Jackson is already waiting when I arrive.

  He’s chosen the same table as last time—tucked near the windows where morning light spills across the wood in clean angles. Two cups of coffee sit between us like an offering. His notebook is open, pages worn at the edges from use, pen resting across lines of cramped handwriting. He’s been preparing.

  He stands the moment I step through the threshold, and I catch the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—like he’s still not sure what version of me he’s going to get today.

  I make sure my human form is fully settled before I cross the room. No drifting pressure. No half-edges. No reminder in the air that I’m also the ground beneath his feet. It’s a courtesy, and I’ve learned those matter.

  I extend my hand. “Good afternoon. Thank you for meeting me again.”

  His grip is firm, but his fingers tighten for just a second—surprise breaking through before he can bury it. Like kindness still isn’t on the list of possibilities he’d prepared for.

  I tilt my head. “Are you okay?”

  He blinks, then lets out a small, awkward laugh. “I—yes. I’m fine. It’s just…” He hesitates, weighing his words. “I didn’t expect you to be so… approachable.”

  My brows lift. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He chooses his next words carefully, like he’s testing the ice before stepping onto it. “The other historians told me… different things.”

  Ah. I let the silence sit for a moment—not because I’m angry, but because I’m tired of people building myths and expecting me to wear them. “They were giving you a hard time,” I say. “Now you want to talk to me yourself.”

  He exhales like that single sentence gave him permission to relax. His smile comes fully now, relieved and real. “Yes. I do.”

  “Good,” I reply. “Then let’s talk.”

  He sits, and I follow. His hands move with practiced efficiency—setting the recorder, adjusting the notebook, uncapping his pen. There’s a rhythm to it, a ritual. This is how he steadies himself.

  Then he opens his bag, and the table disappears under paper.

  Brochures. Pamphlets. Foldouts from the tourist agency—trail maps, safety advisories, stylized descriptions, glossy photos taken at angles designed to make everything look like a dream. He spreads them out with the careful attention of someone laying down artifacts instead of marketing materials.

  “I want to start light today,” he says, his voice shifting into something more professional, more steady. “Because everyone here loves Devil’s Canyon.”

  I look down at the images spread before me, and for a heartbeat I’m not in the hotel anymore.

  I’m there.

  Rust-red walls rising like ribs from the earth. Black stone bands cutting through the rock like ancient scars. White quartz veins threading through the canyon like lightning frozen mid-strike. The air thick with heat and jasmine and the faint mineral smell of hot springs hidden below.

  I pick up one of the pamphlets, and my mouth curves. “Oh. Yes.”

  Jackson watches me closely. “You’ve been there?”

  I laugh under my breath. “I’ve had four weddings there this month alone.”

  His eyes widen. “Four?”

  “It’s the overlook,” I explain, flipping to the photo that shows it best. “And the hidden hot spring waterfall beneath it. People think they’ve discovered something secret… and in a way, they have.” I tap the image with my thumb. “If you’re lucky, you catch it when the jasmine blooms.”

  His pen pauses mid-word. “Jasmine?”

  “My favorite,” I say without thinking, and smile at how human that sounds. “There’s a stretch along the upper terraces where it grows in clusters. Wild, not planted. When the wind comes down the canyon, it carries that scent—sweet and clean—over the rocks and into the steam from the springs.”

  I glance toward the window, past the calm interior of the hotel, toward the sky beyond where the gas giant turns in its slow, eternal dance.

  “And when the storm giant paints the horizon,” I continue, voice lowering, “everything turns copper. The rings catch the sun and throw it back across the world, and the canyon walls glow like emberstone.”

  Jackson leans in despite himself, his professional mask slipping. “That sounds…”

  “It gets better,” I say. “When the aurora starts—green and violet shimmering across the sky—the whole waterfall looks like it’s spilling light instead of water. The steam catches the colors and holds them. Everything glows.”

  He looks up sharply. “The aurora reflects in the springs?”

  “It reflects in everything,” I say. “Even the quartz.”

  I pick up another photo—one of the deeper canyon sections, where the walls narrow and the shadows grow long.

  “There are pockets in those canyon walls,” I tell him. “Crystal chambers. Not large—just hidden. When the light shifts, when the rings throw copper and gold across the sky, the quartz doesn’t just sparkle.” I pause, remembering the first time I saw it happen. “It glows. Softly. Like the canyon is breathing.”

  Jackson’s pen moves faster now, racing to keep up.

  “It’s a hike,” I add, turning the pamphlet over. “And if you don’t know the route, you will get lost.”

  He chuckles. “The Rangers complain about that.”

  “I know.”

  “They say the canyon’s too twisty. Too convoluted.”

  “That’s the whole point.”

  He pauses. “The whole point?”

  “People need to leave frustrated sometimes,” I say simply. “They need to remember the world doesn’t exist to be fully mapped.” I tap the photo showing where the slot canyons branch and twist. “The passages look identical. You think you’ve found the waterfall, and you’re actually three ridges away from it. Side canyons narrow until you’re walking sideways. Back chambers you have to climb to reach.”

  Jackson studies me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m being serious. “So it’s designed to be confusing.”

