The French Quarter hadn't changed.
Same jazz spilling from doorways. Same tourists wandering Bourbon Street. Same supernatural tension beneath the surface, invisible to human eyes but obvious to anyone who knew what to look for.
Davina walked beside me, taking it all in.
"It's different," she said quietly. "From what I remember."
"Different how?"
"Smaller. Brighter. Less..." She struggled for words. "Less like a cage."
"That's because you're not in a cage anymore."
She smiled—that new smile, the one that reached her eyes. We walked through the Quarter for hours, stopping at cafés, watching street performers, buying beignets from Café Du Monde. Normal things. Human things.
Things she'd never really had.
At sunset, we found ourselves at Jackson Square. The site of her death.
Davina stopped at the edge, staring at the stones where she'd fallen.
"I remember it," she whispered. "The knife. The ancestors' voices. And then... nothing. Until you."
"Does it hurt? Being here?"
"No." She turned to me, and her eyes were clear. "It feels like closure. Like the last piece of that night finally settling."
"Good."
We stood together as the sun set, painting the square in gold and purple. Tourists wandered past, oblivious. A street musician played something soft and sad.
"I'm glad you found me," Davina said. "That night in the attic. I'm glad it was you."
"Me too."
She took my hand—a simple gesture, but weighted with everything we'd been through.
"What happens now?"
"Whatever you want. Whatever you choose." I squeezed gently. "The city's yours now, Davina. All of it. Go where you want. Be who you want. I'll be here if you need me."
She considered this. Then, slowly, she smiled.
"I think I'd like that."