The nightclub occupied three floors of an old brick building downtown, all low amber lighting, polished black surfaces, and music loud enough to vibrate through the ribs. It was well after midnight and Bo Chow sat comfortably among his family in a corner booth overlooking the dance floor, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a smile permanently threatening the corner of his mouth.
Birthdays had stopped meaning much after the first hundred years.
Still, his descendants insisted on celebrating them.
The secret remained safely buried within the family: Bo Chow was not thirty, as strangers usually assumed. Nor forty. He was one hundred and thirty years old, the last surviving witness to a Mississippi night in 1932 that had become little more than legend. To the outside world he was simply an older cousin who somehow aged exceptionally well. The lie had served him for decades.
Tonight it almost failed him.
His great-grandson arrived late with his gir.lfriend.
Bo barely paid attention at first. He was listening to one of his great-granddaughters complain about graduate school when a scent drifted across the table. The glass paused halfway to his lips.
Magnolia.
Not exactly.
Not truly.
But close enough.
Close enough to remind him of another woman beneath another sky nearly a century ago.
Grace.
For a moment the nightclub disappeared. The years disappeared. He saw a grocery store, warm Delta evenings, lantern light reflecting in dark eyes, a laugh he'd spent ninety-four years missing.
Then the vision was gone.
The young woman took her seat beside his great-grandson, unaware that the handsome Chinese man across the booth had been born before the invention of television, before World War II, before most of the city outside had even existed.
Bo watched quietly.
The bo.y talked constantly.
About himself.
About his job.
About his plans.
About his opinions.
Bo waited patiently for him to ask about hers.
The question never came.
Lord.
Maybe immortality had made him less tolerant.
Or maybe the kid was just an asshole.
An hour later she was laughing at something Bo had said.
Two hours later she was sitting closer to him than to her bo.yfriend.
Not because Bo was trying particularly hard.
Quite the opposite.
He simply paid attention.
That had always been his greatest strength with women.
Not charm.
Not looks.
Attention.
Grace used to tease him about it. Said he looked at a woman like she was the only person in the room. Bo always argued. Grace always reminded him that she'd fallen for him because of exactly that.
His great-grandson eventually disappeared toward the bar with some friends.
Bo watched him go.
Then looked back at her.
"That bo.y got every bit of his patience from his daddy."
Amusement crossed her face.
"Unfortunately, his daddy got it from me."
That earned the laugh he'd been hoping for.
There it was.
The smile.
The one he'd spent the whole evening unconsciously chasing.
For a while they simply talked. Nothing remarkable. Music. Travel. Family stories. Terrible cocktails. Yet Bo found himself enjoying it more than he had enjoyed most conversations in years.
Maybe because she listened.
Most people didn't.
Most people waited their turn to speak.
The difference mattered.
As the crowd thinned and last call approached, they drifted naturally toward one of the balcony railings overlooking the city lights. Cool air slipped through the open terrace doors.
Bo offered his arm with old-fashioned ease.
"Come on."
Curiosity crossed her expression.
He smiled.
"Breakfast."
A glance toward the time.
Nearly three in the morning.
"Exactly."
His eyes twinkled.
"Anybody can buy dinner."