The shower scalded as it hit her skin.
Clara let the heat sink in, let it chase away the lingering chill that had followed her home, clinging to her like damp fabric. Steam curled in thick ribbons around her, filling the small bathroom, beading against the mirror until her reflection became nothing more than a ghost behind the glass.
She stayed under the stream longer than usual, her palms pressed against the cool tile, her breath shallow, steady. She told herself she was shaking off the cold. She told herself she wasn''t still thinking about the old woman, about the words that had needled their way beneath her skin.
But the tension in her shoulders said otherwise.
When she finally stepped out, she wrapped herself in a thick towel, knotting it tightly just above her chest. The mirror had begun to clear in patches, streaks of her reflection bleeding through the condensation.
For a moment, she considered turning away. Her face was still flushed from the heat, steam unfurling from her skin in soft, translucent ribbons. The mirror was still misted over, offering only a blurred reflection—a half-formed ghost of herself, shifting, uncertain.
She wiped her palm across the glass, clearing a sliver just enough to meet her own eyes.
Not soft eyes. Not the kind people wrote poetry about. They were too sharp for that—too steady. A kaleidoscope of greens and browns with flecks of gold that shifted depending on the light. Hazel, technically. But they didn''t settle, didn''t behave. A gaze that lingered too long without meaning to, that had made strangers avert their eyes and friends second-guess themselves. Not cruel, not cold—just... unsettling in its stillness. Like she saw more than she was supposed to.
Her dark eyebrows—thick and untamed—framed them with an unapologetic bluntness. They''d been mocked in school, the kind of feature girls were told to pluck into submission. But Clara had never bothered. She didn''t see the point in sanding down edges that had always been hers.
She tilted her head, studying the damp strands clinging to her collarbone. Her hair never quite picked a side—not blonde, not brunette, a mossy, ash-streaked in-between. Depending on the hour, it either gleamed gold in the sun or dulled into shadow. Always a little wild, always a little too honest. Like it didn''t want to lie about who she was.
The steam had flushed her skin, bringing a rare bloom of colour to her cheeks. It would fade quickly, returning to its usual winter-stained pallor—more city-smoke than porcelain. Practical skin. Skin that belonged to someone who walked fast and kept their coat zipped.
The curve of her mouth had a natural downturn, the kind that made her seem pensive, guarded, even when she felt nothing at all. It gave people the impression she was keeping secrets. Sometimes, she was.
She never thought of herself as beautiful. Never tried to be. There was nothing delicate about her, nothing that invited hands or poems. But there were moments—brief, sharp moments—when she caught herself in the fogged glass and saw something else.
Not beauty, exactly.
But something harder to name. The kind of face you remembered without meaning to.
She dragged a hand through her damp hair and let her gaze flicker away from her own reflection, to the small gallery of photographs lining the wall beside the mirror.
They were the same ones she had carried with her every time she moved. Snapshots of a childhood spent in places she had long since outgrown. Her brother and youngest sister were mid-laughter, caught in motion, limbs sprawled as they wrestled in the backyard. They had always been like that—untamed, loud, golden with summer and youth. Always the kind of people who belonged to the world, rather than observed it.
She was quieter now but she hadn''t always been quiet.
When they were younger, she had found great joy in being an agent of mild chaos. Clara had been the older sister who told them ghost stories just before bedtime, leaving them too afraid to get up for the bathroom in the middle of the night. She had been the one who convinced them that the basement door sometimes opens on its own, just enough for something to slip through.
Her siblings had shrieked and thrown pillows at her, and she had laughed until her ribs hurt. It had never been mean-spirited—just the sharp delight of watching their expressions twist from doubt to horror, knowing she had spun a tale well enough to get inside their heads. But at some point, she had gone quiet. Not all at once. It had been gradual, like a tide pulling back from the shore.
Maybe it had happened when their mother had died. Maybe it had been when her father started looking through her, like she was just another bill to be paid, another thing to keep standing. Maybe it had been the weight of responsibility, of realising that someone had to be the steady one, the one who kept things upright when the floor started to tilt.
