashton asked.

  "I believe... one of my daughters."

  "Your daughters?"

  "Aye, I have three daughters—by Mystery's grace," he said, his voice steady and proud. "Each one singular in her beauty and talent as facets of a gemstone, reflecting the best parts of myself." He paused to dab away tears with a trembling hand. "Pardon this old man's sentiment. Their absence weighs heavy on my soul..."

  He looked very old again. Ashton thought to reach out, but his hand stayed on the wheel. "Maybe you should go visit them? Do you want a lift home?"

  The man smiled bitterly. "That option is within neither of our powers to pursue. Not yet. But this..." He ran his fingers over the envelope. "With any luck, this is the first key to unlocking the door."

  His fingers shook as he broke the seal.

  "Brace yourself." He opened the envelope.

  A warm salty breeze flooded the car as did the distant crashing of waves. Ashton blinked, struggling to process the sudden shift—he could taste the ocean on his tongue.

  And then...music.

  A delicate voice twinkled into existence, fragile yet capable of moving mountains. Lyre strings flitted through the air—their light, fleeting tones floating like mist in a breeze. The notes skipped over octaves, sparking melodic chain reactions. Nostalgia struck Ashton with a bittersweet sting, the music pulling him under, its tide sweeping him toward an ocean of longing.

  The song rose to a febrile crest—a breathless mania teetering on the edge of revelation—then plummeted on a single, heartbreaking note. The outro trailed off—the sweet voice and lyre strings fading like echoes down a well— and Ashton understood the true meaning of melancholy.

  "Luna," the old man whispered, reading through tears.