《STIFF BEAUTY》


 Silence and Surrender

    The morgue was silent, save for the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The air carried the familiar scents of antiseptic, formaldehyde, and something more delicate¡ªrose water, faint but present. A woman stood at the embalming table, her gloved hands hovering just above the cold, lifeless skin of the body before her.


    She did not fear the dead. Nor did she grieve for them. She knew them. Their stillness, their silence. The fragility of their remains. The weight of what they left behind. In this modern temple of the departed, it''s just her and me ¡ª and Death, lingering as a silent witness in the corners of my mind. Hello, old friend, she thinks toward that lingering presence. Be patient. Let me do my work. She thought.


    This was the quiet work of the living¡ªto smooth away the last remnants of suffering, to prepare them for the gaze of those who would come to say goodbye. And she was very, very good at it.


    Tonight, her canvas was a woman¡ªShe was beautiful, even in death''s unmoving repose. The elegant curve of her cheekbones remained, the delicate shape of her lips untouched by decay. But death had begun its slow reclamation. Her blood had long stilled, her skin bore the waxen grey of finality.


    The marks on her throat¡ªViolet bruises bloom in the delicate shape of fingers around her neck ¨C a fading constellation of violence - tragic tattoos left by the cruelty of a husband''s hands.


    She exhaled softly. I''m sorry.


    A cloth dipped into warm water, infused with rose oil, passed over the woman''s skin. A small kindness. With gentle strokes, she wiped away the residue of death¡ªhospital tape, dried blood, the last remnants of struggle. A final cleansing.


    Her tools were laid out in neat, orderly rows: fine brushes, powders in muted tones, pigments mixed with care. Restoration was an art. It required patience, an intimate knowledge of shadow and light. The human face was not just flesh¡ªit was movement, expression, the soft curve of a smile, the lingering trace of emotion.


    She could not bring the woman back. But she could make it seem as though she had never left.


    With slow, practiced motions, she selected a foundation¡ªone designed to counteract the gray undertones of death, lending the illusion of warmth. Each brushstroke was deliberate, almost reverent. A soft flush of colour along the cheeks, blended carefully, mimicking the way blood once sat beneath the skin.


    It was an illusion, yes. But it was also an act of love.


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    As she worked, she imagined the woman alive. Did she blush easily? Did she tilt her head when she laughed? Did she prefer soft pink lipstick, or something bold, something red? Has she been happy? Has she been loved?


    Her eyelids were closed now. (She had closed them gently when she first arrived, feeling the slight weight of her lashes as they met.) They hid eyes that would cry no more, eyes that had last seen an act of betrayal. She smoothed a pale pearlescent powder over them, giving the impression she was merely resting, about to drift into a dream. In her mind''s eye, though, she opened those eyes, and they sparkled.


    She took a small comb and began to smooth her hair. Silky chestnut strands fell loosely around her face. The mundane, intimate act of combing a stranger''s hair always tugged at something deep in her. As she parted and arranged each lock, she imagined the hundred ordinary moments; her tying her hair up before bed, running late and skimming a brush through it in a rush, or a loved one tucking a strand behind her ear with affection. Each stroke of the comb is measured, loving and final.


    But the bruises on her throat remained. They told the truth in deep violet and blue, finger-shaped confessions of the man who had taken her life. The embalmer''s jaw tightened as she reached for a thicker concealer, dabbing and blending until the angry purple faded into something softer, something unseen.


    It felt almost subversive¡ªcovering up the evidence, rewriting the story.


    But this was not for him, the man who had done this. This was for her. This was for the people who would stand before the casket, searching for their mother, their sister, their daughter. They would not see what had been done to her. They would see who she had been.


    Her lips had been slightly parted when she arrived¡ªan unfinished breath, stolen too soon. Now, they were gently molded into place, touched with soft rose pigment. The bow of her upper lip was defined, giving her an expression of quiet repose. It was not a smile, not exactly. But it held something of serenity.


    A delicate comb smoothed her hair, now clean and shining. It fell in soft waves around her shoulders, arranged not just for appearance, but for memory. Someone would stand over this casket soon, searching for the woman they had lost, and they would find her.


    And in that moment, they would remember love, not death.


    She began to clean her tools, the ritual bringing her back to the present. The brushes washed, the powders closed, the excess foundation wiped from the various palettes, she felt that familiar presence still looming gently. "Not yet" she murmurs to death with the faintest smile, "she''s not quite ready for you to take it completely". Of course, death had already taken her, but in her heart she had always given a small part of whoever was laying before her to the world of the living - if only in semblance.


    She turns off the harsh overhead lamp, leaving only a dim lap in the corner. In this softer light, her face looks luminous, She could be asleep, dreaming sweetly. "Goodnight" She whispers out loud, her voice reverent and low. She almost senses death inclining his head, a solemn acknowledgement of what had passed here, With that, she steps away into the fluorescent hallway, leaving her restored at peace.


    Death had taken much.


    But tonight, for this brief moment, it had been denied the last word.

 The Weight of the Living

    Clara watched from the shadows of the hallway, her fingers resting lightly on the wooden frame of the door, just out of sight. The chapel was softly lit, golden sconces casting a flickering warmth that did little to soften the weight in the air. The scent of lilies¡ªtoo sweet, too thick, almost suffocating¡ªmingled with the low murmur of sorrow, quiet voices dipping in and out of the stillness.


    She was not meant to be here. Not in this way. Not as a guest. Not as a mourner. She only came to watch.


    The woman in the casket was the same one Clara had worked on two nights ago. The bruises had been erased, the skin given back its warmth, the lips restored with a delicate shade of rose. A small act of defiance against death.


    And now, as the family came forward in slow, hesitant steps, as trembling fingers reached out to touch the still, peaceful hands, Clara searched their faces for something¡ªrelief, gratitude, maybe even love.


    A younger woman, possibly a sister, stood the longest, fingers gripping the edge of the polished mahogany as if grounding herself. Clara saw the moment her breath hitched, a single sob swallowed before it could break free.


    Clara had seen it before¡ªthe shift in grief when the dead look almost alive. The hesitation, the brief flicker of doubt. She looks like she''s just sleeping. That was the point, wasn''t it?


    The work was not for the dead. It never had been. It was for them. For the ones left behind, the ones who needed to believe, even for a fleeting moment, that nothing had been stolen from them. That what they had lost was merely resting.


    "Morbid little habit, this," a voice murmured behind her. Clara flinched before composing herself, slowly straightening. She didn''t have to turn around to recognize the speaker.


    Mr. Halloway, the funeral home director, was standing with his hands tucked into his pockets, posture easy, but gaze knowing. He was an older man, dressed impeccably as always, his greying hair neatly combed, his tie a shade too dark for the somber event. Clara glanced at him, then back at the chapel, where the murmurs of the grieving filled the silence like waves lapping against a shore.


    "I was just¡ª"


    "Admiring your handiwork?" Halloway finished for her. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with something between amusement and pity. "You do good work, Clara. But watching them won''t change anything."


    She said nothing. He sighed. "You spend so much time with the dead, you forget you belong with the living."


    Clara turned her gaze back to the casket, to the family that clung to the illusion she had carefully painted. She understood what Halloway meant. Instead of answering, she stepped back from the doorway, slipping into the dim light of the corridor. "I should get back to work."


    Halloway studied her for a long moment, then shook his head with a wry chuckle. "One day, Clara, you''re going to realise you can''t spend your whole life waiting in doorways."


    She didn''t reply. She only walked away, leaving behind the scent of lilies, the murmurs of the mourning, and the small, fleeting moment where death looked almost beautiful.


    As she made her way down the hall, she could still feel Halloway''s gaze on her back. When she reached the end of the corridor, she hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder.


    "If I did belong with the living," she mused, more to herself than to him, "I''d be a terrible fit." Halloway let out a short, dry laugh. "No arguments there. But at least they tip better."


    Clara smirked, shaking her head as she pushed through the side door, stepping out into the cool air of the afternoon. A fine drizzle had begun to mist over the pavement, dampening the already grey city. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, contemplating whether to walk straight home or find an excuse to delay returning to her apartment.


    Maybe she''d stop for coffee. Maybe she''d sit by the river for a while and watch the water ripple, shifting and restless, like something that had never known stillness. She exhaled, tilted her face up toward the sky, and let the rain settle over her skin.


    The caf¨¦ by the river was half-full, the scent of fresh espresso mingling with the crispness of spring air. Clara cupped the warm paper cup in her hands as she leaned against the railing, steam curling against the damp chill of the afternoon. She took a slow sip, the chocolate rich and just a little too sweet¡ªan indulgence she rarely allowed herself.


    A small family sat on a nearby bench, their little girl tossing crumbs to a cluster of swans gliding through the water. Their pristine white feathers ruffled as they jostled for the scattered pieces, their dark eyes watchful, calculating. Among them, smaller bodies paddled eagerly¡ªtheir cygnets, still dappled in grey fuzz, new life unfurling on a river that had seen more endings than beginnings.


    She watched, bemused at the irony. She spent her nights giving the illusion of life to the dead, and here was the world, stubbornly reminding her of how effortlessly it created the real thing.


    Her phone buzzed against her palm. She glanced down, already suspecting the name before she saw it.


    Jack: Gonna be late. Gym after work xx


    Clara sighed through her nose, rubbing her thumb against the side of the cup. She hadn''t expected a dinner together, but she also wouldn''t have lingered here if she knew she''d be coming home to an empty flat.


    Her first instinct was to text back something neutral. Okay. See you later xxx


    Instead, her fingers hovered over the keyboard.


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    She could say it.


    Why didn''t you tell me earlier? I could have stayed at work longer.


    But then he''d apologise, say he didn''t think it was a big deal, that she should use the free time to do something fun. And what would she say to that? Jack, I prepare bodies for funerals. I make dead women look like they never died. The closest thing I have to fun is seeing if their families think I did a good enough job.


    So instead, she just sighed and typed: Okay. See you later. xxx


    She slipped the phone back into her pocket and took another sip of her hot chocolate, eyes following the ripples in the water. The swans had started to drift further away, the crumbs all gone. The little girl on the bench whined in protest, but her mother murmured something soothing, pointing toward a squirrel darting across the path. The child''s attention shifted, her grief short-lived.


    Clara envied her for that.


    With a final glance at the water, she pushed off the railing and started the slow walk home. The streets had emptied.


    Clara had walked this route countless times before¡ªpast the low glow of the bookshop that closed early on Mondays, the caf¨¦ with its chairs stacked behind the glass, the florist that still smelled of damp earth even after its doors had locked for the night. The city at this hour was quieter, softened by the hush of a world winding down.


    But tonight, it felt different.


    At first, it was small things¡ªsubtle, almost imperceptible shifts in the air. The weight of the silence. The way the streetlights flickered, not in their usual stuttering pulse, but in a way that felt almost... deliberate.


    She rolled her shoulders and adjusted the strap of her bag. Kept walking.


    The damp scent of spring clung to the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed, a dog barked, a man laughed too loudly on a street over. Normal sounds. Familiar sounds. But beneath it, something less explainable. A thread of static crawling along her skin, needling at her senses. She exhaled slowly. You''re imagining it. Still, her pace quickened, just slightly.


    Her boots struck the pavement in an even rhythm¡ªclick, click, click¡ªbut as she passed a darkened shop window, something made her glance sideways. Just a fleeting, flickering instinct, but her gaze caught the warped reflection of the street behind her. And for half a second, she thought she saw movement. Not the shadow of a passing car. Not the rustling of leaves. Something. She stopped.


    Her pulse drummed beneath her skin, but when she turned fully to look, the street was empty. The wet asphalt gleamed under the orange streetlights, slick and undisturbed. Nothing there.


    Clara exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking off the ridiculous weight of unease settling in her chest. Stop being stupid. You''re tired. She kept moving.


    The wind had picked up, pulling at the loose strands of her hair, lifting the scent of damp stone and rain. She turned the next corner, and the unease bloomed into something sharper. The feeling had followed her.


    It wasn''t paranoia. It wasn''t the ordinary wariness of walking alone at night. This was different. More like the sensation of a hand hovering just above your skin, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the presence of it. Close enough that you know it''s there. She didn''t look over her shoulder. Didn''t stop. Didn''t falter. Just walked. Faster now.


    And yet, no matter how much she quickened her pace, the thought was already there, clawing its way through the damp corridors of her mind. The worst thought. The one women were conditioned to entertain before dismissing, like a reflex, like an old wives'' tale meant to scare little girls into being cautious. The thought of what people could do. What they had done.


    The newspapers always called them horrors¡ªexceptions, outliers, But she had seen them up close, those horrors, laid out on cold metal slabs, turned into bodies with stories carved into their skin. Bruises shaped like hands around a throat, lips split where a struggle had failed, defensive wounds on soft palms that never stood a chance. The unnatural dead, she called them. The ones who should still be walking. Most of them were women.


    She used to wonder if it was something broken in those men, some defect in their design. But the more bodies she had prepared, the more she had begun to wonder if it was something else entirely.Not a flaw. A feature.


    Her fingers curled into a fist, the weight of her keys pressing into her palm. She should have been safe. It was broad daylight. But daylight had never stopped people before. She thought of the woman on her table that morning, how she had gently smoothed the dark rings from her throat, and wiped away the last evidence of terror.


    Would someone do the same for her? She clenched her teeth, shoved the thought away. Keep moving. She adjusted her grip on the keys, pressing them between her fingers like claws, a habit as instinctual as breathing. The pavement was slick under her boots. The air, too thick. She rounded the corner and the feeling changed. A heartbeat behind her own. A shadow where there should have been none. And then¡ªimpact.


    She collided into something solid, and small, and human.


    A frail hand caught her wrist before she could stumble. "Oh, my dear," the old woman murmured, her grip cold as winter. "Your friend ought to slow down."  Clara stiffened. She felt the response crawl up her throat, the instinct to correct, to insist¡ªbut the words stuck, caught in the tangle of her thoughts. Instead, she said nothing.


    The woman''s eyes¡ªclouded, pale as sea glass left too long in the tide¡ªdrifted beyond Clara''s shoulder. She squinted slightly, as though focusing on something just out of reach. And then, after a beat too long, she smiled. Not unkindly. Not eerily. A warm, knowing thing, meant to comfort. The kind of smile a grandmother might give to a nervous child, promising that there was nothing to fear in the dark.


    But something about it made Clara''s skin prickle. A slow, crawling unease coiled around her spine, urging her to step back, to pull free. She didn''t. She refused to. Instead, she exhaled carefully and willed the tension from her shoulders, forcing herself to focus on what was in front of her. The woman was old, nothing more. Senile, maybe. Harmless, definitely. And yet¡ªthe words still curled inside her like smoke.


    Your friend ought to slow down. She wet her lips, and almost said something. Almost. Then the old woman gave a small, satisfied nod, as if she had heard an answer that had never been spoken, and gently patted Clara''s wrist. A farewell. A dismissal.


    And then, without another word, she shuffled past her, disappearing into the city''s dusk-lit hush, her shawl trailing behind her like a wisp of unraveling mist.


    Clara stood frozen. Her breath came slow and steady, but her heartbeat hadn''t settled. She glanced back, searching the street¡ªnot for the woman, but for anything. A sign that she wasn''t just imagining things, that there hadn''t been a shape where there shouldn''t have been, a presence that lingered too long. But there was nothing. Only the wet gleam of the pavement. The dim glow of streetlights. Just the city and her shadow.


    She clenched her jaw and turned back toward home, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. You''re being ridiculous. A stranger says something strange and suddenly she''s reading ghosts into it. It was exhaustion, that was all. Too much time spent around the dead, too many nights smoothing colour into cheeks that would never flush again, too many mornings wondering how long she''d let herself drift between the living and the lost. She exhaled sharply through her nose.


    Tomorrow, she told herself she''d leave work early. Go somewhere loud. Somewhere full of life. Tonight, she''d go home. Lock the door. Shake this feeling. And forget about it. Even if, somewhere deep in her bones, she already knew she wouldn''t.

 Flesh and Bone

    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¡ªa 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¡ªtoo 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¡ªjust... unsettling in its stillness. Like she saw more than she was supposed to.


    Her dark eyebrows¡ªthick and untamed¡ªframed 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¡ªnot 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¡ªmore 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¡ªbrief, sharp moments¡ªwhen 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¡ªuntamed, 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¡ªjust 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¡ªquiet, 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¡ªbutterflies, 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¡ªpretending 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¡ªhalf-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¡ªloved 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¡ªan iridescent blue morpho¡ªsat beneath the soft glow of her desk lamp, its wings spread wide as if caught mid-flight.


    The front door clicked open. Footsteps¡ªsolid, deliberate¡ªmuffled 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?"


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    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¡ªpeople 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¡ªnever 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¡ªClara''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¡ªbarely 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¡ªshe 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¡ªthe 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¡ªjust at the edges of the glass, where the darkness thickened¡ªsomething 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¡ªsometimes 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¡ªthis one to her temple, half-sincere, half-teasing¡ªbefore 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.


    ¡ª----------


    She was in the morgue. Except¡ªnot 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¡ªsomething 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 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¡ªa scent. Mint. Crushed earth. Something richer, darker¡ªwarm like the embers of a dying fire, yet sweet like overripe fruit. And then¡ªhands. 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¡ªan 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.

 A sip of Red, A breath of Black

    Clara was tired.


    Not the kind of tired that a full night''s sleep could fix¡ªno, 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¡ªmint, 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¡ªshe 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¡ªone 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¡ªa 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¡ªalways was¡ªbut 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¡ªbroken things, delicate remnants of fleeting life¡ªand 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¡ª "Men are emotionally stunted toddlers with credit cards. But sure, I remain an optimist"¡ª her father''s latest attempt at workplace tyranny¡ª "If he tells me one more time that I ''lack discipline,'' I''m going to embalm him with glitter glue and zero regrets"¡ª and her weekend plans¡ª "Same as always. Drinks. Dancing. Poor choices. You''re invited, of course. You never come, but I like to keep up appearances"¡ª 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¡ªpretend 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¡ªbecause 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¡ªwhen 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¡ªcharming, stupid, reckless Jack¡ªhad been careless enough to leave proof.  And she had stayed. Not because she believed him, not because she forgave him, but because¡ªwhat 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¡ªso 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¡ªliked 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¡ª 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¡ª 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¡ªshe 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¡ª


    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¡ªher 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¡ª 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¡ªwas gone.

 The Paparazzi of Death

    The body was still warm.


    Gabriel Aldrin crouched by the edge of the alley, one knee pressed into the damp concrete, camera balanced with practiced care in his hands. Rain hadn''t quite started yet, but the sky threatened it¡ªlow and heavy, the kind that made everything feel slower, blurred at the edges. The scent of copper lingered in the air.


    He lifted the viewfinder to his eye. Click.


    Blood streaked from the corner of the victim''s mouth, dark and almost artful against the curve of his jaw. The gunshot wound was small, precise, nestled just beneath the clavicle. Clean entry. Less mess than expected. Gabriel leaned in, adjusting the lens, focusing on the man''s left ear.


    There. Faint. Burnt into the skin just behind the lobe¡ªalmost hidden by hair and shadow. A moth. Not ink. A brand. He lowered the camera slowly, his pulse ticking once¡ªthen twice¡ªin his throat. "That''s the third one." Detective Elias crouched beside him, exhaling through his nose as he squinted at the mark. He smelled faintly of coffee and the pine-scented soap he never seemed to change. "Same pattern. Same placement. What the hell does it mean?"


    Gabriel didn''t answer right away. He raised the camera again and took another shot¡ªcloser this time. The details sharpened through the lens. Wings splayed. Skull-like face in the centre. Not quite symmetrical. "It''s not just a symbol," he said quietly. "It''s a signature."


    Elias made a soft sound of disapproval. "So what are we saying now? Serial killer? Cult? Occultist with a flair for theatrics?"


