The People Who Stay

Chapter 5: The People Who Stay

Atlas kept his promise. The next day, and the day after that, he returned to the graveyard. Sometimes Nova was there first, sometimes he was. The sky changed, the air grew wetter, but the rhythm of it became something they both expected.

One afternoon, Atlas found Nova sitting with two other people. He stopped short when he saw them—not because he was jealous, but because Nova had always been alone until now.

"Atlas," Nova called, waving lazily. "Come meet the dead."

"Charming," one of the strangers said, grinning crookedly.

Nova gestured to them. "This is Wren and Milo. Wren's the one who looks like she could kill a man with her pinky. Milo's the one who'd help bury the body."

Wren waved with two fingers, her nails black and sharp-looking. "Don’t believe everything she says. I’d use my whole hand."

Milo, a boy with a mess of dark curls and a permanent half-smile, nodded. "I only help with bodies if snacks are involved."

Atlas raised an eyebrow. "We doing graveyard comedy now?"

"Only when life’s funny enough," Wren replied. She watched him carefully, like she was cataloging his weaknesses.

"We all go to Black Salt High?" Atlas asked, sitting down on the grass.

"Yeah," Milo answered. "But we don’t talk much there. The graveyard’s better."

"Why?"

"Because in school you have to pretend you're not scared," Nova said. "Here you can admit it."

Atlas looked between them. "And what are you scared of?"

Wren smirked. "Same thing you are. The rot. The woods. The curse. Take your pick."

Milo chimed in. "We come here because sometimes it feels like you have to stand close to the dead to remember you’re still alive."

That stuck with Atlas. He stared at the gravestones, some so old the names were gone. "You think the dead are watching?"

"Always," Nova said. "They’re waiting to see if we make the same mistakes."

"Spoiler," Wren muttered. "We will."

They fell into conversation, the kind that drifted between topics like leaves in wind. School. Teachers. Who was already showing signs of rot. Who was crushing on who. They spoke about it all with a morbid ease, like talking about the weather.

Wren mentioned a girl named Sophie in their year who'd started wearing gloves to hide her hands. "That's how it begins," she said. "She’s pretending she doesn’t know. But we all know."

"Who’s she in love with?" Atlas asked.

Milo shrugged. "No one knows. That’s the worst part. Half the time, the person doesn’t even tell who they love. They just... disappear."

"Some of them leave town," Wren said. "Try to outrun it. But it doesn’t matter. It stays with you. Once it starts, it never stops."

Atlas thought of his mother, of the way his father looked at old photos sometimes, like they were landmines. "You think anyone's ever beat it?"

Nova shook her head. "If they did, they didn’t stay to tell the story."

"Maybe that’s the trick," Wren said. "Maybe you have to leave Black Salt entirely. Burn your name from the records. Pretend you never belonged."

"But can you ever really leave?" Atlas asked. "If the land knows your bones?"

"I don’t think so," Nova said softly. "I think once it marks you, you’re its forever."

They sat with that. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows.

Wren stood, stretching her arms over her head. "Anyway, morbid hour's over for me. I got work."

"Where?" Atlas asked.

"My uncle's bar. I bus tables. Milo comes too, sometimes."

Milo smiled. "Free fries."

"You should come," Wren said to Atlas. "Get a drink. It’s not all graveyards and curses."

Atlas glanced at Nova, who shrugged. "It’s a dive, but it’s ours."

"Sure," Atlas said. "Why not."

They walked together to the edge of the graveyard, parting ways with promises of meeting again. Atlas lingered behind with Nova.

"You always hang with them?" he asked.

"Sometimes. Wren’s angry at the world, but she’s honest. Milo’s a coward, but he laughs easy. I like them."

"And me?"

Nova smirked. "You’re a puzzle. Still deciding if I like puzzles."

"I’ll take that."

They parted ways at the church gates, and for the first time in days, Atlas didn’t feel like he was walking home alone.

That night, Atlas told his father he was going out. His dad barely looked up from the television. "Be safe," he muttered.

Atlas biked across town to the bar—Rustwood. A squat brick building with flickering neon and a sagging awning. Inside smelled like grease and old beer, but it was warm and alive.

Wren waved from a corner booth. Milo sat next to her, a basket of fries between them.

"You made it," Wren said. "Congratulations on not being a hermit."

Atlas slid into the booth. "I promised, didn’t I?"

They ordered sodas and cheap bar food. The conversation was easier here, surrounded by noise and people. Wren talked about her uncle's temper, Milo about his little sister who still thought the curse was just a story.

Then Nova showed up.

She looked different. Less guarded. She wore a threadbare hoodie and ripped jeans, her hair braided over one shoulder.

"Hey," she said, sliding in next to Atlas. "Didn’t think you’d come."

"I keep my promises."

Wren raised her glass. "To promises, then. And to being stubborn enough to keep them."

They clinked glasses. For a while, it felt almost normal.

Later, when the crowd thinned, Wren leaned forward, her expression serious. "You all ever think about why no one stays? I mean, really think about it?"

"Because they're scared," Milo offered.

"No. I mean, sure, yeah, but I think it’s deeper. I think we’re wired to run. Like it’s built into us. Maybe that’s part of the curse. Maybe it’s not just the body that rots. Maybe it’s the heart that betrays first."

They sat with that.

"I don’t want to believe that," Atlas said.

Wren smiled faintly. "You don’t have to. But belief doesn’t change truth."

Nova glanced at Atlas, her eyes thoughtful. "Maybe belief is all we have."

For the first time, Atlas thought maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one who wanted to stay.