Clara was tired.


    Not the kind of tired that a full night''s sleep could fix—no, this exhaustion had settled into her bones, a slow, creeping thing that made even the simple act of pulling her sweater over her head feel laborious.


    The nightmare clung to the edges of her mind, curling like mist in the corners of her vision. She could still feel the phantom weight of wings, still taste the dry, brittle dust of their bodies on her tongue. Wake up, Clara. The voice had been deep, steady. Familiar in a way that made her skin prickle.


    And the scent—mint, earth, something else.


    Clara exhaled sharply, brushing away the lingering unease as she finished fastening her hair into a loose bun. The kitchen clock blinked at her accusingly—she was running late. With a sigh, she grabbed her bag and headed out into the pale, drizzling morning.


    The city streets were still half-asleep, damp and quiet in the early hours. The morgue, however, was already humming with activity.


    She slipped through the back entrance, exchanging the usual silent nods with the few early staffers who acknowledged her existence. The sharp scent of formaldehyde and disinfectant greeted her like an old friend as she tied on her apron and stepped into the embalming room.


    Three bodies lay beneath white sheets, their stillness absolute.


    She grabbed a clipboard, scanning the details. The first two were nothing out of the ordinary—one cardiac arrest, one drowning. The third was marked homicide.


    Clara rubbed her temple, trying to blink away the remnants of fatigue as she reached for her gloves. She pulled back the sheet. A man, early thirties, had a gunshot wound clean through the chest. His face was pale, lips slightly parted as if mid-sentence. He looked like he had been caught in the middle of something. Clara had seen enough bodies to recognise when a death had been expected. This one hadn''t been. She reached for the sterilised cloth beside her, dipping it into warm water as she worked on wiping away the residual grime and hospital adhesives. It was muscle memory at this point, the quiet process of restoration. And then she saw it. Behind his neck.


    It was barely visible, half-hidden beneath the hairline, the skin slightly blistered around it. A burn mark. Clara frowned, angling his head slightly to get a better look. The shape was distinct. A sigil. Or, more precisely—a moth. The intricate outline of a Death''s-head hawk moth, its wings curling into delicate, jagged lines. The breath left her lungs in a slow, controlled exhale.


    A chill crept down her spine, settling in her stomach like a weight. The morgue was cold—always was—but this was different. This was something else entirely. She swallowed, willing away the unease, pushing the strange hum in her nerves into the background. It was just a coincidence. Still, she finished the preliminary cleaning in record time, rolling her shoulders as the tension lingered. The air felt thicker now, pressing against her skin like an unseen presence.


    A pain shot through her tempil, most likely from the lack of sleep and water she had not consumed.


    She needed a break.


    ----------------


    The break room smelled like burnt coffee and vanilla air freshener. Nina was already there, perched on the counter with her legs crossed, nursing a cup of tea far too fancy for a morgue. She looked up as Clara entered, dark eyes bright with mischief. "You look like you got hit by a truck," Nina observed, blowing on her tea.


    Clara flopped into the chair opposite, rubbing her temples. "Thanks."


    "You''re welcome."


    Clara reached for the communal coffee pot, pouring herself a cup of something that smells vaguely of regret. She took a sip and immediately grimaced. "Jesus. This is awful."


    "Yep," Nina agreed. "But it''s warm. Which is more than I can say for this building."


    Clara huffed, wrapping her hands around the cup for warmth. Nina tilted her head, studying her. "Alright. Spill. What''s up?"


    Clara debated telling her. Nina was one of the few people she considered a friend, but even she had limits on what was considered a normal morning conversation. Hey, I had a nightmare about being smothered by moths and now there''s a corpse in the other room with the exact same mark burned into his skin. Weird, right?


    Instead, she settled on: "Didn''t sleep well."


    Nina squinted at her. "That''s vague."


    Clara shrugged. "I have nightmares sometimes."


    Nina considered that, then nodded like she had reached some grand conclusion. "Too much time around dead people."


    "Probably."


    "I have an idea," Nina said, sliding off the counter and reaching into her coat pocket. She pulled out something small and delicate, holding it out between two fingers.


    Clara raised an eyebrow, setting her coffee aside. "What''s this?"


    "A gift."


    Clara took it gently, inspecting the tiny, folded wings. A butterfly, its body frail, its colours muted in death.