Her siblings had kept their light, and Clara had kept something else. Something quieter, something sharper. The ghost of a smirk tugged at her lips as she brushed a finger along the photograph. She could still do it, if she wanted to. She could still tell a lie so well it rang like truth. But these days, there was no one left to tell them to.
Her siblings had never questioned her transition. They had accepted her as she was—quiet, bookish, a little strange, but theirs. The only thing they had ever truly argued about was the insects.
She turned her head toward the corner of the room, where a glass display case sat neatly atop her bookshelf.
Inside, pinned against black velvet, were delicate, gleaming bodies—butterflies, beetles, even the paper-thin skeleton of a cicada. Tiny things, frozen in time, preserved in death so they could be studied, admired. Her father had never understood it. He was a man of numbers, of bottom lines and quarterly reports, of things that made sense when stacked neatly in ledgers. The world, to him, was something that could be calculated, measured, and managed. There was no room for sentimentality, no patience for things without tangible purpose.
And yet, he had never told her to stop.
Not when she was a child, pressing fallen dragonflies between glass slides. Not when she meticulously pinned beetles with gloved hands, cataloging them with the precision of a scientist. Not even when he walked into her room one evening to find the flickering glow of her desk lamp illuminating a line of mounted butterflies, their delicate wings spread in eerie, eternal stillness.
He had stood in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, gaze sweeping over the neat arrangement of death preserved under glass. After a long silence, he had simply said, "That one''s missing a leg." And then he left. Encouragement, perhaps. Or at least his version of it. Her siblings had been less diplomatic.
"That''s disgusting, Clara," her brother had declared at eight years old, watching in horror as she gently arranged the translucent wings of a moth. "You''re going to turn into one of those people who sleep in graveyards," her sister had added, crinkling her nose. She had only smirked. Let them be horrified.
She had never seen it as morbid. There was something almost reverent about it, taking something fleeting and making it last. The world spent so much time running from death—pretending it wasn''t inevitable, pretending it wasn''t always just a breath away. But Clara had never turned away from it. Even then, even as a child, she had understood: preserving something wasn''t the same as bringing it back to life. But it was close.
-------------------------------------
Clara rinsed the dust from her hands, watching as the faintest remnants of golden wing scales swirled down the drain. The tiny, delicate creature had been beyond saving—half-crushed when she''d found it near the bus stop. A lesser collector would have tossed it aside, seeing only imperfection. But Clara liked things that had been ruined and then put back together.
She dried her hands and reached for the tin on the counter, fingers grazing the smooth metal before popping the lid. The sharp, green scent of dried mint curled up toward her, earthy and cool, filling the small kitchen with something that almost smelled like life. She had always loved the scent—loved how it grounded her, how it reminded her of damp soil and fresh leaves pressed between her fingers. A reminder that some things could be preserved without losing what they were.
As the water boiled, she set out her supplies again. Fine needles. Thin strips of archival paper. Her latest project—an iridescent blue morpho—sat beneath the soft glow of her desk lamp, its wings spread wide as if caught mid-flight.
The front door clicked open. Footsteps—solid, deliberate—muffled against the old wood floors.
Jack.
Clara didn''t look up as she heard him set his keys down in the dish by the door, the shuffle of fabric as he peeled off his jacket. A moment later, a pair of warm lips pressed against her cheek, damp from sweat. The sharp, clean scent of his aftershave mixed with something saltier, the lingering tang of effort from his workout.
"Hey," he murmured against her skin before straightening. "You eat yet?"
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Clara shook her head. "Not hungry."
Jack let out a soft, disapproving hum but didn''t push it. He moved toward the fridge, rummaging through leftovers while she took her tea to the table and resumed pinning the delicate specimen in place.
"How was the gym?" she asked idly, adjusting a wing.
Jack scoffed, pausing to chug half a bottle of water. "Some asshole was hogging the bench press. Stood around taking pictures of himself instead of actually working out." He rolled his eyes, freckles shifting with the movement. "I don''t know what''s worse—people who do that or people who don''t re-rack their weights."
Clara only hummed, only half-listening. She knew how this went. He''d rant for another few minutes, she''d nod in the right places, and eventually, he''d move on to something else.