    Gabriel sat back on his heels. "Or someone who wants us to think that."


    "You''re overthinking again," Elias said, but his tone lacked conviction. "Could just be a gang marking. Territory shit."


    Gabriel''s lips twitched¡ªnot quite a smile. "Sure. And I''m a librarian."


    Elias gave him a look. "You could be. Quiet as you are."


    Gabriel''s eyes flicked up at him, dull green irises, deceptively soft. There was something boyish about his face¡ªclean-shaven, gentle lines, a kind of earnestness that made people trust him more than they should. But the camera shook differently in his hands today. Slower. More deliberate.


    "You''re not going to let this go, are you?" Elias said, standing and dusting his hands off. "I can see it already. You''ll be up till 3 a.m. with all your weird little maps and old Latin forums."


    Gabriel rose too, eyes drifting to the body once more. "Someone left us a message. I''m just trying to read it."


    Elias clapped him on the shoulder, almost fond. "Just don''t let it read you back, yeah?"


    They parted ways a few minutes later¡ªElias back to his squad car, Gabriel to his darkroom. But as he packed up his gear, his eyes lingered again on the brand behind the victim''s ear.


    The thing was¡ªhe had seen that moth before. Not in a textbook. Not online. Somewhere real.


    --------------------------------


    Gabriel sat alone in the glow of his office light, the city flickering behind the window like an old film reel¡ªgrainy, half-washed, out of sync with the silence inside.


    The photographs were spread across his desk in uneven rows, each print pinned at the corners, curling slightly from the humidity. A man''s neck. A burn. A shape¡ªso precise it couldn''t be accidental.


    The Death''s-head hawk moth.


    He leaned in, fingers smudged with charcoal and chemicals, tracing the ink-black wings with the edge of a pencil.


    It wasn''t just a mark. It was deliberate. Placed behind the ear like a secret no one was meant to find.


    His eyes flicked to the Latin inscription on the evidence form. Something handwritten by one of the newer techs¡ªunassuming, misspelled, and likely copied from a quick Google search. But still... something about it tugged.


    Mors non venit sola.


    Death does not come alone.


    He whispered the phrase under his breath, letting the words roll over his tongue. There was more¡ªhe was sure of it. He could feel it, like a loose thread somewhere just behind his eyes.


    The moth. It had been branded into flesh. But not like the others.


    This one hadn''t bled right. And the edges weren''t cauterised in a way that made sense. More like something had burned its way from the inside out.


    Gabriel reached for his notes¡ªlayered, inconsistent, fragmented scribbles that rarely meant much to anyone but him. Circles, arrows, names half-written. The puzzle didn''t have corners. Not yet.


    A knock at the door pulled him from the spiral. "Come in," he called, voice rough from disuse.


    The door creaked open. Elise stepped inside, holding two cups of coffee like peace offerings.


    She was wearing a soft grey wool coat and a pair of boots still wet from the rain. Her dark hair had been swept into a low knot at the base of her neck, a few strands coming loose at her temples. She looked tired, but composed¡ªas she always did.


    "You didn''t reply to my text," she said softly, setting the coffee down on the only uncluttered part of his desk. "So I figured I''d come bother you in person."


    "I''ve been working," he replied, not unkindly. "I can see that." Her eyes scanned the photos. "Another moth?"


    Gabriel nodded. She didn''t ask more¡ªnot yet. Just sat in the chair across from him and pulled her coat tighter around herself.


    "I heard about the scene," she said after a moment. "Elias said it was... strange."


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    "That''s one word for it."


    He pushed a few photos toward her, not entirely sure why. Elise had a sharp mind. Quieter than most. She didn''t speculate unless she had something worth saying.


    She studied the burn, her lips pressing into a thin line.


    "You think this is the same person?"


    "I don''t think it''s a person at all," Gabriel murmured.


    She glanced up at him. "That''s dramatic. Even for you."


    He gave a faint smile, leaning back in his chair, stretching out his long legs beneath the desk. "Maybe."


    But his eyes lingered on the photographs, and something in his gaze turned darker. More distant. Elise didn''t press. She never did. That was what made her dangerous.


    "You look tired," she said instead, softer now. He didn''t answer.


    A silence stretched between them, thick as velvet. Then she stood, brushing her coat smooth, fingers lingering on the edge of his desk.


    "Well," she said, trying for lightness, "I''ll leave you to your chaos."He didn''t stop her. She hesitated at the door.


    "I''ll see you tonight?" she asked, voice almost an afterthought.


    Gabriel looked up. Met her eyes. And nodded once. She left quietly. The door clicked shut.


    He waited until her footsteps faded, then turned back to the photographs. The Latin phrase gnawed at him like a splinter. He opened his browser. Typed slowly. Mors non venit sola. But he didn''t stop there.


    He followed threads, chased old forum entries, scanned grainy scans of academic journals with cracked spines and yellowed pages.


    One caught his eye. An entry from a forgotten manuscript, translated poorly and posted on a near-defunct archive site. "Mors non venit sola. Vocat corpus ad umbram. In carne, iterum."


    Death does not come alone. She calls the body to shadow. In flesh, again.


    Gabriel read the words three times. Something in his chest pulled tight. Not fear. Not recognition. Something older.


    A sound in his bones. A taste in his mouth. As if the words themselves had opened a door. He closed the browser. Deleted the history. And sat back in the dim silence of his office, the coffee beside him growing cold, untouched. He wasn''t ready to ask the real question.


    ---------------------------------------------


    The apartment was dim when Elise let herself in. The door closed behind her with a soft click.


    Elise didn''t speak at first. She slipped off her coat, shook the rain from her shoulders, and crossed the apartment like someone who knew the space too well. She placed the coffee cup on his desk, careful not to disturb the papers¡ªalways careful, always trying not to make a mess of what was never hers to keep.


    "I brought your favourite," she said quietly.


    Gabriel didn''t look up from the book he was reading. The light from his desk lamp cast long shadows across his soft features, his dark lashes low over moss-green eyes.  The kind of face that made people assume gentleness. He had that kind of quiet allure¡ªpolite, soft-spoken, forgettable in crowds. But under the loose cotton shirt, his muscles coiled tightly across his frame, lean and precise, like they had a purpose that didn''t include softness.


    He reached for the coffee without thanks. She didn''t expect one. Elise stepped closer. Close enough to feel the quiet rolling off him. It never felt like stillness. It felt like something watching itself in stillness. She brushed her fingers over his shoulder, tentative at first.


    "Don''t," he said, softly. But she didn''t listen.


    "You look like you haven''t slept," Elise said gently, her voice the usual mix of affection and tired amusement.


    Gabriel didn''t answer. Not right away. Just let her come to him. She did.


    Elise moved between his knees and stood there until he looked up. Her brown eyes were dark and steady, her dark hair damp from the rain. She was beautiful in that quiet way¡ªno flash, no dramatics. Just elegant, earthy calm. She offered no smile, but she leaned down and kissed him, slow and open-mouthed, like she was asking a question she already knew the answer to.


    He kissed her back, deeper. His hands slid under her coat, down her back, pulling her into him. There was something taut in the way he moved¡ªmeasured but firm, like a muscle held in tension.


    Elise allowed herself to revel in the way  he held her hips, fingers digging just enough to leave a trace. The way his shirt clung to the lean, strength underneath.


    Without a word, he stood, turned her toward the wall. Elise didn''t resist. She pressed her palms flat to the cool surface, gasping as his mouth found her neck, hot and consuming. There was no gentleness in the way he took her. Not tonight. No soft confessions. No illusions.


    Only breath and movement. Skin against skin. Hands anchoring her hips. His mouth brushing her shoulder as she tipped her head back. Her voice breaking the silence in half.


    He moved with precision¡ªcalculated, steady, like he already knew what made her shudder, what made her ache. He wasn''t cruel, but he wasn''t careful either. It was physical. Intimate in the most impersonal way. She reached for more, and he gave it¡ªjust enough, always just enough.


    They stood there a moment, tangled and breathing. They made it to the bed in the same quiet urgency. Clothes peeled off like pages. Her legs wrapped around him, hands in his hair. He pinned her wrists for a second too long, and she didn''t mind. She liked the way he handled her¡ªnever cruel, never rushed, but always in control.


    She''d once thought it meant he felt something. Now she knew better.


    Elise didn''t mind. Not really. She''d always liked the way he moved¡ªdecisive, confident, like his body knew exactly what hers needed and didn''t bother pretending it was more than that. Not love. Not longing. Just heat.


    When he took her, it was quiet. No words, no whispers. Just the dull thud of the headboard, the sound of skin on skin, her name once¡ªbarely spoken, more exhale than syllable.


    It was good. It always was. But Elise knew the difference between passion and connection. She could feel the line in the way he held her¡ªtight enough to make her gasp, but not enough to make her stay.


    Later, their bodies cooled under the breath of the fan. She lay beside him, her cheek against his shoulder, one arm draped lightly over his stomach.


    "You ever gonna tell me what you''re looking for in those books?" she asked quietly.


    Gabriel didn''t answer. Typical.


    She turned toward him, propping herself on one elbow. "I saw the word ''Vespertina.'' Sounds dramatic. What is it?"


    "A genus of moth," he said. His voice was thick from exertion, still low.


    "And?"


    He looked at her. Really looked, for a second. "They were used in a series of old burial rituals. But I don''t know yet what it means."


    She brushed her knuckles down his chest, lightly. "You always say that."


    "I always mean it."


    Another beat passed. Elise pulled the sheet up over her bare chest, even though she didn''t really care about modesty with him anymore. Her voice softened.


    "My therapist thinks I should stop this."


    He didn''t move.


    "She says I should let go of things that won''t ever grow. That being in love with someone who doesn''t love you back is a kind of self-harm."


    Gabriel still didn''t move. Elise exhaled. "I told her I''m not in love. But she didn''t believe me."


    He didn''t look at her. "I''ll see you later."


    "No," she said softly. "You won''t."


    And then she was gone.


    Gabriel stared at the ceiling for a long time after that. Listening to the quiet. Letting it fill him.


    Then he sat up, reached for the book on his desk, and flipped to the passage again.


    His eyes landed on the words, traced them silently: Ad vocem noctis, redeunt qui nunquam abierunt. (At the voice of night, return those who never left.)


    He ran a thumb across the edge of the page. The coffee she''d brought him sat untouched, cooling beside the bed. There were many ways to return to the dead. Some were summoned.


    Others came back on their own.

 The Garden of the Gone

    There was warmth.


    Soft sun filtered through a canopy of green, gold-touched and fluttering like breath. Clara blinked against the brightness, but it wasn''t harsh. It was soft, dappled, dancing across her skin like the brush of a lover''s fingers. She sat cross-legged in a patch of moss, the earth cool and damp beneath her legs. Her hands were full of petals¡ªvelvety, pale lilac and deep marigold. Across from her, crouched low in the garden bed, was her mother.


    She looked like Clara. More than Clara ever remembered.


    Same hazel eyes, framed by dark lashes and arched brows that never quite behaved. The same freckled bridge of the nose, the same wild, sun-dusted hair tied back with a scrap of silk. Her mother''s hands moved gently through the stems, pruning with a touch both practiced and reverent. There was dirt beneath her fingernails. Always had been. Her sleeves rolled to the elbow. The kind of woman who sang to her plants and gave names to her crickets. Clara watched her smile as she scooped a bright green one onto her finger and handed it to her like a secret.


    "You see how he doesn''t run?" her mother murmured, though the sound of her voice seemed to echo as if spoken through a long corridor. "You''ve always been like that. The ones who feel out of place... they see more. They stay still when others run."


    Clara didn''t know what she meant by it. But she liked the way the words settled in her chest, like something she''d been waiting to hear her whole life. The air smelled of rosemary and crushed grass. The garden shimmered in hues that didn''t exist in waking light¡ªblues too deep, greens too luminous, every flower head turned slightly toward her as if she, not the sun, had become the centre of their orbit.


    And her mother''s smile lingered¡ªbright but brittle. There was tiredness behind her eyes. A pallor beneath her skin that hadn''t been there the last time. A trembling in her fingers that she tried to hide as she handed Clara another sprig of lavender. Clara didn''t ask. She didn''t need to.


    She just reached forward and took her hand instead. Held it. Let silence bloom between them. The petals began to fall. One by one. From the sky, from the air, from nowhere. Floating down like snowflakes¡ªsoft, slow, silent. And her mother began to wilt.


    At first, it was her skin¡ªtranslucent, paled like water-washed silk. Then her limbs, hollowing. Her hair unraveled in the breeze. Her smile faltered. And still Clara didn''t speak.


    She just held her mother''s hand until it wasn''t a hand anymore, but vines, threading between her fingers. Wildflowers erupting in her lap. Ivy coiling up her arms like veins made of green. The figure that had been her mother melted into the soil without a sound, until all that remained was a bloom of life. Purple thistles. Pale yellow daisies. Queen Anne''s lace blooming so quickly Clara couldn''t catch her breath.


    She reached out¡ª And fell.


    The world cracked open beneath her like a trapdoor. And the Falling felt like forever.


    Wind screamed in her ears. Her limbs flailed through weightless space, dragged through air that felt thick with breath and memory. Down and down and down¡ª Hands.


    They caught her. Not to save her, but to keep her.


    Dead hands. Cold and wet and desperate. Fingers tangled in her hair, clawing at her arms, pressing into her ribs. Some tried to climb her, others tried to drag her under.


    She couldn''t scream. Not because she was afraid¡ªbut because the air had been stolen.


    A thousand hands. A thousand lives. All grasping. She kicked. Twisted. Tried to claw free. But they only held tighter, whispering without mouths. Stay. Stay. STAY.


    Clara closed her eyes, falling and falling.. One hand. A strong one. Not dead. Clara opened her eyes, head spinning.


    It gripped her wrist with force, heat flaring through her bones like lightning.  And just like that¡ªshe was yanked upward. Light exploded behind her eyes. The hands let go. A single word thundered through her.


    Mine.


    -----------------------


    Water erupted from her lungs in a violent cough. Jack''s voice was the first thing she heard.


    "Clara¡ªClara, come on. Wake up¡ªcome on, don''t do this¡ª"


    Hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her hard enough to jolt her spine. Then a single, sharp compression to her chest. She gasped.


    Water surged from her mouth like a tide breaking loose¡ªchoking, retching, her whole body convulsing. Her vision blurred, her lungs screaming as air finally clawed its way back in. She coughed, shuddered, felt the bathwater cling to her skin in clammy sheets. Jack crouched beside her, soaked, pale with panic. His breath was ragged. "Jesus, Clara. Jesus Christ. What the fuck happened?"


    She tried to speak, but her throat burned. Her fingers dug into the edge of the tub as her mind scrambled for coherence. "Someone¡ªsomeone was here¡ª"


    "What?"


    "In the bathroom. Someone pushed me under. I couldn''t breathe¡ªJack, I was drowning¡ª"


    His face twisted. "Clara..."


    I didn''t fall asleep, I didn''t¡ª


    "I''m serious," she hissed, louder now, hoarse with fear. "Someone was here. Someone touched me. Held me down."


    "There''s no one here." He stood abruptly, water dripping from his sleeves. "I checked the whole flat before I even got to you. The door was locked. Nothing''s out of place."


    "That doesn''t mean¡ª"


    "You had wine. You were exhausted. You fell asleep."


    "I didn''t fall asleep!" she shouted. Her voice cracked, too raw. Her heart pounded in her ears.


    "You think I''m lying?"


    "No. I think you''re scared." He dropped to his knees again, his hands on her wet arms. "I think you scared yourself. You said you hadn''t been sleeping, that you''ve been feeling weird. You''ve been working too much. Clara, you need to breathe. You''re okay now." Her lip trembled.


    She stared at him, searching for something in his eyes¡ªbelief, maybe. But all she saw was concern laced with dismissal. Like he''d made up his mind, filed this under "accident" before she''d even finished speaking.


    And still¡ªshe was too tired to fight.


    "Come on," Jack muttered, standing and offering his hand. "I''ll get you some toast. Something to soak it up."


    She let him pull her to her feet. Let him wrap her in a towel and guide her, shaking, into the living room. Her legs almost gave up underneath her.  She didn''t argue. She ate the toast without tasting it, swallowed the paracetamol like a ritual. Her hands trembled as she set the plate down.


    He led her to bed, pulled the blankets over her shoulders, kissed her forehead with a sigh. "You scared the shit out of me," he said, voice low now. "Just rest, alright?"


    She nodded. But she didn''t rest.


    Her heart still beat too fast. Her skin buzzed like static. Her body ached in places she couldn''t name. Her head was fuzzy, little flurries of memories, Grabbing and the cold press of the water.


    She turned her face into the pillow. Closed her eyes. Tried to let go of the way her lungs still seemed unsure of air.


    As Clara drifted in and out of sleep she felt a hand, stroking back her hair. Gentle. Careful. Reverent. She almost sighed with relief. Jack, she thought. He''s never touched me like this before. It made something inside her ache.


    She took a deep breath, a small huff in approval. The scent. Not beer. Not skin. Something else entirely.


    Mint. Damp earth. Resin and smoke. Something warm. Dark. Almost¡ª


    delicious.


    She was too exhausted to care,  and didn''t open her eyes. She leaned into the touch, instinctive, drawn toward it like heat in winter. It lingered a moment longer. And when it left¡ª She whimpered. Just once. And then let herself drift, quietly, into sleep.


    ---------------------


    Jack stood in the hallway with his suitcase already zipped and upright, one hand resting on the handle like he wasn''t sure whether to take it or abandon it altogether.


    "You gave me a scare last night," he said. "When I found you in the tub¡ªfuck, Clara, you weren''t breathing."


    "I know."


    He stepped toward her. "It was the wine, right?"


    Clara said nothing.


    "No signs of forced entry. All the doors were locked. Nothing missing. You were alone." His voice tried to stay calm, but it pitched at the edges.


    Her knuckles whitened around the mug. She didn''t correct him. She wouldn''t. Not now. Not when she herself couldn''t quite piece together what had happened.


    Jack sighed and reached down, pressing a quick kiss to her hair. "Promise me you''ll take it easy while I''m gone."


    "I''ll rest," she said. It felt like a lie.


    "I mean it. No weird bug-collecting. No late nights in the lab. Maybe even talk to someone, Clara."


    That one made her jaw twitch. "Go."


    "You really want me to go?" he asked for the third time, voice lower than usual, like he hoped softness might coax her into changing her mind.


    Clara leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, an old sweater swallowed around her like armour. She nodded. "Yes."


    Jack frowned. "Two weeks is a long time."


    "You''ve done longer."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "Not after¡ª" He cut himself off, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom behind her, toward everything neither of them had said out loud. "After what happened."


    She held his gaze. "I''m okay."


    "You''re not."


    "I''m not helpless."


    "I didn''t say you were."


    There was a long silence between them, filled only by the low hum of the radiator and the early morning light filtering through the blinds in stripes.


    Jack rubbed a hand over his face. "I can stay. I can tell them I''m not well, or¡ª"


    "No." Her voice was quiet but resolute. "Go. You''ve been planning this trip for months. Just... go."


    Something shifted in his expression then¡ªsomething reluctant, something that knew. He looked at her like he was seeing her from far away. Like maybe he''d already lost something and just hadn''t figured out when.


    "You''re sure?"


    She hesitated. Then nodded again. "I''ll be fine."


    He didn''t believe her. But he kissed her cheek anyway, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked out the door with that last glance back¡ªone she wouldn''t forget. A look too weighted to be casual, too lingering to be indifferent.


    She stood in the silence after he left, the sound of the lock sliding back into place louder than it should''ve been.


    And then she exhaled.


    She didn''t cry. Didn''t sit on the floor in a heap of grief. She just stood there, heart thrumming in her chest like it had been waiting for this exact moment of stillness.