    "You really need to stop picking up dead things," Clara murmured, but there was no bite to it.


    Nina smirked. "Oh, come on. Like you don''t love it."


    Clara did love it.


    They had been doing this for years. Nina found them—broken things, delicate remnants of fleeting life—and Clara gave them permanence.


    "I''ll pin it later," Clara said, already cataloging which frame she''d place it in.


    "You better," Nina teased. "I expect nothing but the finest posthumous treatment for my little winged friends."


    Clara smiled, something easing in her chest.


    It was a quiet, unspoken ritual. A small, morbid act of kindness between two people who spent too much time around the dead.


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    But even as they laughed, even as the tension left her shoulders, she couldn''t quite shake the cold weight in her stomach.


    The moth. The dream. The mark. It was probably nothing. But it didn''t feel like nothing.


    After thirty minutes of Nina rambling about her ever-chaotic love life— "Men are emotionally stunted toddlers with credit cards. But sure, I remain an optimist"— her father''s latest attempt at workplace tyranny— "If he tells me one more time that I ''lack discipline,'' I''m going to embalm him with glitter glue and zero regrets"— and her weekend plans— "Same as always. Drinks. Dancing. Poor choices. You''re invited, of course. You never come, but I like to keep up appearances"— Clara finally felt anchored enough to go back and finish her work.


    It was strange how easily conversation with Nina could pull her back to reality. The world of the living. For a brief moment, it was easy to convince herself that the morning had been unremarkable, that there was nothing odd about the moth-shaped burn on the corpse''s skin.


    Coincidence. That''s all it was. So Clara returned to her station, donned her gloves, and resumed her work.


    The body was still there, of course. The mark was still there too, inked like an old secret into the skin beneath the hairline. She ignored it. Or rather, she tried to ignore it.


    She focused instead on the body''s face, on the slow process of cleaning and setting the features into something peaceful. It was her usual routine. Ritualistic, even. ''Hello, old friend'' she said quietly. By the time she finished, the discomfort had dulled, rational thought smoothing over the edges of unease.


    Maybe I should go out this weekend. The thought surprised her. She never actually went when Nina invited her, but maybe she should. Maybe she needed to prove to herself that she wasn''t becoming too comfortable in places where the dead outnumbered the living. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.


    Jack.


    Got invited for drinks with my brother . Gonna be late. Don''t wait up for me.xxx


    Clara read the message twice, then exhaled slowly. They were supposed to have a date night.


    The usual: a nice restaurant he''d picked, one where she''d sit across from him, half-listening to him talk about work, about his gym routine, about his brother''s latest antics. And she would nod in the right places, sip her wine, let the conversation drift around her like a low hum. And she would pretend—pretend that this was enough. That this was normal. That she didn''t feel like she was standing on the other side of a glass wall, watching her own life play out as if it belonged to someone else.


    She thumbed out a response. Okay. Have fun. xx


    It was the kind of short, nonchalant text that didn''t leave room for argument. Her phone remained in her hand for a moment too long. Her fingers hovered over the screen, an old habit she hadn''t quite killed. She could check.


    It was almost too easy. A simple click, a search, scrolling through tagged photos—because men like Jack, men who lived their lives in social circles, who relished in attention, always left digital breadcrumbs. She never did, of course. Not anymore. Not since the first time she had searched his name in the early months of their relationship—when something gnawed at the edges of her gut, whispering that something wasn''t right.


    And she had been correct. There had been another girl. A stranger. Someone who didn''t know about Clara, just as Clara hadn''t known about her.


    And Jack—charming, stupid, reckless Jack—had been careless enough to leave proof.  And she had stayed. Not because she believed him, not because she forgave him, but because—what was the alternative? What did it matter?


    She was not a woman who believed in grand loves or perfect relationships. She had never been someone who yearned for that kind of devotion, the all-consuming, passionate kind that poets and playwrights wasted ink on. She had Jack. And Jack was fine. They were fine. A fleeting, dull pang pressed against her ribs—so faint, she could almost pretend she hadn''t felt it at all.


    She set her phone back down on the counter and let herself entertain the idea of an early night. A bubble bath, maybe. A glass of wine. A book she wouldn''t finish. Yes. That sounded like exactly what she needed.