It wasn''t that she didn''t care. Jack was good to her, in his way. He accepted her oddities without judgment—never flinched when he walked into their shared space and found her meticulously pinning a moth into place or reading embalming texts over breakfast.
But there was a distance between them that neither of them had ever quite bridged.
They had met on a dating app—Clara''s first and last attempt at something casual. Jack had been charming, easygoing, with a boyish grin that softened even his sharper angles. She had liked the lightness of him, the simplicity. And he had liked her, even when he didn''t understand her.
That was enough.
Or at least, it had been.
The only real fracture had come early—barely three months in. She had caught him in a lie, a small betrayal that had spiraled into something bigger.
It had been a girl from his gym. Nothing serious, he had said. Just a mistake. Just a moment of insecurity. He had begged for another chance, promised it wouldn''t happen again. And because she had been tired, because she had been lonely, because she had already carved out a space for him in her life—she had let him stay.
That was years ago now. And things were... fine. Not burning, not unraveling. Just existing.
She turned the butterfly carefully, adjusting the angle. Jack plopped down in the chair across from her, rubbing a towel through his sweat-damp hair.
"You know," he mused, watching her work, "it''s kind of a miracle you ever let me touch you, considering how much you love dead things."
Clara smirked, not looking up. "You''re not special, Jack. I just prefer things that don''t talk."
Jack grinned, kicking at her foot beneath the table. "Harsh."
The playful banter faded into a familiar, easy silence. Jack tapped idly on his phone. Clara focused on her work. The rain drummed softly against the window, a steady rhythm against the hum of the radiator.
Something shifted. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just... a presence.
The hairs on Clara''s arms rose. A slow, creeping sensation unfurled along her spine, prickling at the back of her neck like unseen fingertips brushing too close. She felt it before she saw it—the heavy weight of something at the edge of her vision. She lifted her gaze to the darkened window.
The street outside was empty. Rain blurred the lamplight into soft halos, pooling golden reflections on the wet pavement. But there—just at the edges of the glass, where the darkness thickened—something moved. A shadow. Not the absence of light, but something else. Something with intent.
Clara''s breath caught, her fingers tightening around the pin still poised above the butterfly''s wing. She blinked, once, twice. Nothing. The street was empty again. The prickle of unease remained.
Jack, oblivious, stretched his arms behind his head, groaning. "You should quit that job, you know." Clara frowned, still looking at the window. "What?"
"You''re in a morgue all day, surrounded by death. It''s gotta be getting to you. Maybe that''s why you''re always so tense." He tilted his head toward her project. "And then you come home and spend your time with more dead things."
Clara set down her tweezers, finally looking at him. "I like my job." Jack sighed. "I know. I just—sometimes I think you forget you''re alive, too."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, she picked up her tea and took a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through her before replying.
"I don''t forget," she said quietly, setting the cup down. "I just think people put too much weight on the difference between the living and the dead."
Jack snorted. "That''s the most morbid thing I''ve ever heard."
Clara smiled faintly. "You should hear my second-favorite thought."
Jack rolled his eyes but let it drop, leaning back in his chair. The rain outside softened into a quiet drizzle.
But Clara''s gaze flickered back to the window.
And in the reflection, for just a fraction of a second, she could have sworn she saw someone standing in the hallway in the dark. Watching.
Jack moved behind her, his presence familiar, warm. He slid his arms around her waist, pressing a lazy kiss to the side of her neck. The dampness of his skin from the gym still clung to him, mixing with the faint, clean scent of sweat and fabric softener.
"Shower," Clara muttered, barely looking up from her work.
Jack chuckled, his breath fanning against her cheek. "You saying I stink?"
"Yes."
Another kiss—this one to her temple, half-sincere, half-teasing—before he pulled away. "Are you going to bed soon?"
She nodded, knowing she''d be awake for at least another hour. He knew it too, but he didn''t push. This was their routine. He would shower, she would work a little longer, and by the time she crawled into bed beside him, he''d already be asleep, one arm flung across the mattress as if reaching for her in his dreams. Jack had always slept easily. Clara did not.
The pipes rattled as he turned on the shower, water hitting the tile with a steady rhythm. She adjusted the wings of the butterfly on her pinning board, smoothing the translucent membrane carefully into place. The tea on the table had gone cold.