    -----------------------


    Clara sat by the window, a tangle of thoughts in her lap. Outside, the city had fallen away into a blur of wet fields, blooming hedgerows, and sleepy woodlands stitched together with grey sky.


    The town was small. Quiet. She liked that. She liked how no one looked twice at a woman walking alone with a canvas bag full of vials and tweezers, a battered sketchbook tucked under her arm.


    She spent her days in the rain-damp forest, crouched beneath canopies of greening trees, collecting beetles and moth wings and fragments of things once alive. It was the closest she came to peace.


    There was a rhythm to it. The careful silence. The cool press of moss beneath her boots. The muted thud of her pulse when the world felt far enough away that it couldn''t touch her.


    She didn''t think about the bath. Or the hands. Or the thing that had pulled her under.


    At least, not out loud.


    The woods were soft with rain and moss, dappled with light that filtered through new spring growth. The air was cool, damp, green. She let it fill her lungs like a balm, like she might be able to press it into all the places that still hurt.


    She walked for hours each day, past leaning birch trees and dripping pines, through the hush of fern beds and the crunch of sodden leaves. Her boots sank into earth softened by days of drizzle. Her fingers skimmed bark, damp and rough beneath her touch.


    She didn''t think. Not in full sentences, anyway.


    She just moved. Breathing felt easier in the woods. The kind of quiet that didn''t demand anything from her. The kind that let her be strange. Alone. Unapologetic.


    Sometimes she stopped and stood still, just listening. To the creak of branches in the wind. The distant caw of a bird overhead. The hush of the forest breathing around her.


    It wasn''t healing, exactly. But it helped.


    She didn''t go into the bathroom when she returned to the flat. Not unless she had to. Showers were short, perfunctory. Lights left on. Doors ajar. The bath remained dry, untouched, silent.


    But her sleep was beginning to return in longer stretches. Her appetite had crept back slowly. Her hands didn''t shake as much when she reached for things. It was almost enough to feel human again.


    By Sunday night, she had washed the forest scent from her hair, folded her laundry, made a list for the grocery store. She stood by the window and watched the city hum to life beneath the drizzle¡ªcars and lights and strangers moving in tandem. And for the first time in days, Clara didn''t feel haunted.


    --------------


    By the time Clara pushed through the morgue''s back entrance on Monday morning, the scent of bleach and cold metal felt almost comforting. The chill in the air kissed her skin, clean and clinical¡ªsharpened by the fluorescent lights and the soft buzz of distant machinery.


    She hadn''t worn makeup. Her hair was damp from the rain and all wavy. But there was a strange steadiness in her chest. The solitude had helped, as it always did. Three days of muddy boots, mist-clung woods, and the quiet hush of spring''s early breath had done something for her¡ªdulled the edge, softened the noise.


    She peeled off her coat, hung it by the door, and reached for her apron. There was already a body waiting on the table.


    Male. Forties. Car accident.


    The damage was mostly cranial¡ªblunt force trauma, a collapsed skull. But there was something about him she didn''t like. Something in the curl of his lip, the way rigor had fixed him in a half-smirk. She didn''t know why that bothered her more than the shattered bone.


    She was halfway through cleaning the blood from his temple when the phone rang. Clara blinked. The phone never rang.


    She stripped off her glove and crossed the room, picked up the receiver. "Erelis City Morgue."


    "Hi," a male voice said. Low. Measured. "Is Clara there?" She paused, fingers curled around the cord. "Speaking."


    "This is Gabriel Aldrin. I''m with the forensics team. I was on the Duncan case last week. The one with the¡ª"


    "The moth burn," she finished for him, pulse ticking. A beat.


    "Yes," he said, slowly. "Another came in over the weekend. We''re seeing a pattern. I wanted to ask if you''ve seen anything unusual. Matching marks. Or...anything that felt off." Her eyes flicked to the corpse behind her. She leaned against the desk, deliberate.


    "No," she said easily. "Nothing like that." It came out smooth. Untroubled. Not even her heartbeat gave her away.


    But Gabriel didn''t speak for a moment. And when he did, his voice was different¡ªcurious. Like he was trying to feel his way through fog.


    "I see," he said. "It''s just... your name came up."


    Clara raised an eyebrow. "In what context?"


    "You were the technician who prepped the last two bodies. Both with identical burns, both missing autopsy reports."


    "That''s a coincidence," she said. Calm. Effortless. "Reports get lost all the time."


    Another pause.


    "You''re right," he said, but it didn''t sound like agreement. It sounded like something he was chewing on. "Do you mind if I come by? Just to cross-check the files. We''re re-examining the chain of custody."


    Clara exhaled softly, feigning annoyance. "If you have to."


    "Appreciate it."


    She hung up without saying goodbye.


    -----------


    He arrived an hour later. Taller than she expected. Broad-shouldered under a slate coat, camera slung diagonally across his body. His hair was a tousled mess of soft brown, rain-damp and curling slightly at the ends. His eyes¡ªmoss green, strikingly so¡ªmoved too much. Too quickly. Like he was always scanning, always looking for the crack in the glass.


    Clara didn''t smile when he entered. She rarely did. Gabriel hesitated in the doorway, then stepped in like he wasn''t sure the air was safe.


    "You''re Clara."


    It wasn''t a question. "And you''re the one asking about moths."


    He gave a faint smile at that, like she''d amused him despite himself. "I didn''t think morgue techs looked like you." She tilted her head. "Like what?"


    His gaze flicked over her¡ªnot lecherous, just... assessing. Trying to figure something out. "Like they could kill a man with their eyes."


    "I restore the dead," she said. "Killing''s someone else''s job."


    Gabriel''s smile twitched again. He pulled out a small file, set it on the counter, and flipped it open to a page with a photograph. It was of the most recent body. Male. Pale-skinned. The mark behind his ear clear as ink¡ªmoth wings flared, skull-face gleaming in the harsh camera flash.


    Gabriel studied her reaction. She didn''t blink. "That''s... intricate," she murmured. "Did he have tattoos?"


    "No," he said, watching her too closely. "No ink. No matches on databases. This one wasn''t done postmortem. It was... branded. Deep. As if it meant something."


    He waited for her to respond. She tapped her fingers on the metal counter, eyes flicking to the corpse behind her¡ªdifferent case, different story. But her gaze lingered like something tugged at her.


    "That''s above my pay-grade," she said at last. "I clean faces. Not decipher occult symbols."


    Gabriel didn''t answer right away. He stood in silence, gaze shifting to the corner of the room where a tray of instruments sat glinting under the cold light. The kind of silence that wasn''t idle. It tested things.


    "You said this was the third body," Clara said, finally. "With the same mark."


    He nodded once. "Same placement. Same style. No pattern to the victims otherwise."


    "No connection?"


    "None we''ve found." He tilted his head, considering her. "Unless you count being dead."


    She arched a brow. "Unfortunately, that doesn''t narrow it down in here."


    His mouth curved¡ªnot a smile, but something like it. The beginnings of one, maybe.


    She turned from him and moved to the body in front of her, gloved hands adjusting the tilt of its chin with practiced care. Gabriel watched her work¡ªthe fluidity of it, the reverence that didn''t seem performative. There was something about the way she moved, like she''d been trained by silence itself.


    He cleared his throat. "You don''t seem fazed."


    Clara didn''t look up. "Should I be?"


    "Most people would be."


    That earned her a long look. The morgue lights caught the faint gold in her eyes, and for a moment, he forgot what he was supposed to be doing. Her stare was too steady, her stillness unnerving. Like she''d been carved out of something that didn''t flinch.


    "Sorry," he muttered. "I''m used to people dodging questions."


    "I''m used to people asking the wrong ones."


    He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. "Touch¨¦."


    A beat passed. Clara adjusted her gloves. "So why are you really here?"


    Gabriel blinked. "To photograph the scene. To compare the markings."


    "I''ve already done that part."


    He hesitated. "I wanted to see how you reacted to it. In person."


    Her gaze flicked to him then¡ªsharp and unreadable. "And what did you learn?"


    He held her stare. She didn''t blink. Neither did he.


    "You''re a very good liar," he said softly.


    Clara smiled, but it didn''t reach her eyes. "So are you."


    Gabriel''s chest tightened. It wasn''t fear, exactly. It wasn''t an attraction, either. It was something worse¡ªsomething in-between. She was quiet, but not passive. And it made him feel like she could see straight through the parts of him he preferred stayed hidden.


    "Do you believe in omens?" he asked.


    She considered it. "I work in a room full of dead people. If there are omens, they''ve already done their job."


    He looked down at the file again, at the symbol burned behind the victim''s ear. His voice dropped. "They called them ''returners'' once. The ones marked with wings."


    Clara''s breath hitched¡ªso slight he almost missed it.


    "What?"


    He lifted his gaze, watching her carefully. "Nothing. Just... folklore. Latin stuff. Rituals. Myths."


    Clara didn''t ask for clarification. Didn''t press. Which unnerved him more than if she had.


    He watched her as she peeled her gloves off and dropped them neatly into the bin. She turned to face him, arms crossing over her chest¡ªnot defensive, but decisive.


    "Anything else you need, Mr...?"


    "Gabriel," he said. "Call me Gabriel."


    She tilted her head slightly. "Anything else, Gabriel?"


    He liked the way she said his name. He should''ve left then. Should''ve thanked her, stepped out of the morgue and into the cold daylight where things made more sense. But instead, he lingered.


    "Just curious," he said slowly. "Do you... ever feel like they''re still here? The ones on the table."


    Clara''s expression didn''t change, but something in her voice shifted. "No. They''re not."


    "They''re dead," she said firmly. "Whatever that means."


    He nodded once. Then backed away, his fingers drumming against the file.


    "Thanks for your time."


    "Try not to think too much about wings and omens," Clara added as he reached the door. Gabriel glanced over his shoulder. "That sounds like advice you''ve given before."


    She smiled¡ªsmall, sharp, unreadable. "Maybe I have."


    He didn''t look back again. But he felt her eyes on him as he left. And for the first time in a very long time, Gabriel couldn''t tell if he''d just been lied to... or warned.

 A Hand in The Dark

    Midnight draped the riverbank in silver-grey, a hush settling over the world as Clara stepped out of the morgue. Exhaustion clung to her bones; she felt it in the ache of her shoulders and the drag of her feet. The chill air tasted of rain and city dust. Each exhale clouded briefly before her, and in the quiet, she could almost hear her heart slow to a weary thud.


    She welcomed the solitude after the neon glare and antiseptic scent of the morgue. The dead were often silent company, but the day''s images had weighed on her¡ªa child''s tiny body under a sheet, an old man''s peaceful face in death¡ªand she carried them now like stones in her chest. Clara lifted her face to the night and let the darkness soothe her eyes. The river''s gentle lap against the embankment was the only sound, a dark lullaby just for her.


    As she walked, Clara''s thoughts drifted to Gabriel. He was an odd one, curious in a way she couldn''t yet name. She remembered him lingering by the autopsy room earlier, his questions soft but pointed¡ªabout how she felt working among the dead, about whether she believed the soul had weight. At the time she''d offered a tired half-smile and a noncommittal answer. Now, away from the fluorescent lights, his pale gaze and peculiar smile surfaced in her mind. She found herself frowning in confusion or perhaps intrigue. Gabriel... There was something about him that pricked at her mind even now, a puzzle unsolved.


    A buzz in her hand drew her back. Her phone''s screen glowed against the dark: no new messages. Clara unlocked it with a prickle of worry. She''d texted Jack an hour ago, asking if he''d made it to his hotel safely. He should have replied by now. Jack was usually prompt¡ªtoo polite not to answer, even if just to say goodnight. The empty screen unsettled her.


    She typed a quick follow-up¡ª"You okay?"¡ªand sent it off, the message flying into the ether with no immediate response. Her thumb hovered, considering calling him, but she hesitated. It was late. Maybe he was asleep. Or maybe...


    Clara shook her head. She tried to shake off the unease that had settled like a cold weight in her stomach. Focus on the present, she told herself. The river''s path was familiar; she had walked it a hundred nights after work to clear her thoughts. Tonight, though, the quiet felt different¡ªmore acute, like a held breath.


    The moon had tucked itself behind clouds, leaving only faint city glow to light the way. As Clara rounded a bend where willows bent low over the water, she noticed a shape ahead. It sat at the very edge of the bank, hunched and still. At first glance it was just a man¡ªperhaps a vagrant resting, or someone lost in drunken thought under the willow''s curtain of leaves. Clara slowed her steps. The figure didn''t move.


    Her instincts, sharpened by years around death, stirred. Something was off. A prickling at the back of her neck raised the fine hairs there. "Hello?" she called softly, her voice almost swallowed by the sound of water lapping against stone. No response. The figure remained motionless, shoulders slumped.


    Concern tugged at her. It wouldn''t be the first time she had encountered someone needing help along these paths at odd hours¡ªteenagers sneaking out, drunks sleeping off the night, even once a man who''d had a seizure by the bench near the old sycamore. Clara took a few cautious steps closer.


    "Sir?" she tried again, just above a whisper. She could make out more now: a man in a dark coat, sitting with his legs oddly twisted, one arm trailing on the ground. He faced the water, away from her. Something in that pose... it was too still, too wrong. A stone dropped in her gut.


    She drew nearer, one slow step at a time. The smell hit her first¡ªa faint reek of rot threading through the damp river smell. That odour was unmistakable. Decomposition. Clara''s throat clenched. Her fingers tightened around her phone. All the fatigue in her body crystallised into adrenaline.


    He''s dead. The realisation flashed cold and certain. She knew it before she even saw his face. She had smelled that sickly-sweet decay too many times in her life¡ªnever out in the open like this, but in the sterile steel drawers of the morgue. Yet here it was, cloying on the night breeze.


    Clara''s pulse thudded faster. She stepped around to the man''s side, wanting to confirm, though part of her already screamed to back away. The weak light from a distant streetlamp fell across him. His skin was pallid, waxen, eyes half-lidded and cloudy. A dead man sitting upright by the river''s edge.


    "Oh God," Clara breathed, an icy tremor rolling through her. For an irrational moment she glanced around, expecting someone¡ªanyone¡ªelse to be there. But the path was empty. Just her, and this corpse propped against the world as if still alive enough to admire the dark water.


    Her first thought was to call the police, an ambulance¡ªsomething. Maybe he''d only just died; maybe there was a chance, however small¡ª


    As she fumbled to dial, Clara heard a wet shift of movement. Too late, she saw the corpse''s head loll toward her, its dead eyes suddenly meeting hers. In that split second, she saw whitened irises, pupils fixed and dilated. He can''t see me, some rational part of her mind insisted¡ªhe''s dead, he''s dead¡ª


    But then the corpse moved. It lunged with a speed that defied death''s stiffness. Before Clara could scream, a cold, bloated hand clamped around her wrist.


    She let out a choked cry and tried to yank back, but the grip was vise-like, unyielding. The phone slipped from her fingers, hitting the ground with a dull clack. Clara''s world narrowed to the impossible sight of those colourless eyes and the reek of rot engulfing her. The dead man''s lips peeled back in what might have been a grimace or a snarl.


    "No¡ª!" The word tore from her throat. She staggered, trying to wrench free. His hand felt like wet leather against her skin. Impossible, her mind gibbered, this can''t¡ª


    With a sudden violent tug, the corpse pulled her off balance. Clara''s feet slid on the slick grass and she toppled forward. In an instant, she was falling over the edge, gravity and the corpse''s weight dragging her down the muddy bank and into the river.


    Ice-cold water swallowed her whole.


    It was like plunging into night itself. The shock of it was a lightning bolt through her system, stealing all breath. Frigid darkness closed over Clara''s head, and the world became mute. She fought instinctively, kicking, thrashing, but the water was a weight, a presence pressing in from all sides. Her lungs screamed as she inhaled a mouthful of the river. Gagging, she surfaced for a blink¡ªa splash of night air and stars¡ªand managed a single, ragged gasp before a strong yank from below pulled her under again.


    The corpse still had her. She felt the scrape of nails (or was it bone?) against her ankle now, tangling in the fabric of her pants. It was dragging her deeper. Her chest burned, throat locked against the urge to breathe where there was no air. Her mind spiraled. Panic, raw and animal, took hold.


    Not again. Not again.


    The thought flashed like a flare beneath the surface. Clara''s vision blurred, her limbs thrashing as the cold tore into her bones. Memories surged¡ªshards of another drowning, another silence. The bath. The candlelight flickering on the water''s surface. The wine. The invisible hands that had dragged her under. Her mouth filled with water, lungs burning as she kicked and clawed at nothing. The slow, sinking helplessness. That moment of knowing¡ªtruly knowing¡ªshe was going to die. Clara''s chest convulsed. She couldn''t tell present from the past¡ªwas she drowning now, or was this the memory? Was she dying again?


    The world had shrunk to darkness and pressure. Her thoughts grew distant, heartbeat thunderous in her ears. The river roared a muffled, relentless lullaby around her. If she could just let go, slip away into that other darkness where fear couldn''t follow...


    No! Fight. Some last spark within her refused to surrender. Clara kicked out hard. Her boot struck something¡ªshe didn''t know what¡ªand for an instant the grip on her ankle loosened. She twisted, lungs on fire, and clawed desperately upward, toward what she prayed was the surface. Her fingers broke into open air and she tried to haul the rest of her up¡ª


    Her strength gave out. Consciousness flickered. The river was claiming her. The night was so vast, so endless; she was a small, sinking thing inside it.


    Suddenly, an arm hooked around her waist from behind, strong and sure. Another hand seized her under her arm. Clara felt herself being lifted, dragged through the water not downward but up. The grip on her ankle vanished completely¡ªperhaps the corpse finally lost its prize, or perhaps it never existed at all beyond her terror. She didn''t know. All she knew was the sudden rush of cold night air as her head broke the surface.


    She coughed and wheezed, body half-limp with exhaustion and shock, as whoever held her kept pulling her toward the bank. A moment later, her back scraped against mud and pebbles. The stranger hauled her fully out of the river, away from the water''s edge. Clara''s cheek pressed into wet earth; she sputtered, vomiting a stream of river water, and sucked in a desperate breath that tasted like life.


    "Easy... easy now," a low voice murmured. A man''s voice, calm and steady in contrast to her ragged gasps. She felt a firm hand on her shoulder, grounding her as she trembled.


    Clara blinked hard, her vision swimming. Water trickled from her hair into her eyes, and she wiped at them clumsily. Everything was a blur of darkness and faint light. She managed to roll onto her side, then up to a sitting position, though her body protested with shaking limbs and dizziness.


    The man knelt beside her, one hand hovering as if to catch her should she fall back. "Are you hurt?" he asked quietly. In the gloom, she could just make out the outline of him¡ªbroad shoulders, dark fabric of a coat. He sounded breathless, as if he''d run a great distance or... jumped into a river to save her.


    Clara opened her mouth to speak, but only a fractured cough came out. Her throat burned; everything ached. The world felt simultaneously too real¡ªthe cold bites of wind on her soaked clothes, the grit under her nails¡ªand not real at all, as if she were still dreaming beneath the water.


    She tried again. "I¡ªI think..." Her voice cracked. She wasn''t sure what she wanted to say. That she thought she would die? That she nearly did¡ªagain? Or perhaps the words to explain the horror that had pulled her in? Already it felt unbelievable.


    "The man¡ª" she whispered suddenly, the memory jolting her upright. Her eyes darted to the river, wide with dread. Was he still there? Would that corpse crawl out after her?


    The river''s surface rippled innocently, black and endless. Of the corpse there was no sign¡ªonly her own footprints and furrows in the mud where she''d been dragged. The emptiness of the spot made her question herself. There had been a dead man, hadn''t there? She hadn''t imagined the hand grabbing her, those eyes... her ankle throbbed, the skin tender where he had seized her. No, it was real. It happened.


