Ash and Exchange

Can you keep a secret?

Yeah… me neither. But I have to tell someone. Since I can’t tell anyone who actually knows me, I’ll tell you—the stranger who finds this bottle. Ridiculous, right? Scrawling something this heavy on paper and tossing it into the ocean like I’m stranded on a deserted island. Odds are it’ll wash up as garbage. But at least I’ll have said it.

Actually, I am on a deserted island. Not a real one—but that’s how it feels. Everyone around me carries on like nothing’s changed, like nothing’s wrong. They don’t know what I can do. They don’t know what I have done. And maybe it’s better that way. Heroes wear masks; so do villains. I guess I wear both.

If you’re reading this—and I mean you, of course—you’ve probably heard the news. My dad died. I know that sounds ridiculous, since you don’t know me, but trust me, you’ve heard about him. His death was everywhere: social feeds, blogs, even dusty old newspapers. To the world, his death was a relief.

He was the perfect villain. He massacred innocents. He destroyed everything he touched. Literally. They called it the Sadim Touch—the opposite of Midas. Where gold should’ve bloomed, only ruin followed. Cities crumbled. Fields rotted. People died.

But that’s not the secret. Everyone knows he’s gone.

The truth is, he was my father. My mother doesn’t know that I know. My friends have suspicions, but they weren’t there. They didn’t see.

And even that isn’t the secret I can’t keep any longer.

Before I tell you, maybe you should know how I discovered that Carwell Cassemir was my father. Everyone knew about his Sadim Touch. What most people didn’t know was that Carwell was a collector. He gathered people with gifts—curses, really—like his. If you ask me, he was breeding us for his own purposes, though no one has ever proven it. He had spies everywhere.

Until I was thirteen, my life was normal. Single mom and all—it was pretty great. She worked hard but always made time for what mattered. Every night after supper, we’d share a bowl of peanut butter ice cream and talk about our day. Those were my favorite memories.

I’ve never had the courage to ask her how she came to have me. That’s a secret I don’t think I could survive knowing. And based on the things I saw in his lab—the cages, the broken glass, the silence that seemed to breathe—you don’t need to know either.

It was six months after my thirteenth birthday. Our cat died. One moment she was fine. The next, she was gone. She was only four years old—she had just been purring on my lap minutes before.

When I found her on the lawn, eyes glassy and body stiff, I was stunned. She was an indoor-outdoor cat, but still—it made no sense. Tears blurred my vision as I knelt beside her. I couldn’t call my mom; she was at work. So I just stroked her fur, whispering for her to come back, wishing with everything in me that she would breathe again.

And then she did. Her purr vibrated against my hand. I jerked back, eyes flying open—and there she was, simply asleep. Curled in a ring of brittle, blackened grass.

I won’t go into details, but the neighbors peeked out their windows to check on me. When my mom came home, I had built a small fire on the burnt grass, claiming I wanted to roast marshmallows. She lectured me about fire safety, then we made s’mores, though the smell of burnt grass lingered, stubborn and strange.

And my cat lived another ten years.

Over time, I learned I could heal—or even bring something back from the dead—but always at the cost of another life but never mine. I endured nothing but a little sleepyness. It wasn’t a gift I could flaunt. Each act came with a price, a moral line I didn’t dare cross publicly. That’s the mask I wear: a normal girl, a quiet receptionist. Inside, I’m the one keeping secrets that could make me a hero… or a monster. Cool, cool.

It was an ad that caught me. That’s the way it always works, right? We see something, think it’s cool, buy in… and end up living a life we never expected. That’s how it happened. That’s how I met Carwell.

I needed a job. He needed a receptionist. I took it. And so it began—though I had no idea how dangerous it would be.

When I took the job, Carwell was simply the name of a lucrative pharmaceutical business. My job was to schedule appointments, run things around the office, occasionally do errands, and, in general, manage my small office space outside the giant doors. I only saw Carwell in passing. He gave instructions to Alin, and then Alin instructed me.

Alin Alvine. He became more to me than any other. Sounds cheesy, I know—office romance, my superior no less.

We had rules. Steadfast rules. We gave away nothing at work, waiting until our homes or a dark theater. Then the business facade fell, and we were lovesick.

We did this for three years before Alin started telling me about Carwell. The more he revealed, the more horrified I became. Experimentation, slavery, drug trade… Carwell’s name came up in every nightmare Alin described. Those who suffered at Carwell's hands didn't dare to say anything. From the highest in politics to the lowest in poverty, all suffered from his experimentation. Millions had died by his hand, but Alin refused to say why.