    ---------------------------


    The water ran hot, nearly scalding as Clara twisted the tap. Steam curled in thick ribbons toward the ceiling, the scent of lavender and chamomile rising with it, wrapping around her like an embrace. She moved on autopilot, a routine she had followed countless times before. Her fingers drifted over the collection of glass bottles lined neatly along the edge of the tub, selecting a bath oil she knew by scent alone. A few drops into the water, and the surface shimmered with a golden sheen.


    She turned off the overhead light, leaving only the soft flicker of candlelight in the dim bathroom.


    It was indulgent, she supposed. Maybe even a little dramatic. But she liked it this way—liked how the rest of the world disappeared in the dark, how the flame''s reflection danced in the water, and how the scent of mint and rosemary curled in the steam.


    Her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen as she unwrapped the towel from her body. Nothing important. A missed call from Nina, a group chat message she wouldn''t open, another text from Jack. Still out. Don''t wait up. xx


    She rolled her eyes, thumbed out a half-hearted okay, and set the phone face-down before sinking into the water. Heat swallowed her whole, seeping into her muscles, unknotting the tension in her shoulders, in her spine. She let out a slow breath, sinking deeper, the water lapping just below her chin. For the first time all day, she felt still.


    Her mind, usually an endless hum of thoughts, finally quieted. No morgue. No bodies. No moth-shaped burns on the nape of dead men''s necks.


    Just silence.


    She reached blindly for her wine glass, bringing it to her lips. The bitterness of dry red lingered on her tongue, grounding her. The steam curled against her skin, dampening the stray strands of hair at her temples. Her eyes fluttered closed.


    Maybe she''d actually sleep tonight. Maybe— Something shifted. A ripple in the water. A breath out of place.


    The change was so subtle that at first, Clara thought she had imagined it. A trick of steam and candlelight, the mind playing cruel games in the half-dark. But then— The water moved.


    Not from her. Not from the natural ebb of heat against porcelain. from something else. Her eyes snapped open.


    The bathroom flickered with golden light, the candles swaying ever so slightly in their glass jars. The air felt thicker. Heavy in a way that had nothing to do with humidity. A presence.


    The certainty of it coiled around her spine like a slow exhale against the nape of her neck. Her pulse thrummed. She turned her head, gaze darting toward the open bathroom door. The hallway beyond yawned into darkness. The apartment was silent. Too silent.


    Her voice came steadier than she felt. "Jack?" Nothing. No footsteps. No shift of weight on the floorboards. She would''ve heard him come in. She would''ve felt it. And yet—she was not alone.


    The thought settled deep in her ribs, cold and certain. Her fingers clenched instinctively around the edge of the tub, her nails pressing into porcelain. The water lapped gently against her skin. A slow, rhythmic hush. And then—


    Hands. Brutal. Unrelenting. Everywhere. Shoving her down. The breath punched from her lungs as she plunged beneath the surface. The world collapsed into a muted roar. Clara thrashed, her body reacting on instinct, twisting against the invisible grip that held her under. Her fingers scrambled for purchase, slipping against the slick, porcelain walls of the tub. No grip. No air. No escape.


    Her heart slammed against her ribs, frantic, screaming—her mind followed a beat behind, slow, sluggish, sinking beneath the shock. She kicked, her legs hitting nothing. Water filled her nose, her throat, clawing down into her lungs like liquid fire. Burning. Expanding. A violent, primal panic took hold. Survive, survive, survive.


    She couldn''t breathe. She couldn''t— Red.


    A bloom of crimson burst through the water, swirling like ink. Her mind, drowning in panic, barely grasped what it was. Wine. The glass had shattered against the tub''s edge in her struggle, the stem snapping like a fragile bone. Red and white. Blood and porcelain. Her chest heaved, convulsed, rebelled. The water crushed against her, filled her, claiming every inch of space.


    Her limbs weakened. Her thrashing slowed. The resistance seeped from her muscles as the weight of inevitability took its place. Her body had stopped fighting. She was sinking.


    Somewhere, on the edges of consciousness, a shadow loomed. Watching. Waiting.  And the last thing she tasted was the bitterness of wine, curling like a final kiss on her tongue.


    Stillness. A breath held too long. A silence too deep. The space where life had been. And Clara—was gone.