    "I saw," the stranger said, startling her out of her thoughts. "There was... someone. But I only saw you in the water."


    His words were careful, measured. Clara turned to look at him fully then. As her eyes adjusted, she could discern more: he appeared to be around her age, perhaps a little older, though it was hard to tell in the dark. His hair was black, damp strands of it clinging to his forehead. And his face...


    She blinked again, the pounding of her heart slowing as adrenaline ebbed. The stranger''s face was striking¡ªangular and elegant, like something sculpted by a patient hand from river stone and night.  It wasn''t that he was handsome in the simple way one might describe a movie star or a model. It was something else: an otherworldly symmetry, a gravity in his features that made it impossible to look away. He was pale, the kind of pallor that made the darkness around him seem richer, yet there was a vitality in him that pressed through that skin¡ªlike the flush of distant starlight.


    His eyes caught her attention most. Even in the dimness, she felt their intensity. They were a shade too light¡ªgrey or blue, she couldn''t be sure¡ªbut they held hers with a steady, gentle concern that made her chest tighten. How strange. She had the wild thought that she''d seen those eyes before... but she couldn''t have. She would remember a man like this.


    Realising she was staring, Clara dropped her gaze, heat creeping to her cheeks even as the rest of her shivered violently. The adrenaline crash and the icy wetness had set her trembling uncontrollably. Her clothes were soaked through, heavy and clinging, the night air merciless against her skin. Her teeth chattered.


    "Here," the man said softly. He swept off his long coat and wrapped it around her shoulders in one fluid motion. The wool was blessedly thick and still warm from his body. As it fell around her, Clara caught the scent of him: a clean freshness like mint crushed between fingers, undercut by a note of earth after rain, and something indescribably warm and familiar. It was the smell of safety, oddly enough. It reminded her of the moment she''d been pulled from the water just now, and... something else. A memory she couldn''t grasp.


    She found herself clutching the coat closed, greedily absorbing its heat. "Thank you," she managed, voice still raw and barely audible.


    He nodded, a small, reassuring gesture. "Is anything broken? Can you move all right?" His questions were gently persistent, the kind a paramedic or a concerned bystander might ask after pulling someone from a river.


    Clara flexed her shaking fingers and toes, rolled her shoulders. Everything ached, but it felt like nothing permanent. "I-I think I''m okay," she said between trembling breaths. "Just c-cold."


    He shifted, and she realised with a start that he was kneeling on the wet ground with no concern for his own clothes, shirtsleeves drenched up to the elbows. He must have gone in after her. Of course he had¡ªhe''d saved her. The reality of it settled in: she owed this stranger her life.


    She opened her mouth to thank him again, but a shiver wracked through her so violently it cut off her words. He frowned then¡ªnot in anger, but in the kind of worry that creases the brow. Without a word, he moved closer and rubbed his hands briskly up and down her arms over the coat, trying to create friction warmth. The gesture was startlingly intimate and practical at once. Clara tensed at the unfamiliar touch, but it did chase a little of the deep chill from her.


    "We need to get you warm," he murmured. "You''re freezing."


    Clara gave a tiny nod, too drained to argue with the obvious. She looked up at him through wet lashes, gathering enough breath to voice the question beating at the back of her mind. "Who are you?"


    The man met her eyes again. He hesitated a second before answering, as if deciding what truth to give her. "Just someone who was in the right place at the right time." A wry smile touched the corner of his mouth. "My name is... Roen."


    "Roen," she repeated, her voice barely above the river''s whisper. It felt like an answer and a non-answer all at once, but she was in no position to press. He had saved her life¡ªhe was allowed his slight evasions, she supposed.


    "Clara," she offered, realising she hadn''t introduced herself either. "I''m Clara."


    "I know," he said softly.


    She blinked. "You... know?"


    For a moment, his eyes flickered with something like regret, or embarrassment. "I heard you say it¡ªwhen you were in the water," he explained gently. "You were mumbling. I think you said your own name. Or maybe I just guessed."


    Clara tried to recall if she had been crying out anything as she drowned. She remembered only terror and that internal scream of not again. Perhaps she had called out, though she didn''t remember screaming her name. Regardless, her mind was too scattered to question it further. She nodded faintly, accepting the answer.


    A silence fell between them, filled by the soft sounds of the river and Clara''s chattering teeth. She fought to steady herself. Her mind kept wanting to drift back to that moment of horror¡ªthe dead man''s eyes snapping open, the feel of his hand dragging her down. A fresh tremor of fear rippled through her that had nothing to do with the cold. What the hell was that?


    She stole a glance at Roen. He was looking at her intently, as if assessing her for hidden injuries. In the half-light, his gaze seemed to hold a faint luminescence, but perhaps it was just a reflection from the water. Something about him was undeniably strange¡ªbeyond the unearthly beauty, there was a sense of presence to him, a gravity that made the night feel oddly charged. Yet he behaved so calmly, so normally. If he was unsettled by what had happened, he hid it well.


    Clara''s eyes drifted to his hands, which now rested on his thighs. Strong hands, steady hands that had plucked her from death. They were pale in the moonlight, yet she thought she saw a bruise of dark colour across the back of one¡ªwas that a pattern? She squinted, trying to focus through her dizziness. It almost looked like a patch of swirling black under his skin, shifting like smoke.


    Before she could be sure, Roen shifted back, breaking her view. "Do you think you can stand?" he asked.


    She swallowed and nodded. With his help¡ªhis arm sturdy under hers¡ªClara got to her feet. Her legs wobbled fiercely, and she clutched his coat around herself with one hand while using his arm as a support with the other. For a moment, the ground tilted and she thought she might collapse back to her knees. He steadied her, a firm hand at her elbow.


    "Easy," he murmured. "Take your time."


    Clara drew in a slow breath, willing the world to stop spinning. She was alive. She was on solid ground. The unreality of the past few minutes made her question her sanity, but the ache in her lungs and the dripping of water from her clothes were proof enough it was real. Real, all of it¡ªexcept people don''t just come back to life and attack. Corpses don''t pull victims into rivers. That part, she couldn''t square with reality at all.


    Her heart fluttered painfully. She found herself leaning into Roen''s solid warmth more than she intended. Perhaps it was the shock, or simply the fact that he was the only thing keeping her upright in this moment, both physically and emotionally. Either way, she felt a small measure of safety with his arm there.


    "I should¡ªI should call the police," Clara managed to say, though the idea of fumbling with a phone right now felt distant. "That man... There was a man. He was dead and then he¡ªhe grabbed me. There''s a body¡ª"


    Her gaze drifted again to the river and the empty bank. She realised she couldn''t see her phone anywhere either; it must have been lost to the water. Even if she wanted to call, she couldn''t without it. Frustration and lingering terror warred inside her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps she was in shock, hallucinating things. But no¡ªher body bore witness to an attack. She wasn''t crazy.


    Roen''s voice came quietly. "We can notify them. But first we need to get you warm, Clara. You''re half-frozen."


    He was right. Practicality reasserted itself. Hypothermia was a real risk; she needed to get dry and warm soon. The body¡ªif it was even still there¡ªwould have to wait a few minutes. She could call it in anonymously later, or go to the police station after changing. Right now, she could hardly string a thought together.


    "O-okay," she stammered, teeth chattering so hard her jaw ached. She hated feeling this helpless, hated that she was swaying on her feet like a frightened fawn. But she couldn''t deny the cold that had sunk into her marrow. Even with his coat, she felt dangerously chilled.


    He watched her for a heartbeat, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a single decisive nod. "My car is just up the road. Let me take you home."


    Clara hesitated. Let a stranger drive her home in the middle of the night? Every rational cell in her brain shouted caution. Yet as she looked up at him, she found she wasn''t truly afraid of him. This man¡ªRoen¡ªhad saved her, was literally holding her up as she shook. And what were her alternatives? Stumble to the nearest public phone or open shop soaking wet and alone after what just happened? Wait by the riverside in the cold until she could flag a cab, if one even passed at this hour? She didn''t even have her phone to call for help.


    And then there was that faint familiarity tugging at her. She couldn''t place it, but some part of her, deep in her soul, felt like it recognised him. Perhaps it was that memory she had almost grasped in the water¡ªof warmth and mint and earth. It made no sense, and yet...


    Another gust of wind cut through her, and that settled it. Her body couldn''t endure much more tonight. Clara swallowed her qualms. "Alright," she whispered. "Thank you... for everything."


    A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a flicker of relief in his eyes¡ªas if he''d been half expecting her to refuse and run off into the night. "Don''t thank me yet," he said gently. "Let''s get you safe first."


    With an arm still lightly around her, he guided her away from the river. Clara cast one last glance behind her at the moonlit bank, searching for any sign of the corpse. Nothing. Only the willow branches swayed, brushing the water''s surface as if to wipe away the whole incident. The night held its secrets close.


    She limped with him along the path toward the road. The silence between them was not uncomfortable; it was thick with unspoken questions, yes, but also with a strange, shared understanding born of surviving something together. Clara''s mind churned with too many things she didn''t know how to ask. Who was that dead man, and how did he move? Why did this stranger risk his life to save hers? And who exactly was Roen, walking so solidly by her side, keeping her upright?


    She glanced at him from the corner of her eye as they passed under a halo of light from a streetlamp. For a moment, the light caught his face fully, and she saw him clearly. Her breath caught. His beauty was indeed otherworldly, more evident now that she wasn''t on the brink of death. Dark hair curling wetly at his collar, high cheekbones still flushed from exertion, those eyes like pale smoke. Drops of water clung to his lashes and hair, yet he seemed unconcerned by his own discomfort. There was a stillness to him, a composure that set him apart from anyone she''d ever met.


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    Under the streetlamp''s glow, he turned to meet her gaze, as if he''d felt her watching. Clara quickly looked away, her cheeks warming again. Her heart gave a peculiar flutter. It occurred to her that despite the shock and the cold, despite the madness of what had happened, she felt... aware of him in a way she didn''t quite understand. As if the fear had carved out a space in her chest and now something else was echoing within it. Curiosity. And an inexplicable pull toward this quiet rescuer at her side.


    They reached a sleek black car parked just off the road under the shade of a plane tree. It was a classic-looking vehicle¡ªClara didn''t know car models well, but it seemed vintage, elegantly kept, the kind one didn''t often see outside of car shows or old films. He opened the passenger door for her, and Clara sank gratefully onto the leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of him as well, and something like old paper and spice. She realised dimly that she was still clutching his coat around her and made to take it off to return it.


    "Keep it on," Roen said, gently stopping her with a hand lightly on her shoulder. "At least until the heater kicks in." He then knelt to buckle her seatbelt, his face briefly close to hers as he drew the belt across her. Clara held perfectly still, startled by the intimacy of the gesture. She could see a fine network of silvery lines in his irises, as if they contained a map of stars. The scent of mint and earth and that subtle warmth enveloped her again, and despite everything, her pulse skipped.


    He clicked the buckle into place. For a heartbeat, he lingered, his face a mere hand''s breadth from hers. His eyes searched hers, perhaps checking that she was truly alright. Caught in that gaze, Clara felt as though the world had slowed. The pain in her ankle, the cold clinging to her¡ªthose sensations faded to a distant murmur. All she felt was the intensity of his presence, and a quiet wonder at how fate had intervened tonight.


    "Thank you," she whispered again, unable to help herself. Her voice trembled, carrying gratitude and confusion and a thousand other emotions she couldn''t name.


    Roen''s lips curved in that subtle smile once more. "You''re safe now," was all he said, but there was a gentle certainty in his tone that sank into her, steadying the remaining tremors in her soul.


    He shut the door softly and walked around to the driver''s side. As he did, Clara closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the seat. The leather was cold beneath the coat, but she was slowly warming. She focused on the sound of her breathing¡ªstill shaky, but slowing¡ªand the drum of rain beginning to patter on the windshield. It occurred to her in a surreal flash that she had almost died tonight. If Roen hadn''t come... She chased the thought away. He had come. He was here.


    The driver''s door opened and Roen slid in, starting the engine. Warm air began to flow through the vents, and Clara sighed in relief as she held her numb fingers out to it. They drove in silence for a minute through empty streets, the tires hushing on the wet road. Orange streetlights cast fleeting beams across Roen''s face as he concentrated on the way ahead. Clara studied him in those brief flashes, curiosity weaving with a deeper instinct. He looked calm, as if this were any ordinary late-night drive. Only his hands on the wheel betrayed a hint of tension¡ªthe knuckles pale, a tendon flexing in his neck. Perhaps he wasn''t as composed as he appeared.


    She wanted to ask so many things. But the questions tangled on her tongue, and she wasn''t even sure where to begin. The car''s warmth was making her eyelids heavy; the adrenaline ebbing left her bone-tired. The gentle rock of motion lulled her, but she forced herself to stay awake, at least until she got home.


    Clara gave him quiet directions as they navigated closer to her neighborhood. Her voice sounded small in the hush of the car. He responded with a nod each time, never asking for clarification, as if he already knew the way. If she hadn''t been so exhausted, she might have found that odd. Perhaps she had spoken louder than she thought. Perhaps he was just good with directions. The rational explanations felt thin, but she let them be.


    At last, they turned onto her street¡ªa sleepy row of townhouses with little gardens, all dark at this hour. Roen pulled up in front of her building. The rain had become a steady drizzle, blurring the world beyond the car''s windows into a watercolor of lights. For a moment, neither of them moved or spoke. The heater''s breath filled the car with cozy warmth, a temporary cocoon against the damp night.


    Clara realised she didn''t want the night to end like this¡ªwith a thousand unanswered questions and a simple goodbye. But she also didn''t have the strength to seek answers now. She unbuckled her seatbelt slowly, stalling. "Would you... I mean, do you want to come in for a moment? Just to dry off," she offered quietly. The invitation surprised her even as she spoke it; she wasn''t sure why she did. Politeness, maybe, or a lingering sense of safety when he was near.


    Roen''s eyes met hers. Something gentle and regretful passed over his face. "Thank you, but I should go," he said softly. "You''ll be alright?"


    She nodded, equally relieved and disappointed. "I''ll be fine. I can manage from here." A slight tremor still edged her voice, betraying that she was not entirely fine. She wasn''t sure she would be alright for a while after tonight. But home was just a few steps away. She could collapse inside and process everything later.


    He seemed to sense her lingering fear. "I can wait out here until you''re safely inside," he added.


    She managed a tiny smile. "You''ve done more than enough. You should get out of those wet clothes too."


    Roen inclined his head in agreement, but his eyes never left her face. "If you''re certain."


    Clara hesitated, then made herself reach for the passenger door handle. The sooner she got inside, the sooner this strange, harrowing night would be over. Yet some irrational part of her wanted to stay¡ªwanted to keep feeling the calm that emanated from him. She pushed that thought away.


    She opened the door, and cold, misting rain immediately needled her skin. Pulling his coat tighter around herself, she stepped out onto the pavement. The world felt solid and mundane again¡ªwet concrete under her feet, the faint smell of someone''s jasmine bush nearby, a distant siren wailing in the city. She turned and bent down to look back at Roen.


    He was watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch. His dark hair fell over his forehead in a soaking mess, and in the streetlight his eyes looked almost black, reflecting the night. Some urge rose in her chest to lean in again, to say something more¡ªbut she didn''t know what.


    She found herself unwrapping the coat from her shoulders and handing it back through the door. "Your coat... thank you."


    He took it, fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment. It sent a subtle thrill up her arm, as if even that small contact carried a charge. He draped the coat over his lap instead of putting it on immediately. Rain speckled the interior now, dotting the leather seats and the dash. Still he did not drive off.


    "Good night, Clara," he said, and though the words were simple, there was a weight to them. Like an unspoken promise that morning would indeed come, that the nightmares of this night would recede.


    "Good night... Roen," she replied softly. His name tasted strange on her tongue, almost familiar and yet not.


    She straightened, and gently closed the car door. For a second she stood there in the rain, uncertain, one hand resting on the door''s frame. He gave her a final searching look. She thought she saw his lips form the slightest curve¡ªhalf sorrow, half reassurance. Then he nodded to her, a kind of farewell, and the car pulled away, tires whispering on the wet street.


    Clara watched the taillights disappear into the mist until there was nothing but falling rain and silence. At last, she turned and made her way up the small path to her door. Each step felt unreal, as if she were walking through the last scene of a dream. Her fingers fumbled with her keys. She glanced back once over her shoulder, half expecting to see that black car still there, or the man who called himself Roen standing under the streetlamp. But there was only the hazy glow of night and rain.


    Inside, the house was dark and still. Clara locked the door behind her and slumped against it. Safe. Alive. She closed her eyes, drawing a long breath that shuddered on the way out. Her body felt foreign¡ªwrung out, trembling with aftershocks.


    What in God''s name had happened? A corpse had nearly drowned her. She had relived the worst moment of her life. And Death¡ªsomehow, she knew it had been Death who pulled her out. It was a wild, impossible thought, yet it rang through her bones with truth. Death in human form, composed and gentle and breathtakingly beautiful, had saved her life tonight. And he had given her a name to call him by, at least for now¡ªRoen.


    She pressed her face into her hands. An exhausted sob bubbled up, but she swallowed it down. She didn''t want to cry; she wasn''t even sure what to feel. Relief, certainly. Grief, perhaps, dredged up from memory. Fear, still coiling in her belly. And something else. Something warm that fluttered at the centre of her chest when she thought of calm grey eyes and a scent like ancient forests in spring.


    Clara peeled herself away from the door and stripped off her soaked clothes right there in the entryway, leaving them in a sodden heap on the tile. She wrapped herself in a thick blanket from the couch before sinking down onto the floor. Her phone¡ªlost to the river¡ªwas gone. Jack still hadn''t answered. There were a thousand things to worry about. But not now. Right now she just needed to breathe, to exist in this moment where she was still alive.


    She inhaled deeply, and there it was: a lingering hint of that scent on her skin, as if it had soaked into her very pores. Mint and earth and warmth. Clara closed her eyes, and a tear slipped down her cheek unbidden¡ªshe wasn''t even sure if it was sorrow or some strange, fragile joy.


    Something had shifted in the world tonight, in her. She could feel it like a tremor along a web of fate. An ember had been sparked to life inside her chest, one she hadn''t known was there. And with it came that scent she knew she would never forget, even long after the river''s chill had left her bones¡ªthe scent of him, wrapping her in quiet protection on a cold, moonless night.


    ¡ª--


    Death drove through the city in silence. Night pressed against the car windows, broken only by the occasional wash of streetlight across the windshield. His hands rested on the steering wheel with preternatural stillness, yet tension coiled beneath that calm like a held breath. In the quiet, he became keenly aware of the scent clinging to his long black coat¡ªher scent. It was a strange blend of jasmine and river rot, delicate sweetness tangled with decay, and it filled the car''s cabin as if she were still there beside him.


    He inhaled involuntarily. Jasmine: living, human, warm. River rot: death, the abyss, cold. Clara had carried both life and death on her skin tonight. Clara. Even her name hovered unspoken in his mind, threatening to break the silence. His jaw tightened. He kept his eyes on the road, but his thoughts drifted, brooding and unbidden, back to the first time he sensed her presence in his world.


    He remembers that day in fragments of sensation: the threshold between life and death trembling with an anomaly. Corpses arriving at the edge of the afterlife that looked too alive, too peaceful. The newly dead crossing his path bore an inexplicable serenity¡ªfaces softened by something like contentment, as if they had been gently guided into rest. Such peace was rare. Death knew the myriad faces of the departed: twisted in agony, slack with shock, creased by the final echoes of fear. But these... these wore the faint imprint of a smile, eyelids closed as though in a pleasant dream. It was subtle, but enough for him to notice. Enough to make him pause¡ªhim, who never hesitated.


