Page 2 of Ashen Souls

He wished me a good night and walked back to his friends. His decency only made me feel worse.

Harper found me ten minutes later, flushed and triumphant, with a stranger’s number saved in her phone.

“You look like you’re contemplating murder,” she said, her grin widening at my sour expression.

“I kissed someone.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Briefly. And with a significant amount of regret.”

She sighed, shaking her head as we made our way toward the exit. “God, Aves. You’re hopeless.”

“Thank you.”

“No, I mean it affectionately.” She bumped her shoulder against mine, steadying me as my heel caught on the threshold. “Come on. I’m escorting you home before you make another questionable life choice.”

The walk back to my apartment was quiet, the city settling into itself as the foot traffic thinned. Harper kicked at a puddle.

“You keep playing dead, Aveline. Waiting for something to come along and bite. Eventually, something will.”

I glanced at her. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

She smiled. “It’s supposed to be a warning.”

We parted at my door. She blew me a kiss, already typing a new text, and disappeared into the rain.

Inside, I kicked off my shoes, lit a few candles, and sank onto the couch.

I opened my laptop. The stark glare of the blank document illuminated the room and bit at my tired eyes.

I was working because the landlord didn’t accept potential as rent. I freelanced for a small arts magazine, covering forgotten exhibitions and theater premieres in drafty basements. It wasn’t glamorous, but there was a quiet thrill in seeing my name in print.

The gin still buzzed in my temples.

Write, I told myself.

I slowly tapped out the first few lines. I was supposed to be working on a piece about fatal love stories—about why we crave tragedy when our own lives feel stagnant and how grief can feel more honest than peace. I tried to keep my tone controlled, but the alcohol rendered the words blunt.

By the time I crawled into bed, it was well past midnight. I lay on my back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. The old plumbing groaned in the walls, and somewhere below, the muffled chime of the baker’s alarm signaled the start of an early shift.

Exhaustion should have taken me, but sleep only circled, refusing to land. My thoughts snagged on things I usually tried to ignore.

I was finally drifting off when the pressure hit.

Not pain exactly. It was the same tug I’d felt that morning, only multiplied by a thousand.

I rolled onto my side and pressed my palm flat against my chest, trying to steady whatever was stirring there.

I opened my eyes.

The darkness in the far corner of the bedroom seemed to possess actual mass. Instead of receding beneath the ambient glow of the streetlamp, the blackness acted like a void, devouring the light.

I tried to blame the blinds. An optical illusion fueled by cheap gin and exhaustion.

But the silence had lost its emptiness.

Adrenaline flooded my veins like ice water, freezing me against the sheets. Whatever stood in the shadowed corner of my room wasn’t a trick of the night. It was a breathing presence.