  “It’s designed to reward persistence,” I correct. “The people who push deeper, who don’t give up—they find things.”

  “Like what?”

  I lean back, and the memory surfaces—not of building Devil’s Canyon, but of what inspired it. Desert mornings as a kid, wandering away from the off-road racing camps while my family was busy with vehicles and engines. The way the sun would hit the rocks. The quiet of being alone with stone and sky and the feeling that the world was full of secrets waiting to be found.

  “When I was young,” I say, “my family did off-road racing in the desert. And while they were working on the vehicles, I’d wander.” I smile at the memory. “I’d find slot canyons nobody bothered to explore. Back passages that looked like dead ends but opened up if you squeezed through. And caves.”

  Jackson looks up, interested now.

  “Small ones,” I continue. “Hidden. You’d miss them completely if you didn’t know what to look for. But inside…” I pause, seeing them again in my mind—those perfect little chambers of stone and crystal, untouched and waiting. “Crystals. Amethyst clusters growing out of the walls like frozen flowers. Quartz veins catching light. Obsidian so black it looked like holes in reality. Pyrite scattered like someone spilled gold.”

  His eyes widen. “You found those yourself?”

  “Every time we went out,” I say. “I’d come back with pockets full of rocks, covered in dust, and my mom would make me empty everything before I got in the truck.” I laugh softly at the memory. “I kept a box of them. Labeled them. Studied them like they were treasures.”

  “They were,” Jackson says quietly.

  “Yeah.” I look back at the Devil’s Canyon photos spread across the table. “So when I built this place, I didn’t want it to just be beautiful from the overlook. I wanted it to have secrets. Real ones.”

  I point at the canyon map—the places where the official trails end and the blank space begins.

  “There are passages back there the Rangers don’t advertise,” I say. “Side canyons that narrow until you’re walking sideways. Back chambers you have to climb to reach. And if you go deep enough, if you’re patient enough…”

  I let the sentence hang.

  Jackson leans forward. “Crystals.”

  “Caves full of them,” I confirm. “Amethyst geodes. Quartz clusters. Pyrite veins that look like rivers of gold running through the walls. Obsidian formations sharp enough to cut.” I pause, and my voice softens with something close to pride. “But it’s not just the crystals themselves. It’s what happens when the light finds them.”

  Jackson’s pen stills completely.

  “When the gas giant’s rings catch the sun,” I continue, “they throw light back across the world—copper and gold and burnt orange. Everything glows. And when that light reaches the crystal caves…” I smile, remembering the first time I watched it happen, the way the hidden chambers lit up like they’d been waiting centuries for someone to notice. “The quartz doesn’t just sparkle. It glows. Softly. Like it’s breathing. The amethyst catches violet from the aurora and holds it. The pyrite flashes like actual fire.”

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  I tap the photo of the canyon at sunset—the way the walls turn molten in the light.

  “There are moments—rare ones—when the aurora is strong and the rings are angled just right, and those hidden caves look like they’re full of trapped starlight. Green and violet shimmer running through every crystal face. Gold veining that pulses when the light shifts.”

  Jackson exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath. “That’s… that’s not in any of the brochures.”

  “No,” I agree. “Because you can’t photograph it properly. And because the people who find those caves deserve to see it first without expectations.” I lean forward slightly. “Not many people find them. But the ones who do…” I trail off, remembering the messages guests have sent me—awed faces streaked with dust, dirty hands holding crystals up to the light like proof of something sacred.

  “They remember,” Jackson finishes.

  “They remember,” I agree. “Because they earned it. Because it wasn’t handed to them. Because they pushed past the frustration and found something nobody told them was there.”

  Jackson writes quickly now, underlining something twice in his notes.

  “That’s what Devil’s Canyon is,” I say quietly. “A place where beauty rewards persistence. Where the world gives you exactly as much wonder as you’re willing to work for.”

  He looks up at me, and there’s something different in his expression now—not just professional curiosity, but genuine understanding. Like he’s starting to see past the tourist brochures and the glossy photos to the truth underneath.

  “What made you want to create something like this?” he asks. “Why bring this much beauty into the world?” He gestures at the table, at the maps and the images and the carefully crafted marketing. “By all accounts… this was your starting area. Yuna confirmed it.”

  I don’t answer right away. I let the quiet breathe between us, let the weight of the question settle.

  “This was the second moon I built,” I say finally. “The first was damaged by the overload.”

  “The overload,” he repeats carefully, like he’s testing the word.

  “We were force-fed power,” I explain. “Too much pressure. Too much intake. Too fast.” I swallow against the memory. “I had to collapse it. If I didn’t, I would’ve broken permanently.”

  “You collapsed your moon,” he says softly, like he’s trying to understand what that means.

  “Yes.” I exhale slowly. “And after that, I learned what water really is. Aquifers. Drainage. Underground rivers. Node B—the first time I understood what it meant to have a heart inside a world.”

  He listens, pen moving across the page in quick strokes.

  “Devil’s Canyon was the first place I tested those limits,” I continue. “The first place I rebuilt.”

  “Stress testing,” he murmurs.