    He had wanted to ignore it. A fluke, perhaps. Yet the pattern grew: time after time, souls leaving behind unusually serene vessels. It disturbed the order he was used to, challenged the certainty that was his by right. Death is nothing if not sure, inevitable, predictable. And so he hunted for the cause of this aberration. His search led him from the hushed halls of the in-between to a modest city morgue, where the living tended to the dead. Where she worked.


    From the shadows of that sterile place, he watched her. At first, just curiosity drew him¡ªclinical, he told himself. He observed as Clara moved among the corpses with quiet purpose. Tall steel tables, harsh white light, the air sharp with formaldehyde... and in the midst of it, a young woman with hazel eyes and steady hands. He remembers how those eyes caught the light when she tilted her head, studying the face of a departed soul as if it were a beloved portrait. Hazel, he realized, was too simple a word for them. In the morgue''s fluorescent glare they were a mosaic of green and gold and brown, irises ringed with a dark edge. There was a haunting quality to them¡ªan intensity that belied the gentle motions of her work. They were the kind of eyes that seemed to hold conversations with silence.


    She sometimes spoke to the dead as she worked, not conscious that anyone could hear. But he heard. "It''s all right," she would whisper as she sutured a wound or combed blood from matted hair, her voice low and soothing. "We''ll make you look yourself again... You''ll be at peace soon." No fear, no revulsion¡ªonly a strange compassion. The first time he witnessed it, Death felt something shift in the hollow of his chest. Astonishment, perhaps. In all the long eons of his existence, watching kings and peasants alike breathe their last, he had never seen a mortal speak so tenderly to death''s leftovers. It was as if she offered a balm not to the dead¡ªwho could no longer appreciate it¡ªbut to Death himself, without even knowing.


    He told himself it was merely fascination with the mechanics of her craft. Indeed, her skill was uncanny. Under her care, bruises vanished beneath skillful cosmetics, rigor-smoothed limbs bent once more with grace. Each body she touched was restored to an almost living glow. She painted faces with life''s colors, defying his claim on them in one final act of rebellion. Beautiful, he thought once as he observed her finished work¡ªthen caught himself. Not the corpse. Her. The way Clara stood in that pool of warm light, head bowed slightly as if in prayer, a loose strand of dark chestnut hair brushing her cheek... The realization unsettled him deeply. He finds her beautiful. The acknowledgement rose up before he could stop it. A word he hadn''t needed in centuries¡ªbeauty¡ªnow clung to her in his mind, unwanted and undeniable.


    Death recoiled from the thought. He did not feel beauty; he did not feel anything for the souls he shepherded. Detachment was as much a part of him as shadow and silence. And yet, watching Clara, he felt something. A crack in the certainty that had always guided him. She was both beautiful and unsettling¡ªa living contradiction, much like the fragrance that lingered on his coat now. He refused to name the allure of her presence, but it tugged at him all the same, like a shadow at the corner of his eye that wouldn''t fade.


    He had lingered in that morgue far longer than intended, night after night, drawn by an invisible tether. At times he convinced himself it was duty¡ªensuring the dead under her care truly passed on, that none were trapped between worlds by the strength of the living''s love. But when she finished her work and dimmed the lights, he would still remain, watching the curve of her tired shoulders as she whispered goodnight to empty rooms. In those moments, he felt disarmed. Almost human. Almost.


    Tonight, by the river, all his quiet observations had spiraled out of control. Clara had been marked for death¡ªthat much he was certain. He had seen her name inscribed on the ledgers of fate, a day circled in red that had finally come. The river was meant to claim her; the corpse was meant to drag her into his domain. By rights, by duty, he should have let it happen. He nearly did. In the heartbeat before she fell, Death had stood at the water''s edge, unseen and prepared to do what he always does: take her soul gently from her body and guide it into the dark.


    But when Clara''s scream cut through the night, something broke his resolve. Without thinking, he moved. The memory flashes in his mind: her body disappearing under black water, her limbs fighting a losing battle against the weight of the dead man pulling her down. He remembers the surge of his own power¡ªrestrained for so long¡ªunfurling in an instant. The river obeyed him; it had no choice. Water recoiled from him as he plunged in. In that cold silty darkness, his arms found her, yanked the corpse''s rotting grip from her wrist, and cradled her against him. Even now he can recall the frantic flutter of her heart against his chest as he hauled her out of the clutch of death itself.


    On the muddy bank, she had gasped and coughed up river water, eyes wide with shock. He''d knelt over her, one hand on her back as she expelled the river from her lungs. For a brief moment, her hazel eyes¡ªhaunting and bright even in the dim light¡ªlocked onto his. She looked so alive then, shivering and choking and alive. Relief slammed through him in a way he could hardly fathom. A mortal''s life saved¡ªby Death. It was unthinkable. Yet it had happened before, hadn''t it?


    Yes. This was not the first time he had stepped off his ordained path for her. There had been other moments, small interventions, quiet stays of the inevitable. He''d kept his distance then, convincing himself it was mere curiosity that spurred him. But each time fate drew its blade for Clara, his hand had subtly, instinctively stayed the blow. A slipped scalpel that almost nicked an artery. The drunk driver who ran the red light the one evening she forgot to look both ways. The sudden illness that should have claimed her last winter, its fever mysteriously breaking overnight. Little things, he told himself each time. Insignificant. Yet now, seeing her drenched and trembling on the riverbank, he knew those "little things" had collected into something enormous. He had broken the rules for her, again and again, and tonight he had shattered them outright.


    Death''s foot eases off the gas as a red light blooms at an intersection. The car hums, idle. Rain has started to fall, just a light drizzle that speckles the windshield. He barely notices. His mind is back in that moment by the river when he''d helped her to his car, draping his coat around her shoulders. Clara had been dazed, teeth chattering, her fingers clutching the fabric of his coat in mute gratitude or shock¡ªhe isn''t sure which. He hadn''t spoken. What could he possibly say? He''d just driven her home in silence, her breathing gradually slowing in the passenger seat. When they reached her apartment, she had opened her mouth as if to ask so many questions¡ªher eyes searching his face. But no words came. In the end she only whispered "Thank you" into the hush. He remembers how her voice trembled on those two simple words, fragile and sincere. Then she was gone, stumbling up to her door with one backward glance that he can still feel like a touch on his skin.


    Now he is alone with the aftermath of what he''s done. The light turns green, and he guides the car forward again, navigating streets that are emptier than his thoughts. He ought to be furious with himself; perhaps a part of him is. Saving a life that fate had claimed is a grave transgression. He can almost hear the disbelieving voices of the Council in his head, cold and resonant: He interfered? He, of all beings, broke the sacred order? They would demand answers. They would demand consequences. Clara''s name should be reported at once¡ªflagged as an anomaly in the grand ledger that tracks every mortal life and death. It is his duty to report her. His obligation.


    Death flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. The leather protests with a soft creak under the pressure of his grip. He tells himself he will go to them¡ªtonight, right now. He will confess what he has done and let the Council decide her fate, as is proper. Yes. Yes. It is the logical course, the only course to set the world right again. He repeats this in his mind, clinging to the thought like a mantra that might restore his old certainty.


    And yet... he does not turn toward the gilded spires where the Council eternally convenes, nor towards any otherworldly door. His route remains aimless through the city''s sleeping streets. In truth, he is stalling, and he knows it. For all his resolve, a deeper part of him resists the idea of handing Clara over to the cold scrutiny of fate''s overseers. He pictures their verdict: that her life be snuffed out as it should have been, the aberration corrected, balance restored. The thought of losing her¡ªtruly losing her, when he has only just realized how fiercely he wants her to live¡ªsends a sharp pang through him. He almost doesn''t recognize the feeling. Fear? For eons, death was all he dealt in. What did he know of fear? But now the idea of her light guttering out... it feels unbearable.


    She is a problem, he argues with himself. She unravels the order of things simply by existing beyond her time. She unsettles him just by being. None of this should be allowed. He should not want her here in this world any longer. And yet he does. He wants her alive. The admission washes over him like another wave of that dark river: startling, cold, and bracingly real.


    Death has always been certain of his purpose. This singular deviation threatens to upend millennia of certainty, and it leaves him... adrift. He doesn''t like it¡ªthis turmoil within. In the rear-view mirror, he catches a glimpse of his own face: sharp features drawn in a rare flicker of doubt. His dark eyes, usually impassive as obsidian, burn now with something perilously close to human anguish. It shocks him to see it. He exhales slowly and forces his gaze back to the road. Raindrops streak down the glass like trailing ghosts.


    He thinks of Clara''s face as he last saw it¡ªrain and tears and river water all mingled on her pale skin. The way her drenched hair clung to her cheeks and neck, the way she tried to muster a brave nod before she turned to leave, as if to reassure him that she would be fine. And those eyes... even exhausted and confused, they had been unwavering in their haunted, defiant light. In them he saw questions she did not voice: Who are you? Why did you save me? Questions he wasn''t ready to answer¡ªfor her, or for himself.


    A taxi horn blares somewhere behind him, snapping him back to the present. The drizzle has thickened into honest rain, drumming on the roof. He eases the car to the curb under the halo of a streetlamp. There''s no destination in mind; he just knows he cannot drive on like this. The engine''s rumble fades as he switches it off. In the sudden stillness, he lets his head fall back against the headrest and closes his eyes. The scent of jasmine lingers, stronger now that the air is warm and still. Perhaps it''s only in his imagination that he can still detect the faint note of river rot beneath it. Either way, the combination is uniquely Clara, and it ghosts around him, demanding his attention.


    He draws in a slow breath and finally allows himself to acknowledge the truth that has been clawing at him all night: she has changed something in him. What exactly, he cannot yet articulate. But the ancient, unyielding call of duty is no longer the only voice in his head. There is another voice now, softer but insistent, whispering her name, whispering live. It terrifies him. It thrills him. He feels off-balance, as if one foot still stands in eternity and the other on a patch of earth that might crumble at any moment.


    He opens his eyes and finds that his hands are trembling ever so slightly. Get hold of yourself. He has weathered the rise and fall of civilizations, held the dying in his arms without a tremor of feeling. He has been the darkness at the end of every story, the lone certainty to which all things bow. He is Death. He does not bend. He does not break. And yet here he is, hands shaking because one mortal woman still breathes. A quiet laugh escapes him¡ªbitter, self-mocking. How the mighty have fallen, he thinks. Or perhaps, how the mighty have been pushed. Clara, with her gentle defiance, has nudged him from his throne of inevitability, and now he''s teetering, struggling to find his equilibrium.


    Maybe he won''t find it. The thought creeps in before he can stop it. Maybe this is the start of a slide into something he can''t control. He knows if he keeps her secret, if he guards her life against what fate decreed, he is choosing her over the very laws that bind the universe. It is a perilous choice. Possibly a foolish one. He tries to summon regret, or at least resolve to end this here. He finds neither. All he finds is the memory of Clara''s hand clutching his coat, her trust implicit as he led her out of the dark.


    Without meaning to, he imagines what tomorrow might bring. He sees himself returning to her, perhaps under the pretense of checking on her well-being. The idea is absurd¡ªDeath making a house call like some concerned friend¡ªbut it lurks in his mind nonetheless. He pictures standing at her door, the surprise in her eyes warming into that soft, grateful light he witnessed when she thanked him. He can almost hear her voice saying his name¡ªthe name he gave her to call him, just a placeholder, not his True Name, but still¡ªand the way it would shape itself in her mouth. Does she even remember what he murmured to her as he lifted her from the water? He''s not sure. He hardly remembers what false name he used; at the moment, he wasn''t thinking clearly. He only remembers her clinging to him and the realization that he was holding life instead of escorting death, and how right and wrong it felt all at once.


    Lightning flickers in the distance, illuminating the rain-slicked street ahead. Thunder mutters low and tired. He lets the sound of the rain fill his ears, a steady drumbeat to match the restless cadence of his thoughts. The Council, the ledger, duty¡ªthey still hover at the edges of his conscience, but he pushes them aside for now. In this small pocket of time, in this car that still carries the essence of her, he allows himself a rare moment of honesty. He says, very quietly, "Clara."


    Her name forms on his tongue with unfamiliar weight. He almost doesn''t recognize his own voice¡ªsoft, hushed, human. It''s just two syllables, yet speaking them aloud feels intimate, a dangerous intimacy he has never permitted himself. The sound of it lingers in the air long after he falls silent again. Clara. It tastes of jasmine and river water. It tastes of a promise he has not yet put into words.


    In the hush that follows, Death sits motionless, listening as the echo of her name fades into the patter of rain. His heart¡ªif he even has such a thing¡ªfeels like a caged storm in his chest. That single utterance has unmoored something in him. He can feel it: the faint beginning of a unraveling, a thread pulled loose from the fabric of who he is and what he is meant to be. He has spoken her name into the darkness, and with it, he has given life to a perilous hope.


    For an immortal moment, he simply breathes, the city unaware of the tumult in its midst. This is not an ending, he knows with a shiver of certainty. Whatever has begun, speaking her name is only the first step over an unseen precipice. In the solitude of the car, Death closes his eyes and lets the truth sink its teeth in. He saved Clara. He will not undo that. And as the storm finally breaks and rain washes over the silent car, he understands one thing beyond all fate and reason: this is only the beginning of his undoing.

 Lantern and Lies

    Clara breathed in the familiar hush of the morgue. The overhead fluorescents hummed softly, casting pale light over tiled walls and steel tables. Routine, she told herself. Routine would steady her. She smoothed a hand down the front of her lab coat and turned back to her work. A man''s body lay on the slab before her, limp and grey under the unforgiving light. He''d been mid-forties, maybe, with hair still more brown than silver and a jaw that hinted he might once have worn a friendly smile. Now his features sagged in slack repose. Only the Y-shaped autopsy stitch across his chest told the story of what came after his heart had given out.


    Her hands moved automatically, cleansing and preparing. A sponge dipped in mild soap glided over a pale arm, wiping away the last traces of dried blood and hospital tape. Just another day, she thought, willing the pounding of her heart to slow. The events of last week ¡ª the bath, the terror that still clenched at her lungs in unguarded moments ¡ª those didn''t belong here. In this sterile sanctuary of the dead, she could almost believe life outside paused, that fear itself waited beyond the double doors.


    The scent of formaldehyde curled in the cool air, sharp and antiseptic. Clara had always found it oddly reassuring, the olfactory equivalent of a surgeon''s blue scrubs ¡ª professional, distancing, safe. It helped her believe that what happened in her bathroom was some feverish nightmare, and not... not something reaching for her from beyond sense. She shut her eyes, just for a moment, and inhaled deeply. When she opened them, her gaze fell on the corpse''s face. His eyes were closed, lids slightly sunken. She reached to adjust the plastic block propping up his neck, preparing to tilt his head for drainage¡ªand stopped.


    A faint whisper drifted through the stillness. "Please... not yet..." The words were so soft she almost thought she imagined them. Clara''s gloved hands froze in mid-air. She glanced toward the door ¡ª firmly shut. The sound hadn''t come from the hall. Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, she looked down at the dead man. His lips were parted, slack. Impossible. And yet she''d heard...


    All at once, a vision flickered through her mind: darkness, the taste of copper, a crushing pain in the chest. Clara staggered, one hand braced on the metal table. It was as if she were suddenly inside him ¡ª inside his final moments. She felt his desperation, the raw panic of a heart seizing mid-beat. A flash of fluorescent lights blurred overhead (an ambulance? a hospital gurney?), then a woman''s voice screaming his name ¡ª "Tom!" ¡ª just before everything went black.


    Clara blinked hard and the vision vanished, leaving only the corpse and the cool morgue and her own pulse skittering wildly in her throat. The man''s body hadn''t moved, of course. But in her ears the echo of that single plea lingered: "Please... not yet." It sent a prickle of gooseflesh up her arms. She backed away a step, trying to steady herself. Her hip bumped the stainless steel counter where her clipboard lay.


    For a long moment, Clara simply stood, the only sound her measured breathing and the electric buzz of the lights. She waited for something ¡ª a voice, a tremor, any further sign that she was descending into madness. But nothing came. Nothing except the quiet company of Death, patient and impassive at her shoulder. This wasn''t the first time the silence of the morgue had bent around a whisper that should not be. But never had it been so clear, so... personal.


    Her mouth had gone dry. She peeled off her right glove and pressed cool fingertips to the side of her neck, feeling the flutter of her own pulse. Alive. Present. Sane? Who could say. With a practiced motion, she slid a small leather notebook out from beneath the clipboard. Its pages were thin, many filled with her tight script ¡ª a private log of things she could tell no one. She flipped to the next blank page and, with a pencil that trembled only slightly, began to write in crisp, scientific lines:


    Subject: Thomas G. (male, 46) ¨C massive cardiac infarction.


    Event: Auditory hallucination (male voice, low, approx 2¨C3 words) at 10:14 AM. Phrase heard: "Please... not yet."


    Associated phenomena: Visual disturbance ¨C brief flash of imagery possibly corresponding to decedent''s final moments (subjective sensation of chest pain, fear; auditory memory of someone calling name "Tom").


    Action: No response from subject''s body. No other witnesses. Likely stress-induced hallucination. Continue observation.


    Clara read over what she''d written, jaw tight. Hallucination. The clinical word sat heavy on the page. She preferred it to the alternative: that something of Thomas G. ¡ª call him Tom, a voice in her mind insisted ¡ª still clung to the world and had found her. That possibility was far harder to accept.


    She drew a slow breath, then deliberately shut the notebook and slid it back into obscurity under the clipboard. The pencil she set down with care. Enough. She had work to do. Tom''s body still needed tending before the funeral home courier arrived this evening. And Clara needed to focus on normal things ¡ª sutures, embalming fluid, paperwork ¡ª anything but voices of the dead.


    She snapped off the overhead lamp above the exam table, briefly drenching the room in flat grey light. As she reached for her discarded glove, a sound at the doorway made her jump. A soft clearing of someone''s throat. Clara whirled, heart lurching. In the doorway stood a tall figure in a charcoal suit, one hand raised in a hesitant knock that had barely touched the frame. Detective Gabriel Aldrin, in the flesh.


    He lowered his hand, an apologetic half-smile on his lips. "Sorry. I did knock... You seemed a bit... absorbed." His voice was gentle, a baritone tempered by quiet reserve. It echoed just slightly in the tiled room.


    Clara flexed her fingers, realisation washing over her. How long had he been standing there? If he''d come thirty seconds earlier... Her gaze flickered to the clipboard ¡ª her notes were covered now, thank God. The toe of her sensible shoe slid over a drop of water on the floor, erasing it. No evidence of her momentary lapse remained. Composure, routine, normalcy. She tugged her glove back on and lifted her chin. "Gabriel," she greeted coolly. "It''s alright. I was just... finishing up."


    Gabriel stepped inside, the door sighing shut behind him. He carried with him a whisper of the outside world ¡ª the faint scent of rain on pavement clinging to his coat, a hint of cologne that was all cedar and vetiver. In the close air of the morgue, those living smells felt almost indecent. Clara found herself strangely aware of a smudge of stubble just along his jaw that the morning razor missed, of the way a lock of his dark blond hair fell across his forehead as he glanced toward the covered shape of another body on a gurney. He didn''t quite fit here among the dead; too much restless energy in the way his gaze moved, taking everything in.


    She realised he was speaking and dragged her focus back. "...hope I''m not intruding," Gabriel was saying quietly. He had stopped a respectful distance from her workspace, hands in his pockets. Clara noticed he clutched something in one fist ¡ª a folded manila file. "I know it''s unusual for me to just drop by. But I came across something I thought you might help me with."


    Clara arched a dark brow, forcing her voice into a dry, steady cadence. "Someone in Homicide in need of a mortician''s help? Should I be flattered or concerned?"