Many times, we discussed leaving. He couldn’t. Carwell had made that clear—inviting Alin’s mother and little sister to a company barbecue was enough to show the trap. I wasn’t trapped. Not yet. Except for Alin. To Carwell, I was simply a receptionist.

Until I wasn’t.

It was innocent enough—or so I thought. I should have considered the security cameras that were everywhere. Too late now.

I had been with the company for 4 years by this point, and Lesly was my best friend there. One day, she severely cut her arm on the paper cutter. Normally, I’d have done first aid and taken her to the hospital. But she had hemophilia—mystery reader, that means her blood doesn’t clot. She could have bled out. I had to help.

I compressed the wound as hard as I could, looking her square in the eyes, silently begging her to keep my secret. Then, almost reflexively, I placed a hand on her potted plant. The other thing must be living… no cut flowers, unfortunately. Trust me, I tried.

When I removed the compression, the plant was dead, and all Lesly had was a thin, fresh pink scar. She nearly fell over in shock. I grabbed her hand and dragged her to the women’s bathroom, into the handicap stall, and told her everything. She swore to keep my secret—and to this day, she has. She was even my maid of honor.

The next day, Alin came to my desk. There was a particular look in his eyes as he gazed down at me. I glanced up and did a double-take. He was frightened, though his face betrayed nothing. His eyes, however, held it all.

“Carwell would like to see you. If you’ll follow me,” he said smoothly, as if asking about the weather. Only because I loved him did I notice the tremor in his voice. I grabbed a notebook and pen, just in case, and followed Alin beyond the imposing double doors.

There he was: Carwell, a polished businessman with a slight rounding of his belly and thinning steel-grey hair. Not very tall—something I’d noticed the few times he walked by. To look at him, the world couldn’t imagine how horrible he was. He smiled softly when he saw me and beckoned me closer.

“Hello,” he said.

I bobbed a nod and held my pad and pen ready.

“Oh no, I didn’t call you in here to do receptionist work. I called you in to discuss your place in the company. You’ve been invaluable. I don’t think my schedule has ever run so smoothly. But I do think your…” He paused. I remember that distinctly. “…talents are not being used effectively. I have searched for one such as you for many years, but they always seemed... lacking.”

He said the word talents like a lovesick child, pining for something forbidden, something just out of reach. I felt a sudden chill. Goosebumps raised all over my body, and I remember feeling nauseous.

“Do you know what we do here?” he asked. He stood and circled his desk, perched on its edge with one leg up, leaning uncomfortably close.

“We manufacture medication for terminally ill patients that helps ease their suffering,” I said, quoting the usual answer that I had been giving those who called and asked.

“In a way, you are correct. What sets us apart from the other rabble,” he sneered at the competition, “is that our methods are more…” He paused, rubbing his cheek thoughtfully. “…innovative. We hire people with gifts—abilities others have long forgotten exist. Alin here is one of those people. Not gifted, exactly—but he can detect illness and pinpoint where it lies.”

Alin had told me that in one of his stories, but I feigned surprise as best I could. You should know that my acting skills are not very good.

“Yes,” Carwell said, playing along, “It’s a most remarkable knowledge. Sadly, all it does is sign death warrants. And we run a business—death warrants don’t exactly pay the bills, do they?”

He looked at Alin with a faint, almost sympathetic expression before turning back to me. “Who knew I’d find exactly what I was looking for in my receptionist?”

I nearly choked on my own spit as my mind raced—Lesly, the cameras… what had I just done? But how was I to know, I ask you, dear reader?

I know, I know. Alin had told me. You don’t have to remind me twice… only three times.

Carwell, shrewd as he was, seemed to notice my discomfort. He offered a smile that was meant to be comforting— just thinking of it still makes my skin crawl.

“You have the ability I’ve been searching for,” he said, rising and pacing around me. “I once knew someone who looked a lot like you. She had a wonderful gift, too. See, I am blessed with what some might call a… rather destructive gift. Would you like a demonstration?”

My stomach dropped as he touched the decorative flowering tree beside his desk. It didn’t just disintegrate. Its blossoms shriveled, the leaves curled into themselves, and the bark flaked off. The tree folded inward, like an old man on his deathbed. Even the pot crumbled to ash.

Alin quietly went over with a broom and dustpan, sweeping up the remains as if nothing had happened. Alin had not told me about this side of Carwell, but clearly, he had seen it before.