Her eyelids were heavy by the time she finally dragged herself to bed, slipping under the covers beside Jack. His arm found her instinctively, warm and solid around her waist.
And for a while, there was peace.
—----------
She was in the morgue. Except—not quite.
The room stretched in impossible directions, too long, too vast, its angles warping in the edges of her vision. The stainless steel autopsy tables gleamed under dim, flickering fluorescents, their surfaces too polished, too pristine, like waiting altars. The air was thick with the sterile tang of antiseptic, but something else slithered beneath it—something cloying, rich, sweet.
Clara stood barefoot on the freezing tiles, the cotton hem of her nightshirt brushing against her thighs, her breath forming a thin mist in the stale, unmoving air. The silence pressed in like a held breath. Something moved. A whisper. A shift. The first flutter of wings. Then another. And another. She turned her head, and they were everywhere. Death''s-head hawk moths.
Dark, heavy-bodied creatures with their skull-marked backs. Their wings stirred the air in restless tremors, hundreds, thousands, crawling over the walls, clinging to the ceilings, settling atop the lifeless bodies on the slabs.
A rustling, dry and papery, filled the space. The sound of parchment-thin wings dragging across cold metal. Then she felt it. The first featherlight brush against her skin. A tickle at her wrist. A flutter against her cheek.She looked down. They were on her.
A choked breath lodged in her throat as the moths moved over her collarbones, down the planes of her arms, curling in the hollows of her throat. Their bodies were warm, pulsing with something alive, something wrong. She staggered back, hands twitching up to swat them away, but they only clung tighter. A hundred tiny legs needling against her bare skin, skittering down her spine, slipping beneath the collar of her nightshirt, pressing into the spaces between her ribs. They filled her mouth before she could scream.
Wings battered against her tongue, dry and suffocating, the taste of dust and something rotten coating her lips. She gagged, but they kept coming, pouring down her throat, curling into the hollows of her lungs. She could feel them moving inside her, their bodies pressing outward, stretching her skin like something about to burst.
Her knees buckled. The morgue tilted. The cold tiles rushed toward her, a gaping abyss waiting to swallow her whole— A wind slammed through the room. A force unseen, unheard, but felt. It sliced through the thick, stagnant air, scattering the moths in a violent burst. Their bodies flailed, wings ripping, curling in on themselves before disintegrating into nothingness.
And then—a scent. Mint. Crushed earth. Something richer, darker—warm like the embers of a dying fire, yet sweet like overripe fruit. And then—hands. Strong, unyielding hands gripping her shoulders, pulling her back from the brink. A voice. Deep. Measured. Steady."Wake up, Clara."
She jolted upright, gasping.
The room was dark. The sheets clung damp to her skin, her breath ragged, her heart still slamming against her ribs. Jack groaned beside her, rolling onto his back with a heavy sigh. "Seriously?" Clara wiped the sweat from her brow, swallowing down the lingering panic. Jack threw an arm over his eyes. "You woke me up."
"I had a nightmare," she murmured.
"So?" He shifted, sighing again. "Jesus, Clara. Go get some water or something."
The words weren''t cruel, but they were sharp enough to cut in the silence. Jack had never been good with being woken up—an old flaw, one she had long since stopped taking personally.
Still, she hesitated for a moment before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood was cold against her bare feet as she stood. She padded into the kitchen, filling a glass with water from the tap. The coolness soothed the tightness in her throat, but the phantom sensation of moth wings against her skin still lingered.
Mint. Earth. Something warm. That part unsettled her the most. She didn''t remember seeing anyone. But someone had been there. Someone had pulled her from that nightmare.
Clara exhaled slowly and, instead of going back to bed, curled up on the couch. The living room was dimly lit by the streetlights outside, casting long, skeletal shadows across the walls. She reached for the blanket draped over the armrest, wrapped it around herself. Sleep came in fits. Restless. Uneasy.
When she woke again, it was to the blaring sound of her alarm. Her body ached, the stiffness in her neck a sharp reminder of falling asleep on the couch. The blanket had slipped to the floor sometime during the night, leaving her chilled.
Jack was already gone.