    The corner of Gabriel''s mouth twitched. "You do more than just mortician work here, if I recall. You assist the coroner sometimes, right? And you have... other areas of expertise." He nodded toward the far end of the room. Following his gaze, Clara saw what he''d noticed: pinned to a corckboard above her desk was a single brittle-winged moth, mounted in a glass frame. Its once-vibrant orange and black pattern had long faded, but the tiny skull-like shape on its thorax was still visible. A death''s-head hawkmoth. Her fingers twitched with the urge to hide it ¡ª she usually kept her odd hobbies out of sight ¡ª but the detective''s observational skills were evidently very good.


    "I remember things," Gabriel added softly. "When we first met, you were sketching a beetle in the margins of a report."


    Clara did not recall him noticing that. She felt a small pang of... what was it, embarrassment? No, she refused to be embarrassed. So she liked insects; so what? She tilted her head, studying him with cool hazel eyes. "Alright. Say I do have some expertise. What exactly do you need, "Detective"?"


    He blew out a breath, as if relieved to get to the point. Stepping closer, he held out the manila file. "I was reviewing some cold cases last night ¡ª looking for patterns related to... to a case I''m working now. I found a crime scene photo with an odd marking. Something that looked familiar." He flipped open the file and withdrew a glossy photograph. "Here."


    Clara accepted the photo, careful to only graze his fingers briefly. Still, that momentary contact felt warm against the lingering chill of the morgue. She focused on the image: a close-up of a man''s neck and jaw. Just below the left earlobe, partly obscured by hair, was a mark on the skin. Even in the slightly unfocused shot, she could make out the shape ¡ª wings spread, a rounded body, a pattern that looked eerily like a skull. It was unmistakably similar to what she''d glimpsed on the recent victims Gabriel and his partner had been investigating.


    "A moth," she murmured. Her mind immediately supplied the taxonomy: Acherontia atropos, the death''s-head hawkmoth. The symbol of death and quietly creeping omens. Clara''s stomach gave a small flip. This photo was dated five years ago, according to the faded timestamp in the corner. Five years, and presumably no one had connected it to anything ¡ª until Gabriel.


    Beside her, he nodded. "I thought the same. It matches the brand on the victims we found this month. I wasn''t around for this old case, but I''m digging into it now." He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it absently ¡ª a gesture of restrained agitation. "Thing is, the case file doesn''t note the marking at all. It was just in a photo. Might have been overlooked."


    "Or ignored," Clara said quietly, still studying the photo. Whoever placed that moth marking had been operating in secret for longer than anyone realised. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morgue. Death does not come alone. The phrase drifted up from her memory ¡ª she''d seen it scrawled in Latin on a sticky note in one of the autopsy reports last week, an odd little detail that tugged at her now. But she kept that thought to herself. Gently, she handed the photo back. "It''s definitely the same motif. A moth with a skull pattern. The Death''s-head."


    Gabriel looked at her sharply. "Death''s-head?"


    She allowed herself the faintest of smiles. "That particular genus of moth is often called a Death''s-head hawkmoth. In some folklore, they''re seen as omens or messengers of death. Rather on-the-nose for a killer''s calling card, don''t you think?"


    He huffed a soft breath that might have been a laugh. "On-the-nose. Right." He regarded the photo, jaw working as if he were biting back a dozen more questions. Clara could practically see the gears turning behind his green eyes. He had lovely eyes, actually ¡ª a muted shade of olive that should have been unremarkable, yet on him they were keen and absorbing. At the moment, they were clouded with frustration and intrigue.


    "I can''t tell if the person who did this is indulging a fascination with death, or mocking us," he said at last. "Leaving a signature like this... it''s brazen. Almost begging to be noticed." Clara leaned one hip against the steel table, arms crossing loosely over her chest. She''d regained her composure now; the strange incident with Tom''s whisper was compartmentalised neatly away ¡ª another thing to deal with later. Right now, Gabriel Aldrin''s presence demanded her attention. "And yet it went unnoticed for years," she pointed out. "Perhaps your moth-loving friend is more patient than brazen. Laying groundwork. Or testing the waters."


    Gabriel regarded her with open curiosity. "You sound as if you''re profiling them."


    She shrugged one shoulder. "Occupational hazard. I spend a lot of time with dead folks ¡ª I speculate about what brought them to me." Technically true, if vastly understating the situation. Clara allowed herself a wry twist of her lips. "Besides, you didn''t really come here because I''m an insect enthusiast. You already knew what the symbol was."


    That earned her a real smile, however brief. "I suppose I did," he admitted. "Mostly. But I was hoping you might notice something I hadn''t, or confirm my theory. And..." He trailed off, apparently fascinated all of a sudden by the floor at his feet. Clara waited, watching him fumble for once. She had the distinct sense there was more he wasn''t saying. The fact that he was here, in person, on the flimsiest of pretenses, hinted as much ¡ª and the thought sent a small ripple of satisfaction through her. It had been a long time since she''d had any effect on a living soul outside of professional courtesies. To see Gabriel Aldrin uncharacteristically unsure of himself was... oddly charming.


    "And?" she prompted, tilting her head. A few loose strands of her dark hair slipped from her bun to brush her cheek, and Gabriel''s eyes followed the movement before he caught himself.


    He cleared his throat. "And I thought you might want an update. On the case, I mean. Given what you...witnessed before." His voice gentled. "At the hospital."


    Clara''s stomach clenched. Yes¡ªshe''d been present when the second victim of this killer was brought in, a week ago. The sight of that lifeless boy ¡ª barely twenty ¡ª with a moth branded behind his ear, still haunted her nights. She had masked it at the time, but Gabriel had seen through her calm veneer; he knew it disturbed her. It touched her, more than she expected, that he remembered.


    "I appreciate that," she said softly. "But I''m alright." A practiced lie. She delivered it with a small, polite smile that gave away nothing. One step ahead.


    Gabriel studied her face, as if those green eyes could peel back her layers. But Clara was nothing if not composed. After a moment he nodded, accepting her statement. He believed her. Of course he did; she was very good at hiding the cracks. The truth ¡ª that she woke sweating from nightmares of hands dragging her under dark water and of young men''s corpses with burnt flesh ¡ª she kept that to herself.


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    "Well," he said, exhaling, "I won''t keep you. I''ve taken enough of your time." His tone returned to a gently formal cadence, polite but reluctant. He gathered the file and photo, slipping them back inside the folder. Clara realised she almost felt disappointed at the thought of him leaving so soon. How long had it been since a conversation with another living being left her wanting more?


    As if echoing her thought, Gabriel hesitated. He didn''t step away. Instead, he lingered a few beats, his fingers drumming lightly on the file''s cover. She recognised that subtle tension ¡ª he had something else on his mind. The corners of her mouth twitched; he really wasn''t as inscrutable as he thought. Out with it, Gabriel.


    Sure enough, he inhaled and spoke in a rush, as though afraid his courage might fail. "There is one more thing, actually." He lifted his gaze to hers, and for the first time since he entered, Clara saw a hint of uncertainty ¡ª almost boyish ¡ª in his expression. "Have you heard about the lantern festival by the river? The annual one."


    Clara blinked. The abrupt change of subject wrong-footed her. "I... yes. I''ve heard of it." Every year the city held a lantern festival down by the River Elkie, a night of paper lanterns and floating lights and wishes sent into the sky. She normally ignored it, preferring the quiet of home and a book. A sudden image of glowing lanterns reflected in dark water flashed through her mind, and with it, the echo of distant, joyful laughter ¡ª her mother''s laughter ¡ª but she forced it away. "Why?"


    Gabriel gave a small, almost self-conscious laugh and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Well, it''s tomorrow evening. I was thinking of going... and I thought, perhaps, you might like to go too."


    For an instant, Clara wondered if she''d misheard. Was Detective Aldrin asking her out? In the morgue, with a corpse between them and formaldehyde perfuming the air? The sheer absurdity of it made her lips part in a brief, breathy laugh before she could stop herself. "You''re inviting me to a lantern festival?" she asked, incredulous but undeniably amused.


    He caught her tone and grimaced, his ears tinging a faint red at the tips. "I realise it''s a bit out of left field. You don''t have to, of course. I just¡ª" He paused, searching for the right words. "You''ve had a rough go of it lately. I thought an evening out, something lighter... it might be nice." Quickly, as if to cover the softness of that suggestion, he added, "Besides, I owe you. For all your help with the case. Consider it a thank you."


    A thank you. Clara pressed her lips together to hide a smile. How neatly he tried to package this invitation, as if it were a professional courtesy and not something far more personal shining in his eyes. He wouldn''t even admit it to himself; she could see him grasping at justifications like lifelines. Lanterns and lies, she mused silently. They were both guilty of those¡ªhe of the little lie that this was only gratitude, she of the pretense that the idea didn''t send her heart fluttering with both intrigue and dread.


    The silence stretched a beat too long. Gabriel shifted on his feet, clearly mistaking her hesitation for rejection. He rushed into the breach: "It''s fine, you probably have plans. Forget I asked." His disappointment was evident in the way he dropped his gaze, and Clara felt a pang she hadn''t expected. There was such genuine goodness in his invitation ¡ª awkward as it was ¡ª and an earnest loneliness that matched her own. To turn him down outright felt wrong.


    "No¡ªwait," she found herself saying. "I''m just... surprised." She peeled off her gloves, buying herself a moment. Her fingers were pale where the gloves had pressed them. "I haven''t been to the festival in years." Not since childhood, she nearly added, but caught herself. The memory was rising up unbidden, despite her attempts to tamp it down.


    A night of soft summer air and lantern-light dancing on black water. Clara could almost smell the river, earthy and damp, and hear her younger siblings giggling as they crouched on the muddy bank with paper lanterns in hand.


    Nine-year-old Clara stood knee-deep in wet grass by the river, a rice-paper lantern cradled between her small hands. All around her bobbed other lights, hundreds of them, as families up and down the banks prepared to set their lanterns free. The warm glow of candles painted golden halos on her companions'' faces. Her little brother was beside her, tongue sticking out in concentration as he scrawled a wish on the side of his lantern with a stubby marker. Her sister, only six, was clapping her hands in excitement as their mother knelt to help light the wick inside her pink paper globe.


    "Don''t let it go yet," Clara whispered, eyes wide as her sister''s lantern began to glow from within. Their mother smiled up at them, the gentle light catching in her hazel eyes ¡ª eyes so much like Clara''s own. God, she was beautiful, Clara thought with a child''s adoration. Not in the way of film stars or magazine covers, but in the way sunlight looked on the first warm day of spring: bright, comforting, life-giving. Her mother''s hair was escaping its braid in dark, windblown tendrils. She laughed as the youngest nearly released her lantern too early, and that sound ¡ª that rich, unguarded laugh ¡ª wrapped around Clara like a hug.


    "Alright, wishes ready?" her mother asked, producing a marker for Clara and her brother. Clara nodded and uncapped hers, heart thumping with the importance of the task. What to wish for? In the distance, a voice over a loudspeaker counted down to the release ¡ª they had only a minute or two. Around them people were scrawling final messages, hopes, prayers on the thin paper shells.


    Clara''s little brother finished with a flourish and held up his lantern. "I wished for a new bike," he declared proudly. Typical. Her sister chimed, "I wished that Mummy will take us to the seaside!" This earned an affectionate nudge and a promise of "We''ll see," from their mother.


    Clara bit her lip, marker hovering. There was only one thing she truly wanted, but it felt almost too big to put into words. She glanced at her mother, who was busy coaxing her brother to not tip his lantern and spill the candle. Be brave, Clara told herself, and with careful strokes she wrote on the rice paper: I wish Mum will always be happy. She drew a tiny heart next to the words, cheeks warming at her own sentimentality. But it felt right. If anyone deserved unending happiness, it was the woman who gave them everything.


    "Ready, love?" Her mother was looking at her now. The countdown was at ten... nine... The woman''s face was aglow, proud and a little wistful all at once. Clara suddenly wanted to throw her arms around her, to cling to her warmth and never let go. But the chant of voices reached three... two... one, and it was time.


    "Go on, Clara," her mother whispered, palm gentle on her back. Together they lowered the lantern to the water''s surface and released. Clara''s small fingers hesitated as the current caught the paper orb. Then it was drifting away, a soft golden star on the river''s dark ribbon. One by one, hundreds of lanterns joined it, a constellation of earthly stars carrying the wishes of so many into the night. Clara watched hers intently. Please let it come true, she prayed fervently. Her mother deserves this wish.


    Beside her, her mother wrapped an arm around Clara''s shoulders and held her close as they gazed out at the water. "What did you wish for, my darling?" she asked.


    Clara leaned into her, head against the familiar softness of her coat. She answered truthfully, voice almost lost amid the joyous commotion, "That you''d always be happy."


    Her mother went very still. Then Clara felt a kiss pressed to the crown of her head. "Oh, my sweet girl," her mother murmured, a catch in her throat. "That''s one I''ll cherish." Under the blanket of night, mother and daughter stood entwined, watching the lantern of Clara''s wish float farther and farther away, until it was just one pinpoint of light among many on the horizon. Clara breathed in her mother''s scent ¡ª lavender and fresh bread and home ¡ª committing it to memory. A strange sadness tugged at her chest, even in the midst of that magic. Some part of her, even then, wondered if wishes ever truly reached the stars.


    "Clara?" Gabriel''s voice pulled her back to the present with a soft hook of concern. Clara blinked rapidly, the river and lights dissolving into cold white morgue tiles and the steady gaze of the detective. She realised her eyes had gone unfocused, fixed somewhere middle-distance as the memories washed over her. Straightening, she brushed an escaped tear (when had that formed?) from the corner of her eye. Thank god, the gesture could be passed off as simple fatigue.


    "Sorry," she said, summoning a faint smile. "Long night yesterday." A half-truth; she had hardly slept, plagued by dreams both old and new.


    Gabriel''s brows drew together, worry evident. He opened his mouth, perhaps to retract the invitation and spare her, but Clara lifted a hand slightly, forestalling him. "The festival... I would like to go." The words left her before her anxiety could stop them. Her heart gave a traitorous thump. What was she doing? She hadn''t been near that river during the festival in well over a decade. The idea of returning there ¡ª to that night and all it meant ¡ª unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Yet here she was, agreeing anyway. Perhaps it was the way Gabriel''s face lit with unguarded surprise and something like gratitude. Perhaps it was that single memory of her mother''s laugh, urging her toward a warmth she''d avoided for too long.


    "Really?" he said, a slow smile blooming. For a man who usually maintained a cool professional fa?ade, the sudden brightness in his expression was almost endearing. He checked himself, smoothing his features, but couldn''t entirely banish the pleased crinkle at the corner of his eyes. "Great. That''s... great."


    Clara found herself charmed by his fumbling. She tilted her head, considering him with a clinical air just to see him squirm a bit - it did, after all, come so naturally to tease him. "Are you sure this isn''t an elaborate interrogation tactic, Detective? Lure the mortuary worker out to a festival, ply her with street food, see if she spills all her secrets?"


    Gabriel chuckled, a genuine sound that warmed the cool room. "Damn. You''ve caught me. The funnel-cake-and-confession ploy is a classic at ECI." He relaxed then, one hand slipping into his trouser pocket as he regarded her with a matching playfulness. "In truth, I''m not on duty tomorrow night. I was just hoping for some company." A slight pause, then more softly, "I''m glad it''ll be yours."


    It was Clara''s turn to be caught off guard. Something in the way he said that ¡ª unpretentious, sincere ¡ª left her momentarily at a loss. She always managed to stay one step ahead in these verbal dances, but now her witty retort tangled on her tongue. Feeling a flush creep up her neck, she responded simply, "Thank you for asking me."


    Gabriel must have noticed that faint colour in her cheeks, because he glanced away with a faintly self-satisfied grin, as if pleased to have unsettled her composure for once. The realisation made Clara simultaneously annoyed and amused. She cleared her throat lightly. "I suppose I should give you my number, so we can coordinate?"


    "Oh! Right." He patted his coat pockets, then produced a slim card and a pen. "Here¡ªI have a card." He scribbled something on the back and offered it to her. "My personal mobile. Feel free to call or text. Perhaps we can meet by the riverfront entrance around eight?"


    Clara accepted the card. His fingers almost brushed hers again, and she was oddly aware of that slight near-touch as she pulled the card away. The cardstock was warm from his pocket. She noted his neat writing of a number beneath the printed name Gabriel Aldrin, Forensic Specialist. "Eight o''clock," she agreed. "I''ll be there."


    For a moment, neither moved. They simply stood in the halo of the exam table''s lamp, facing each other. The air felt different ¡ª not quite as heavy with death, lighter somehow, as if some door had cracked open to the world outside. Gabriel''s gaze flickered over her face, perhaps searching again for any hint of regret or reluctance. He''d find none; Clara was already steeling herself to follow through. If nothing else, she was a woman of her word.


    "Well." His voice was a touch husky. He inclined his head. "I should let you get back to it." His eyes darted toward Tom''s corpse ¡ª the body waited patiently under a white sheet. Clara wondered suddenly what Gabriel saw when he looked at her in this setting: a strange woman in a white coat, surrounded by the dead, comfortable in silence and loneliness. A part of her wanted to apologise for the morbid backdrop to their tentative invitation, but if it bothered him, he gave no sign beyond a mild wrinkle of his nose at the chemical smell.


    "Yes," she replied, businesslike again. "These friends of mine won''t take care of themselves." She nodded to the corpse with a faint smirk.


    Gabriel''s lip quirked. "You have an interesting definition of ''friends.''"


    "They''re very quiet company," Clara deadpanned. "And they rarely disappoint."


    He shook his head in mock despair. "Remind me to introduce you to some people who are, you know, actually breathing."


    Her eyes glinted. "Present company included?"


    He laughed then¡ªa soft, startled laugh. Clara realised with a start it was the first time she''d heard him laugh freely, without reserve. It transformed his face in the most disarming way, carving a dimple in one cheek and lighting those green eyes. The sound tugged at something in her chest, something dangerously close to happiness. She allowed herself a small answering chuckle.


    Gabriel stared at her as she laughed, as if committing the sight to memory. He looked a little astonished, truth be told. Perhaps he hadn''t expected humour from the woman who spends her days with cadavers. His gaze lingered on the curve of her smile until he seemed to catch himself. He coughed and took a half-step back. "Anyway. Until tomorrow, then."


    "Until tomorrow," Clara echoed. She moved with him toward the door, a polite escort out. Just as he opened it, a thought struck her. "Oh, Gabriel?" she said, tasting the familiarity of his first name¡ªshe hadn''t realised she''d used it until it passed her lips.


    He turned, hand on the doorframe. "Yes?"


    Clara held up the card he''d given her between two fingers. "If this is a trick to get me away from my ''friends'' so you can ransack my office for more clues, I''ll be very disappointed."


    He grinned, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated show of innocence. "Damn, you''ve foiled step two of my master plan."


    She gave him a sardonic little salute. "Good day, Detective."


    Gabriel''s smile softened into something almost affectionate. "Good day, Clara." He inclined his head and then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor beyond. The door hissed shut, the click of it sealing her once more in solitude.


    Clara remained still for a moment, staring at the closed door as if by will alone she could see through it. She realised she was holding her breath and let it out in a rush. On the worktable, the stainless steel instruments gleamed, reminding her that life ¡ª or rather, death ¡ª marched on and waited for no one''s idle daydreams. With a shake of her head, she turned back into the room.


    The silence swelled around her, accompanied by the ever-present undertone of the ventilator and humming lights. She became conscious that her heart was fluttering in her chest like a trapped moth. Whether from the lingering adrenaline of the strange vision or the unlikely prospect of tomorrow night ¡ª perhaps both ¡ª she wasn''t sure. Maybe both had wound her up in different ways.


    Her eyes fell upon the shrouded corpse of Tom, the man who had whispered to her. Slowly, she approached the table and peeled back the sheet just enough to see his face once more. It was peaceful now, as in that final hospital memory: calm, resigned. Clara felt a twist of pity and understanding. "Please... not yet," he had begged in death. And here she was, so often begging life to hold off, to leave her be.


