Paint Me a Memory

The door swung open with a whisper.

A name had been carved into the black wood—JAZZ—deep, jagged, as though clawed by something impatient and in pain.

He stood still in the doorway, motionless as a statue, his silhouette framed by the bleeding glow of stained glass high above. His gaze slid across the intruders—Killian first, then the limp figure cradled in his arms. Ru. Chrono next. And finally, the fox-tailed form slung over his shoulder.

His eyes lingered on the tail.

Unreadable.

Three seconds.

Four.

The silence stretched like wire pulled to its limit.

Then, wordlessly, Jazz stepped back.

Killian moved first. “Thanks,” he muttered, voice dry as dust, boots echoing across the stone floor as he searched for a place to lay Ru down.