Carwell dusted his hands as if they had gotten dirty and smiled at me with a mild shrug. “As you can see, many would run when they realize I could turn them to dust. But there was one woman, in all my years, who did not run. See—”

He stepped right up to me. I shuddered at his hot breath. He whispered a secret about her, “She was immune to my gift.”

He circled me again, eyes raking me over. “We had quite the love affair. But one day… she vanished. I have never found her. That would have been twenty-four years ago.”

He paused beside me, arms crossed, considering. Then he stepped closer, forcing me to walk backward until I was trapped against his desk. Leaning over, hands bracketing me on either side, he whispered, “You would be exactly the right age to be her daughter.”

Suddenly, everything about my childhood snapped into place. We’d moved constantly, my mother taking only jobs that kept her invisible. No one notices a hotel concierge or a waitress. She never spoke of my father—and I had never dared ask. We had each other, and that had been enough. But there had been some nights when she had checked the locks on our doors that few extra times. I had always wondered why.

But now, with sickening clarity, I saw the path my life had taken. My mother had done everything she could to keep me away from this man. And now… all her efforts had been in vain. My chest tightened. My stomach churned.

I still said nothing to his assumption. After a moment of intense studying, he slowly backed away. I stood up straight, still remaining silent. He considered me before smiling again. “Well, my possible daughter, we now come to the crux of the matter. See, as I said, Alin's ability can tell someone that they are ill. Well,” he glanced at Alin before turning back to me, “Alin has given me a death sentence. Several years ago, in fact. And it is directly linked to my ability. We've called it Dustlung. Kind of catchy, right?” He chuckled ruefully. “Apparently, it is something that is aggravated every time I use my gift. I guess I have been too liberal over time with my abilities. Been coughing up ash for a while, which, so Alin tells me, is the final stage. I was about out of options after testing countless subjects and coming up empty. And then,” He grinned at me and raised his hands as if offering a prize, “you applied for the receptionist position. Imagine my astonishment and glee when I saw the footage of you healing that woman.”

He tapped his chest lightly, almost absently, and I noticed for the first time the faint tremor in his hand. His voice remained smooth, but the sound underneath it was ragged, frayed. “Perfection always demands sacrifice. My body… resists me now. Ash gathers in my lungs, rot creeps into my bones. The very gift that makes me feared is slowly consuming me.”

His eyes sharpened, trapping mine. “But you—you can unmake the cost. You can turn my curse back into life. All it requires is… an exchange.”

I remember it clearly, mystery reader. In the blink of an eye, before I could say a word, Alin flew at Carwell.

“You will not make her choose!”

Before Alin could land another hit, Carwell grabbed his hand and grinned.

“You are in a hurry to die, aren’t you? I could use anyone else. You’re just… handy. Shame really. You would have had a much more peaceful death had you waited for her to decide.”

He squeezed Alin’s fist. Alin’s skin turned gray, liver spots and wrinkles creeping up his arm as life drained from him.

Well, let me tell you, finder of this bottle, it was a no-thought decision. Racing forward, I grabbed Carwell’s hand and placed mine on Alin’s face. Wishing with all my might, channelling Carwell's life into Alin…

And just like that, Carwell stiffened, ash curling from his fingers and dust swallowing him whole. Alin collapsed, unconscious, but alive, sustained by the life that had been Carwell's.

That is how I killed Carwell. That is my secret—I can’t tell anybody. Alin only knows that Carwell died. He doesn't remember anything after attacking Carwell.

Now, I sit here, writing the events of that night all of twenty years ago. Alin and I have been married for nineteen of those years, and we have children of our own. None has shown any gifts yet, but with time, it’s highly possible. My mother has never been told this story—and likely never will be.

Sometimes, I lie awake and watch Alin age before my eyes, slowly crumbling to ash. With tears, I stroke his face, dreading the day when what I have seen will become reality. I have promised him that when his natural time comes, I will let him go. If I could find a way to sacrifice myself for his life, I would—but I know that would only hurt him more.

So I pray, or find the strength, to go first if I must—for my love, I’m not sure I could live without him.

Now, for my question—yet again. I beg of you, mystery reader, to consider your answer carefully. This world holds secrets you cannot even imagine. Who was it that said, “There is more to heaven and earth than are dreamt of by men?” Either way, they were right.

So think for a moment. Search your innermost self before you answer:

Can you keep a secret?