    "I''ll record everything, I promise," she whispered to the dead man, as if answering his plea. Her fingers hovered over his cooling hand in a gesture of empathy she would never dare show in front of others. "I don''t know what you want, or why me. But I''ll try to understand." Her voice sounded very small in the empty room. Of course, there was no reply. Tom''s face remained impassive, lips forever sealed. If his spirit lingered, it had given her all it could for now.


    Clara gently drew the sheet back over his features. A feeling of inevitability settled on her shoulders, heavy as a funerary pall. What was happening to her.. However she tried to rationalise them away with words like hallucination and stress, the evidence was mounting in whispers and visions she could no longer completely deny. Death had touched her life more literally than most, and it seemed now it wasn''t content to let her simply paint the faces of its victims. It wanted to speak. Perhaps it had always spoken, and only now did she have ears to hear.


    With a weary sigh, Clara picked up her pen once more and added a final line to her notebook entry: "Am i going insane? Remain skeptical, but open." The pencil''s tip pressed hard at the last word, almost breaking through the page. Skeptical but open ¡ª yes, that was as much as she could promise herself. She would not leap to claim she spoke with ghosts. But she would no longer pretend the ghosts weren''t there.


    Snapping the notebook shut, she slid it into her desk drawer and locked it. The clang of metal was unnaturally loud, and it echoed back from the sterile walls. In the sudden stillness, Clara was struck by the stark contrast between this moment and what awaited her tomorrow. Here she stood enveloped in the cold scent of formaldehyde and quiet death, utterly alone ¡ª and tomorrow she would walk among a crowd of living, breathing people beneath a sky filled with lantern light. It felt almost like stepping through a veil into another world.


    Her eyes strayed to the card in her hand one more time. Gabriel Aldrin. She brushed her thumb over the ink of his handwritten number. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Perhaps it was fitting. Lanterns to guide her through the dark, and lies to shield her heart as she navigated the living once more. Clara slid the card safely into her pocket and reached to turn off the examination lamp. "Until tomorrow," she whispered, not even sure whether she meant it for Gabriel, for her mother''s memory, or for the quiet dead listening in the corners of the room. The only answer was the soft buzz of the lights and the delicate swirl of the chemical-scented air. Clara exhaled and closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself in that familiar perfume of formaldehyde. When she opened them, she felt calm. Determined.


    Gathering her resolve like a cloak around her, Clara ¡ª daughter, mortician, reluctant confidante of the dead ¡ª began to clean up her station. The morgue remained as it ever was, indifferent and silent. But somewhere beyond these walls, a city prepared for a festival of light, and a man with olive-green eyes was waiting for her in a way no one had in a very long time. Clara allowed herself one last glance at Tom''s shrouded form. Thank you, she thought toward him ¡ª or toward whatever kindly force might be listening. Then she switched off the light, plunging the morgue into a muted half-dark. The scent of formaldehyde curled around her as she stood there, one hand on the door, poised between two worlds. Behind her lay the dead man who had whispered to her; ahead, the promise of lanterns and the necessary lies that kept her feet firmly planted among the living.


    With a steadying breath, Clara stepped out, leaving only silence in her wake.

 Thresholds

    Clara woke to the soft tap of rain against the window. Grey morning seeped through curtains she¡¯d forgotten to close, washing the bedroom in a muted glow. Her limbs were heavy, her head aching faintly as she sat up, slowly blinking away the remnants of a dream she couldn¡¯t quite recall.


    The clock read half past eight. Clara ran a hand over her face, grimacing at the dull soreness that lingered beneath her skin¡ªa quiet reminder of the river¡¯s chill still clinging stubbornly to her bones. She glanced at the empty space beside her. The bed felt vast without Jack¡¯s warm, familiar presence.


    With a resigned sigh, she rose and padded to the kitchen to make coffee, the scent of brewing espresso comforting in its mundane familiarity. Clara settled at the kitchen table with her laptop, the screen casting a sterile glow over her tired features. Moments later, Jack¡¯s name blinked insistently, the video call ringing louder than it should have.


    She hesitated a moment before answering, forcing a soft smile as Jack¡¯s face filled the screen. The warm lamplight of his parents'' house softened his features, but shadows of exhaustion darkened his hazel eyes.


    ¡°Hey,¡± he said quietly, a cautious note in his voice. ¡°How are you holding up?¡±


    Clara offered a careful shrug. ¡°Better today. Slept alright.¡± It was half true. She had slept¡ªthough fitfully¡ªbut the echo of cold water and grasping hands was never far.


    Jack studied her face through the screen, visibly worried. ¡°Are you sure everything¡¯s okay between us, Clara? Because if it¡¯s not¡­¡±


    His hesitation felt like a needle beneath her ribs. She shook her head gently, hating the way her voice caught as she reassured him, ¡°Everything¡¯s fine, Jack. Really. I''m fine.¡±


    She lied easily enough¡ªmaybe too easily¡ªand guilt tightened its grip around her throat. Jack¡¯s eyes softened, but uncertainty lingered in his gaze.


    ¡°If you need me home¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stay,¡± she urged softly. ¡°I think I just need a bit of space. A few days to¡­sort myself out.¡±


    Jack nodded slowly, resigned. ¡°Alright. But call me if anything¡ª¡±


    ¡°I promise,¡± she cut in gently, trying not to feel like she¡¯d betrayed him even more deeply. The call ended quietly, leaving the apartment wrapped once more in silence.


    With a steadying breath, Clara stood, pouring the rest of her coffee down the drain, her appetite lost. A long run¡ªthat¡¯s what she needed. She dressed quickly, lacing up sneakers and heading out into the misty streets of Erelis. Her footsteps echoed rhythmically against rain-soaked pavement, the cool air gradually clearing her head.


    By the time she returned, breathless and flushed, a strange restlessness had taken hold. She glanced at the invitation card Gabriel had left. Lantern Festival. Maybe a normal evening was exactly what she needed¡ªaway from the morgue, from Jack¡¯s worry, from her own fears. Before she could overthink it, she set it aside and headed to shower, determined to make something good out of the day.


    The afternoon found her wandering the winding streets near the river Elkie. Clara had carefully dressed, smoothing tinted moisturizer over skin still pale from exhaustion, mascara lengthening her lashes just enough to distract from tired eyes. She wasn¡¯t sure why she¡¯d taken the extra care¡ªperhaps she needed to feel more like herself, even if only for one day.


    She¡¯d always liked the riverside district, with its quirky boutiques and coffee shops nestled between old brick buildings. But today she wasn¡¯t here for coffee or vintage clothing; she sought answers.


    Clara paused outside a small shop she¡¯d never noticed before, Clara stepped off the bustling midday sidewalk and paused, one foot hovering over a threshold she hadn¡¯t expected to find. The shop¡¯s entrance was tucked between a boarded-up antiques store and a vacant lot overgrown with weeds. She almost missed it entirely. A carved wooden sign above the door read Bookbinery, its letters faded and half-obscured by years of Erelis''s grime. She needed a refuge from her own mind, and this narrow, dim bookstore felt like a sanctuary waiting with open arms.


    Inside, a brass bell tinkled softly as the door closed behind her. Clara inhaled and let the silence wrap around her. The air was thick with the perfume of , laced with a tendril of sweet incense smoke that curled from a burner on the front counter. Shelves rose in uneven columns all around, teetering under the weight of forgotten tomes. Ancient wooden floorboards creaked beneath her sneakers as she took a few tentative steps forward. It was cooler in here, the daylight muted by stained-glass clerestory windows high above. In the half-light, motes of dust floated like tiny galaxies, stirred by her presence. Clara felt her tight shoulders finally loosen a fraction. This was a place where , where the world outside might as well have been a dream. Exactly what she needed.


    She hadn¡¯t lied to Jack entirely¡ªshe really was ¡°fine¡± in the physical sense. No new bruises bloomed on her skin, and the scratches on her ankle from the river¡¯s corpse had faded to faint marks. But when he¡¯d appeared on her laptop screen earlier today, all concerned eyes and furrowed brow, she couldn¡¯t bring herself to tell him the truth. How could she explain the hollow ache that had settled in her chest, or the nightmares that clung to her like cobwebs? How could she tell him about the corpse that tried to drown her, or the way death itself seemed to be following her like a shadow? So she had smiled, told him everything is fine, and watched his worry deepen even as he nodded.


    Lying to Jack left a bitter taste on her tongue. Guilt pressed at her ribs now, an uncomfortable companion to her racing thoughts. , she hoped, running a finger along the spine of a nearby book. She had come here seeking something¡ªanswers, distraction, maybe both. Either way, the quiet gloom of the bookstore felt comforting.


    Clara drifted deeper between the shelves. The shop seemed to stretch on much farther than the exterior implied, with narrow aisles branching into alcoves and corners lost to shadow. Here and there, green glass lamps cast pools of soft light on reading nooks cluttered with velvet cushions. A tabby cat dozed atop a stack of encyclopaedias , lifting its head briefly to eye Clara before returning to its slumber. She offered it a faint smile and continued on. No shopkeeper emerged to greet her, but she sensed a watchful presence somewhere, perhaps an old man in the back room listening for the bell. That suited her just fine; she preferred to browse unnoticed.


    Her fingers brushed over cracked leather bindings and cloth covers bleached by time.  were exactly what she was looking for. She recalled the scribbled notes she¡¯d made in her phone last night: ¡°Vespertina,¡± death¡¯s-head moth, Latin phrase? Rituals? The word vespertina had lodged itself in her mind ever since she¡¯d first heard it whispered by an acquaintance at the city archives. Supposedly, it was connected to an old folktale about restless spirits. And the death¡¯s-head hawk moth¡­ Clara couldn¡¯t forget the  she¡¯d seen seared into that corpse¡¯s skin at the morgue¡ªa moth with a skull pattern.


    It matched the nightmare that woke her breathless days ago, when she¡¯d dreamed of moths swarming her, smothering her in darkness. There had to be a thread tying these things together. Some clue to explain why the dead were¡­ stirring. Why she, of all people, had twice been nearly dragged beyond the veil of life. She turned down an aisle labeled Occult & Folklore. The smell of old ink grew stronger. Many of the books here had no titles on their spines, just symbols or nothing at all. Clara ran her hand along them until one snagged her attention¡ªa , its cover embossed with a faded silver moth motif. Her pulse ticked faster. She gently pulled it from the shelf, sending a cascade of dust motes swirling. The cover creaked as she opened it. Inside, the pages were thick and yellowed, filled with slanted handwriting and the occasional printed block of Latin text. It looked more like a personal journal than a published book.


    Cradling the book in her hands, Clara retreated into a corner where a stained-glass lamp threw ruby and sapphire patterns across the page. She perched on a low wooden stool and began to read. The author¡ªwhoever they were¡ªhad an affinity for riddles and allegory. Clara flipped past sketches of herbs and strange insects in the margins: a foxglove plant, a raven, a series of moths each drawn with unnervingly  on their wings. Her heart gave a subtle kick at the sight of those images. Death¡¯s-head moths, just as she suspected. One sketch showed a moth with a skull-shaped pattern on its back, perched atop a human skull. Beneath it, written in Latin, were the words:


    Clara mouthed the phrase under her breath, sounding out the Latin as best she could. ¡°Ad vocem noctis¡­ redeunt qui nunquam abierunt.¡± She recognized noctis as ¡°night,¡± and nunquam¡ªnever. Redeunt she wasn¡¯t sure about, but vocem was something like ¡°voice.¡± At the voice of night, return¡­ those who never left? A chill skittered down her spine. The idea resonated too closely with her recent experiences¡ªreturn those who never left. It brought to mind the dead man by the river, eyes open when they should not have been; the invisible hands in her bathtub pulling her down. Those who never truly left this world, returning when night calls to them. Clara swallowed, suddenly aware of how alone and small she was amidst these towering shelves.


    She traced the words lightly with her fingertip, leaving a trail in the dust on the page. Why would this be written here, in a journal about moths and rituals? The ink was a rust-brown, as if written with old blood. The handwriting around it was erratic, desperate. Clara squinted at a cramped notation penciled beneath the Latin. It was in English, a barely legible scrawl: ¡°They are waking. We wake them without meaning to.¡± Her breath caught. Waking the dead without meaning to. The phrase throbbed in her mind like a warning. Did this author accidentally rouse something? Was she somehow doing the same?


    Suddenly, the lamp¡¯s light above her flickered¡ªonce, twice. Clara¡¯s skin prickled with the sense that she was no longer alone in this tucked-away corner. She glanced up from the book, heart thudding. Between two shelves a few paces ahead, a  stood in the dim aisle, watching her quietly. All she could see at first was his silhouette, backlit by a stray beam of overcast daylight from a high window. He was broad-shouldered, coat hanging open around a solid frame. For a split second her stomach clenched with instinctive wariness¡ªhad Gabriel followed her here? Was it some other stranger? But then the man stepped forward, into the coluored light cast by the stained-glass lamp, and Clara¡¯s apprehension melted into astonishment.


    It was . The stranger from the riverbank. Roen.


    He inclined his head slightly in greeting, an almost old-fashioned gesture that sent a lock of his dark hair tumbling across his forehead. Clara realised she had stopped breathing. Her fingers clutched the open book with a tremor. The shop suddenly felt even smaller, the air charged with a hush so profound she could hear the faint tick of a clock somewhere in the store. Roen was the first to break the silence. In a low voice, edged with that gentle rasp she remembered, he spoke: "Hello, old friend" He took a step closer ¡°At the voice of night, return those who never left.¡± He said it as a statement, not a question¡ªtranslating the Latin aloud.


    Clara¡¯s lips parted in surprise. That chill was back, but it was different now, tangled with a strange warmth that spread up through her chest. She shut the book on her finger to mark the page and rose slowly from the stool. ¡°You speak Latin?¡± she asked, keeping her tone light despite the racing of her pulse.


    Roen¡¯s mouth curved ever so slightly. ¡°I¡¯ve picked up a few things over the years,¡± he replied. He took another unhurried step closer, and the lamplight spilled over him. For the first time, Clara truly saw him.


    The man from that terrifying night stood barely an arm¡¯s length away now, unmistakably real against the backdrop of dusty books. In the tempered glow of afternoon filtering through stained glass, Roen was arresting. Dark hair, still with a slight wave as she remembered, framed a face that was both perfectly human and something beyond human. His features were refined, almost too flawless¡ªhigh cheekbones and a strong line of jaw balanced by an enticing softness at the mouth. There was a quiet intensity about him, an  to his face that made it hard to look away. Clara found herself momentarily speechless, caught in the gravity of his presence. In the river¡¯s darkness she had thought his eyes were grey or maybe blue; here, a stray ray of light found them and revealed hints of both, a pale storm-cloud hue that seemed to glow from within. They regarded her now with open curiosity and a touch of something like concern.


    She realised she must have been staring. Heat flooded her cheeks¡ªan unfamiliar sensation, as Clara couldn¡¯t recall the last time she¡¯d blushed in front of anyone. She cleared her throat softly and tried to collect herself. ¡°Fancy meeting you here,¡± she said, aiming for a composed, teasing tone. ¡°We have to stop meeting like this¡ªnext time people will talk.¡±


    Roen¡¯s slight smile widened by a fraction, crinkling the corners of those impossibly light eyes. ¡°Hello, Clara,¡± he said, voice as rich and smooth as she remembered. He seemed pleased by her composure. ¡°I promise I¡¯m not in the habit of ambushing people in bookstores. Or in rivers, for that matter.¡±


    Clara huffed a soft breath of laughter. The sound came easier than she expected. ¡°Good to know. Ambushing isn¡¯t really my preferred method of bumping into friends.¡± She slipped the blue journal closed and held it against her chest protectively, as if it were a secret she wasn¡¯t ready to share. ¡°What brings you here, Roen? Do you¡ª¡± she arched a brow, ¡°¡ªfrequent places like this?¡±


    He tilted his head, considering her through a lock of dark hair. In the gentle light his face was even more exquisite than memory had painted. The word beautiful felt too simple and too small. It was the kind of beauty that unsettled as much as it drew you in, like a solitary midnight snowfall or a fragment of a haunting song. Clara found that, oddly, she wasn¡¯t nervous. If anything, Roen¡¯s presence was a balm to the anxiety that had chased her in here. She hadn¡¯t realised how deeply it had burrowed under her skin until now, when under his calm gaze, her fear receded like an outgoing tide.


    ¡°I might ask you the same question,¡± Roen countered gently. He let his fingers drift along the spine of a nearby volume¡ªhis hands were ungloved today, long-fingered and elegant, with a curious bruise-like shadow curling across the back of one. Clara glimpsed it only briefly before he slipped that hand into his coat pocket. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect to see you so soon. Are you¡­ alright?¡±


    It was such a simple question, yet layered with meaning. Clara sensed he wasn¡¯t just asking about today. He was asking about that night, about what happened after he left her at her door. For a moment, she imagined telling him everything¡ªher nightmares, the unspoken dread that something was very wrong with her world. How easy it would be to confide in someone who already knew part of the truth. But caution and habit held her tongue. She wasn¡¯t used to sharing her burdens, not with Jack, not even with her closest friend Nina. Why would she spill her soul to a man who was nearly a stranger?


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± she replied, tucking a stray curl of chestnut-brown hair behind her ear. ¡°And I think I owe you a proper thank you. I didn¡¯t really get a chance that night¡ª¡± She broke off, swallowing the lump that rose in her throat at the memory of river water filling her lungs. ¡°If it weren¡¯t for you, I might not be standing here. So¡­ thank you, Roen. Truly.¡± Clara''s eyes bore into his.


    Roen blinked then his gaze softened. He shook his head once. ¡°There¡¯s no need to thank me. Anyone would have done the same.¡± Clara couldn¡¯t help but smile wryly. ¡°I don¡¯t know about anyone. You jumped into that dirty river after a complete stranger. That¡¯s not exactly an everyday Good Samaritan move.¡±


    A ghost of a chuckle escaped him. ¡°Maybe not. But I¡¯m glad I was in the right place at the right time.¡± He paused, as if weighing something in his mind, then added in a quieter tone, ¡°And I am glad you¡¯re alright.¡± The sincerity in his voice sent a warm flutter through Clara¡¯s chest.


    She lowered her eyes briefly, unsure how to handle such earnest concern. Her gaze landed on the book in her arms. Right¡ªher research. A welcome distraction. ¡°Well, since you¡¯re here,¡± she ventured lightly, looking up at him through her lashes, ¡°perhaps you can help me with something. Do you know what vespertina means?¡±


    One of Roen¡¯s dark eyebrows lifted a fraction. He debated weather he should indulge in her snooping. He leaned against the shelf, a picture of casual grace, though his eyes never left her face. ¡°Vespertina¡­ Latin for ¡®of the evening,¡¯ I believe. It can refer to things that are active at dusk.¡± A small smile played on his lips. ¡°In entomology, it¡¯s a genus of moth, if I recall correctly.¡±


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    Clara tried not to show her surprise. His recall was exact¡ªnearly word for word what she had gleaned from Gabriel¡¯s notes and obscure Wikipedia pages late last night. ¡°So you do frequent places like this,¡± she teased, hugging the journal closer. ¡°Or you have a very eclectic education.¡±


    Roen gave a slight shrug, the movement causing his coat to fall open a little more. Beneath it he wore a charcoal sweater that clung to his frame in a way that drew Clara¡¯s involuntary notice. He carried himself with such ease; it was hard to imagine him ever being flustered. ¡°I read a lot,¡± he admitted. ¡°Old habits. And I suppose I have a¡­ professional interest in things related to death.¡± His eyes glinted with a secret knowledge at that last word.