  “I simulated a monsoon,” I admit. “I didn’t have a full weather system yet, so I used intent—raw, manual pressure.” Jackson looks up, and I meet his eyes. “I used too much. For a few minutes I didn’t make a storm—I made the beginning of a tornado. A rotating failure.”

  “A real one?” he asks, voice quiet.

  “A real one,” I confirm. “So I widened the front. Forced the energy to spread instead of tighten. Turned it from a blade into a flood.” I pause, remembering the violence of it, the way the water had carved and broken and reshaped everything it touched. “The canyon drowned. It stripped layers I didn’t know existed, carved deeper while it raged, and when it finally drained… it left rust red exposed like fresh-broken stone, black bands like burned glass, and quartz veins that caught light like frozen lightning.”

  “That’s catastrophic,” Jackson murmurs.

  “It was,” I agree. “And it’s why the canyon is what it is now.”

  I pause. The quiet shifts, deepens.

  “But during that storm,” I add softly, “I remembered something.”

  “From before,” he says, understanding immediately.

  “Yes.”

  I look past him, toward the window, but I’m not seeing the hotel or the bay or the realm spread out beyond. I’m seeing a desert mountain. A dark porch. Three people wrapped in blankets, waiting.

  “When I was a kid,” I say, and my voice goes quieter without meaning to, “my mom used to wake me at three in the morning when the storms came.”

  Jackson’s pen stills, sensing the shift.

  “We lived in Vegas. Sheep Mountain stood east of us, and you could see the weather coming from miles away—clouds stacking up over the peaks like they were gathering courage.” I smile faintly, seeing it again as clearly as if I’m still there. “She’d shake me awake, whisper ‘it’s coming,’ and I’d stumble out to the porch.”

  I pause, remembering the weight of sleep, the cool desert air, the way the world felt different at three in the morning.

  “My grandmother would already be there. Ninety-six years old, wrapped in her blanket, brewing tea like she’d been waiting all night. Lemon zinger. Always lemon zinger.” The detail pulls at something in my chest, something warm and aching. “She’d hand me a cup, still too hot to drink, and the three of us would sit there in the dark, watching.”

  Jackson doesn’t interrupt. He’s barely breathing.

  “You could see the storm climbing over Sheep Mountain,” I continue. “Not rolling—climbing. Like it had weight. Like it was alive. The lightning would chase across the peaks, crawling from one ridge to the next, and the whole sky would light up in pieces.”

  I exhale slowly, feeling the memory settle around me like that old blanket.

  “And the pressure. You could feel it in your chest, in your ears, in the air itself. The world would go quiet—not silent, but waiting. Like everything was holding its breath.”

  The hotel room feels too small suddenly. Too far from that porch. Too far from her.

  “We’d sit there until the rain hit,” I say. “Until the thunder was so close it rattled the windows. And my grandmother would smile like she’d seen God and wasn’t afraid of him.”

  Jackson’s hand moves again, writing, but his expression has changed. He’s not just taking notes anymore. He’s listening to something that matters.

  “When the monsoon hit my moon,” I say quietly, “it felt the same. And that memory came back. All of it. The tea. The mountain. Her smile.”

  I look down at the Devil’s Canyon photos, at the rust-red stone and the storm-carved walls, at the beauty that came from catastrophe.

  “Devil’s Canyon is my memorial,” I say. “To that moon. To that failure. And to the part of me that came back.”

  Jackson doesn’t speak for a moment. When he does, his voice is soft. “That’s beautiful.”

  “And that’s why I kept it.”

  We sit in the quiet for a while, the weight of the story settling between us. Jackson writes a few more lines, then looks up like he wants to ask something else—something deeper.

  Before he can, Yuna’s voice cuts through the calm like a blade.

  My love. Her tone is sharp, urgent, pulling me out of memory and back into the present. We have an issue. Command Center. Earth-side.

  I blink, awareness snapping back into focus. Jackson must see something change in my expression because he straightens slightly, concerned.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, already preparing to leave. “Something came up.”

  He stands immediately, professional and understanding. “We can reschedule.”

  “We will,” I promise.

  Yuna’s voice comes again, carrying more detail now: United States Air Force. A general. Requesting permission for the military track. Multiple C-17s. Tornado damage. Food, water, medical aid.

  For a heartbeat, the word tornado echoes against the memory I just shared—lightning chasing over mountains, pressure building in the air, my grandmother’s smile as she watched the storm come.

  Then reality snaps in, sharp and immediate.

  This is not a simulation. This is not a memory.

  This is people who need help.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I tell Jackson, and I mean it.

  He nods, understanding something without knowing what. “Thank you. For the story.”

  I turn toward the door, already pulling my awareness toward Minori-jima, toward the command center where Yuna is waiting, where decisions need to be made and gates need to be opened.

  The realm shifts around me, wonder folding into purpose.

  This is what we built it for.

  Not just beauty. Not just awe.

  But this—the moment when the world breaks and someone needs a place that answers.

  I move fast and quiet through the hotel, through the space between, toward the command center on Minori-jima where wonder meets responsibility and the Realm is about to open its gates for the first time not for spectacle…

  …but for need.