    Clara¡¯s pulse skipped. Professional interest in death. If only he knew that she understood the literal truth of that statement¡ªat least, what she believed to be the truth. She still remembered pressing her back against her front door after he¡¯d driven away that night, the realisation crashing over her: Death saved my life. It sounded mad even in her own head, but she felt it, bone-deep. And here he was, standing before her, browsing an occult bookstore and speaking Latin phrases about the dead returning. It was almost laughably on the nose. If this was Death in human form, he certainly wasn¡¯t hiding his proclivities.


    ¡°Oh?¡± Clara kept her tone playful, arching an eyebrow. ¡°What line of work are you in, exactly? Funeral home director? Gothic novelist?¡± She tilted her head coyly. ¡°I have to guess, since you never really told me that night.¡±


    Roen chuckled, a rich sound that made her stomach give a strange flutter. ¡°I didn¡¯t, did I?¡± He murmured, running a hand through his hair in a surprisingly boyish gesture, as if caught being a little rude. ¡°Forgive me. I¡¯m not used to talking about myself.¡± He glanced around the dim, empty aisles, a small smile still on his lips. ¡°Let¡¯s just say I¡¯m in¡­ . I manage things that need to be kept in order, items people leave behind.¡±


    It was an evasive answer wrapped in a truth, and Clara sensed that. Collections. Souls, perhaps? A flicker of wry humour crossed her mind, but she matched his tone. ¡°Sounds mysterious. I bet it keeps you busy, managing everyone¡¯s lost things.¡±


    ¡°You have no idea,¡± Roen said quietly. For just a heartbeat, his gaze drifted past her, as if seeing beyond the walls of the shop to something far away. The weight of ages seemed to hang on him in that unguarded instant, and Clara suddenly felt an urge to reach out¡ªto recall him back to the present with her. But before she could act on it, his focus snapped back. ¡°And you?¡± he asked. ¡°You spend your free time decoding Latin in hidden bookstores, it seems.¡±


    Clara laughed under her breath. ¡°Not always. I¡­ I work at the city morgue, actually. I prepare bodies for funeral viewings.¡± She offered this somewhat cautiously, unsure if normal people found it macabre. Usually, mentioning her profession was a quick way to end small talk. But Roen¡¯s face lit with recognition, not disgust. ¡°That explains a few things,¡± he said softly, almost to himself.


    She smirked. ¡°Explains what? My charming conversational skills?¡±


    He gave a slow shake of his head. ¡°Your composure,¡± he clarified. ¡°Most people would be¡­¡± He trailed off, searching for the word. ¡°Traumatised? Hysterical?¡± Clara supplied dryly.


    Roen¡¯s eyes warmed. ¡°Understandably shaken,¡± he amended. ¡°After what happened the other night. But you seem to have taken it in stride. You¡¯re even researching it.¡± He nodded toward the journal she held. ¡°It takes a certain fortitude to seek answers about something that almost killed you.¡±


    Clara¡¯s grip tightened slightly on the book¡¯s spine. She hadn¡¯t thought of it that way. For her, the drive to understand was almost compulsive¡ªsomething terrible had happened and she needed to make sense of it. The fear would only worsen if left in the dark. ¡°I guess I don¡¯t scare easily,¡± she said with a small, self-conscious shrug. ¡°Working with the dead¡­ you get used to things that might unnerve others. And besides,¡± she added, her tone turning wry, ¡°I¡¯d rather know what I¡¯m dealing with than wait for it to sneak up on me again.¡± She tapped the cover of the book. ¡°Even if that means combing through dusty tomes for obscure clues.¡±


    There was admiration in Roen¡¯s eyes that made her heart do an unexpected flip. ¡°Still,¡± he murmured, ¡°I find it¡­ remarkable.¡±


    ¡°What is?¡± she asked softly.


    He hesitated, as if the intensity of his own thoughts surprised him. His gaze dropped briefly, and she swore she saw a hint of colour on his cheeks now, a subtle flush beneath that porcelain skin. ¡°You,¡± Roen finally said. ¡°Most people fear death. You don¡¯t. You walk alongside it with¡­ grace. Even curiosity.¡± He glanced at the book, then back to her face. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ rather captivating.¡±


    Clara felt her cheeks burn hotter. She managed a light laugh to ease the sudden tension that fluttered between them. If only he knew¡ªdeath had been her companion in one way or another for a very long time. She remembered being thirteen, standing in a funeral parlour beside her mother¡¯s coffin, feeling not terror but a strange, calm sadness, as if Death had held her hand instead of scaring her. It wasn¡¯t death that frightened her¡ªit was the thought of the dead rising that had her chasing answers now.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know about captivating,¡± she replied with a faint smile. ¡°I¡¯m a practical person. Dead is dead. Or¡­ it¡¯s supposed to be.¡± She blew out a breath, letting some of her real worry seep into her voice. ¡°What happened in the river¡­ it shouldn¡¯t have been possible. Dead men don¡¯t just wake up like that.¡± Her words were quiet but fervent. ¡°Something is wrong, Roen. And I can¡¯t just pretend it¡¯s all fine. Not after nearly drowning twice.¡±


    She hadn¡¯t meant to say that last part¡ªshe hadn¡¯t told anyone about the bathtub incident¡ªbut the admission slipped out. Her heartbeat stumbled as she realised it. Would he think her insane now? Babbling about corpses waking and multiple near-drownings?


    Roen straightened, the slight smile vanishing. ¡°Twice?¡± he echoed, concern sharpening his features. He took a half-step forward, closing the distance between them to mere inches. Clara was suddenly enveloped in his presence: the  that clung to him washed over her senses. It was exactly as she remembered¡ªcool and fresh like crushed mint leaves, grounded by a green, loamy aroma of forests after rain. Underneath it all was that ancient warmth, subtle but steady, like the lingering incense in a centuries-old cathedral. The effect was oddly soothing; it steadied her even as her nerves jumped from the proximity.


    She nodded, her throat dry. ¡°About a week ago¡­ I had an accident at home.¡± She tried for a reassuring tone, as if to dissuade the worry in his eyes. ¡°It¡¯s a long story, but¡ªsomething pulled me underwater then, too. I was alone in my bathtub and I nearly¡­ Well. I managed to break free.¡± Clara offered a ghost of a smile. ¡°I¡¯m starting to feel like I have a rather dysfunctional relationship with baths and rivers.¡±


    Roen didn¡¯t laugh at her dark little joke. His eyes had gone stormy, that strange internal light in them flickering like a candle in a gale. For a moment, Clara wondered if she¡¯d said too much. Then he exhaled slowly, and the tension in his shoulders eased. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, and the simple sympathy in his voice threatened to unravel the composure she clung to. ¡°You¡¯ve been through more than anyone should. No wonder you¡¯re searching for answers.¡± He glanced down, and Clara realised with a flush that at some point, perhaps when he stepped nearer, his hand had come to rest lightly on the shelf beside her, near her shoulder. It wasn¡¯t touching her¡ªhe wasn¡¯t quite that bold¡ªbut the closeness sent a subtle thrill through her all the same.


    She swallowed, trying to ignore the way her skin seemed to tingle in awareness of him. ¡°It¡¯s probably nothing,¡± she said, forcing a casual note. ¡°Random coincidences, or some prank gone wrong¡­ I don¡¯t know. I just feel like if I can find out what Vespertina or these moth symbols mean, maybe I can understand why¡ª¡± She cut herself off before saying why death is following me. That might be a step too far.


    Roen¡¯s expression grew thoughtful. ¡°Moths often symbolise the soul in folklore,¡± he offered gently. ¡°Or messengers from the other side. The death¡¯s-head hawk moth in particular has long been an omen in Western mythology.¡± He spoke carefully, as though he had to choose which knowledge he could share. ¡°In some old practices, they were used in rituals attempting to communicate with the dead. The idea was that these creatures, being active at night and attracted to flame, could carry messages to those who had passed on.¡± A wry note entered his tone. ¡°Of course, such rituals rarely went as planned. Disturbing the natural order can have¡­ consequences.¡±


    Clara absorbed his words, her heart thumping faster. He spoke as if he truly knew these things, not like someone merely repeating lore heard in passing. ¡°Consequences,¡± she echoed. Her mind jumped back to the scrawled note: ¡°We wake them without meaning to.¡± A chill crept over her skin despite the warmth of the enclosed space. ¡°So someone could accidentally wake the dead by¡­ by trying to talk to them?¡±


    Roen studied her face, and she had the uncanny sense he was reading her, seeing every thought that flashed in her eyes. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he said softly. ¡°Or by reading from a text they don¡¯t fully understand. Saying the wrong words at the wrong time.¡± He lifted a hand as if to touch the cover of her journal, then seemed to think better of it and let his arm fall. ¡°Knowledge is power, but it can also be a beacon. Sometimes when you shine a light, you draw forth things from the dark¡ªthings you never intended to find.¡±


    The timbre of his voice was so quiet and hypnotic that Clara felt a shiver flow through her. She realised suddenly that this corner of the bookstore was far darker than when she¡¯d first sat down¡ªthe sun outside had dipped, and only the stained-glass lamp illuminated them now in jeweled tones. The day was slipping away. How long had they been talking in hushed voices here, hidden among the dusty volumes? It felt like minutes and hours all at once.


    Clara wet her lips. ¡°You make it sound like I should put this book down and run,¡± she said, half-jesting, half-serious.


    Roen¡¯s eyes gentled. ¡°Not at all. I only mean to say¡­ be careful. Pursuing the unknown can be dangerous, especially for someone who¡­¡± He trailed off, and this time Clara sensed a hesitation out of personal concern rather than secrecy. ¡°Someone who has already been touched by that darkness.¡±


    Her chest tightened. He¡¯s worried about me. It was an alarming and oddly comforting realisation. She managed a small smile to ease the heaviness of the moment. ¡°I appreciate the warning. Really. But caution isn¡¯t going to satisfy my curiosity. I need to know what¡¯s happening.¡± She lifted her chin, a spark of determination flaring in her. ¡°I¡¯m not afraid of the dark, Roen.


    For a heartbeat, Roen simply gazed at her, an intensity in his face that made her pulse stumble. Then he let out a breath of a laugh¡ªsoft and almost admiring. ¡°You are¡­ extraordinarily brave, Clara.¡± The way he said her name, low and reverent, made it feel like something precious. ¡°Or extraordinarily stubborn.¡±


    She chuckled. ¡°I¡¯ll take either as a compliment.¡±


    ¡°It was meant as one,¡± he assured, lips curving. There was a pause, an intimate hush in which they both seemed to become aware of how near they were standing. Clara could see the fine detail of dark lashes around his eyes, the subtle pulse at the base of his throat. A memory flooded her: the moment in his car when he¡¯d buckled her seatbelt, how close his face had been then¡­ She felt that closeness now, an electric potential in the scant space between them.


    Her heart drummed a little faster. She half expected him to step back, to break the spell. But Roen stayed where he was, towering protectively close, as if drawn by the same magnetism that held her. Clara¡¯s hand, almost of its own accord, moved to rest on the shelf beside her, and her fingertips brushed something warm and solid. It was his hand, still gripping the wooden ledge near her shoulder. The contact was barely there¡ªa graze of skin against skin¡ªbut both of them froze lightly at the touch.


    Clara¡¯s breath hitched. The muffled sounds of the city outside, the ticking clock, even the faint rustle of the bookstore¡¯s cat¡ªeverything else dropped away. There was just the two of them in a pool of stained-glass light, touching in the smallest, most innocent way that nevertheless sent a thrill through her blood. She should pull away. She knew she should. And yet¡­ she didn¡¯t.


    Slowly, Roen drew his hand back, and her fingers slipped from his. He did it with such care, as if he¡¯d felt that same spark and regretted that propriety forced him to sever it. He cleared his throat gently. ¡°I, ah¡ªI should let you continue your research,¡± he said, voice a touch lower than before. Was he¡­ flustered? It was such a human reaction that it charmed her even more. Death¡ªif he was Death¡ªlooking almost bashful because their hands accidentally touched.


    Clara found herself smiling, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. ¡°Perhaps I¡¯ve had enough dusty reading for one day,¡± she said. The journal in her arms felt heavier now, its morbid secrets a little less appealing compared to the living, breathing enigma standing before her. ¡°Besides, it¡¯s nearly evening. I shouldn¡¯t lose track of time completely.¡± She carefully set the old book aside on a stack of others. She could always purchase it on her way out, or return tomorrow. Right now, something else tugged at her attention¡ªsomething far more current.


    ¡°Evening,¡± Roen repeated thoughtfully. He glanced toward the front of the shop, where the grey light of late day pooled on the floorboards. ¡°The Lantern Festival is tonight, isn¡¯t it? I saw banners for it in the high street.¡±


    Clara nodded, surprised and pleased he knew. ¡°It is. The festivities start at sunset by the river.¡± A small bubble of excitement welled in her chest at the thought. She hadn¡¯t attended the Lantern Festival in years¡ªnot since she was a child making paper lanterns with her sister. But tonight she¡¯d promised herself she would go, darkness and danger be damned. Perhaps she wanted to prove she wasn¡¯t afraid, or maybe she just needed to feel like an ordinary person for a little while, celebrating under the glow of lantern light.


    ¡°Are you planning to go?¡± Roen asked casually, but she caught the note of genuine interest under the lightness.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said, matching his casual tone. ¡°With a friend.¡± She added that last part on impulse, though she wasn¡¯t sure why. Perhaps to ground herself, to remember that she had a life outside of this strange connection. Technically, it wasn¡¯t a lie¡ªher friend Nina had agreed to meet her there. But Nina was as flighty as a moth herself; there was a good chance she¡¯d cancel last minute for a date or work. Clara didn¡¯t particularly mind either way.


    ¡°Ah.¡± Roen¡¯s expression remained polite, but she noticed his lashes lower briefly, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Was that¡­ disappointment? No, she must have imagined it.


    ¡°With my friend Nina,¡± Clara elaborated, finding herself wanting to clarify for reasons she didn¡¯t fully fathom. ¡°She¡¯s been pestering me to attend some kind of community event for ages. I figured lanterns on the riverbank was a good place to start.¡± She offered a lopsided grin. ¡°You know, ease myself back into the world of the living.¡±


    At that, Roen did smile¡ªa warm, real smile that made her stomach flip. ¡°The world of the living suits you,¡± he said softly. ¡°And the festival is a beautiful tradition. Hundreds of lanterns floating on the water¡­ It¡¯s the kind of light that keeps the darkness at bay, if only for a night.¡± His gaze lingered on her face, almost reverently, and Clara felt that hush fall between them again¡ªheavy with meaning, with things unspoken.


    ¡°Will you be going?¡± she asked, her voice quieter now. The question hung in the air like one of those lanterns might, fragile and glowing.


    For a moment, Roen simply looked at her, a slight surprise flitting across his features, as if he hadn¡¯t expected her to ask. Then he answered, ¡°I think I will.¡± There was a softness in his tone that made her chest ache. ¡°I¡¯d like to see the lanterns.¡±


    Clara¡¯s lips curved. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll see you there, then.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you will,¡± Roen replied, the corner of his mouth quirking¡ªalmost a playful grin, if he ever allowed one to fully form.


    Outside, the light was dimming further, the cloudy sky shading toward dusk. A faint murmur of voices drifted in as a couple of customers passed by the front windows. The shopkeeper¡¯s silhouette finally appeared at the counter, no doubt wondering if his last patron was going to buy that moth-eaten book or not. It was time to go.


    Clara felt a reluctant reluctance to break this moment. She hadn¡¯t realised how easy it was to talk with Roen, how naturally conversation had flowed in this quiet, hidden corner of the world. The thought of stepping back out into the noise and normalcy of the street felt jarring. But the Lantern Festival awaited¡ªand perhaps, she thought with a flutter of anticipation she tried to ignore,  awaited there too.


    She bent to retrieve her satchel and slid the blue journal of Vespertina and moths carefully inside. She would purchase it on her way out; she couldn¡¯t leave without it now, not after what she¡¯d read. When she straightened, Roen had stepped back to allow her space, ever the gentleman. Yet he hovered close enough that she could feel a gentle warmth emanating from him. Or perhaps that warmth was within her.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said, surprising herself. When he cocked his head questioningly, she clarified with a smile, ¡°For the Latin translation. And the mini lecture on moths and folklore. It was actually¡­ very helpful.¡±


    A modest dip of his head acknowledged her thanks. ¡°Anytime. I¡¯m glad I could help, even a little.¡± He hesitated, studying her quietly, then reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small, folded card. He offered it between two fingers, elegant and assured.


    ¡°If you discover anything else in that book¡ªor if your research leads you somewhere uncertain,¡± he said softly, ¡°you can reach me here.¡±


    Clara took the card, her fingers brushing lightly against his in the exchange. The brief contact sent a quiet shock through her skin, warm and strangely comforting. The card was simple: heavy ivory paper, embossed with his name¡ªRoen¡ªin ink as dark as midnight. Beneath it, printed neatly, was the name of a caf¨¦ she''d passed once or twice in the older quarter of Erelis. The Raven. She knew it, vaguely, as a place that never seemed to close its doors, tucked between cobblestone alleys and wrought-iron balconies, half-hidden in shadows. No phone number, no email¡ªjust a name, an invitation to find him in the world he inhabited.


    Clara felt suddenly bold, and acted before caution could silence her. She reached out again, gently touching his forearm, just a whisper of pressure through the soft wool of his coat. Beneath, she felt muscle, warmth, the steady beat of something reassuringly alive. Roen¡¯s eyes widened slightly at her touch, betraying surprise beneath his carefully constructed calm.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said quietly. ¡°I appreciate this more than you realise.¡±


    For just a moment, he leaned subtly into her fingers, as if instinctively drawn to her warmth. Then, slowly, he nodded once.


    Realising she was still holding on to him, Clara flushed and drew her hand back. The two of them made their way together down the narrow aisle toward the front of the shop. Their footsteps creaked in tandem on the wooden floor. At the threshold, she paused to pay the proprietor¡ªa wrinkled old woman who looked between Clara and Roen with keen, knowing eyes, though she said nothing aside from quoting a price for the journal. Clara handed over a few notes, tucked the change into her coat pocket, and stepped aside.


    Roen lingered by the door. As Clara pushed it open, the bell jingled and a gust of cool evening air swept in, stirring the edges of Roen¡¯s dark hair. He looked to her one last time, and for a moment, in the fading light, his face was cast half in shadow, half in the golden glow of the shop¡¯s lamps. The effect was striking¡ª, as if he stood at the threshold between light and dark, belonging to neither and both.


    ¡°Goodbye, Clara,¡± he said softly. It sounded intimate the way he spoke it, like good night rather than goodbye.


    She offered him a gentle smile as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. ¡°See you soon, Roen.¡± The door swung shut between them, his figure momentarily obscured by the reflection of streetlights on the glass. The bell¡¯s chime rang once more in final farewell.


    Clara stood still on the pavement for a second, clutching her satchel with the old journal inside. The city moved around her¡ªpeople hurrying toward the river for the festival, lights flickering to life in windows, the distant strains of music starting up by the waterfront. Yet she felt suspended in that quiet book-scented bubble a moment longer, replaying the last hour in her mind. Had she really just had a conversation like that? With Death himself? She breathed out, a mix of incredulity and wonder swirling in her chest.


    Above the rooftops to the west, the sun had vanished, leaving a wash of deep blue and indigo. Night was arriving, and soon lanterns would bloom across the dark, carrying hopes and memories on their small flames. Clara turned and began walking toward the river, her pace brisk, heart light and pounding all at once.


    She had sought out the bookstore in search of answers about death. Instead, she found ¡ªand with him, new questions, new mysteries, and a connection that defied explanation. It was quiet. It was uncanny. It was intense in a way that left her feeling more awake and alive than she had in a long time. Clara allowed herself a tiny smile as she melted into the evening crowd.