Saraphena Mavros

[saraphenamavros]

Cotton Candy Skies

The fog finally came in, rolling heavy from the sea, like a secret it couldn’t keep any longer.

The sky—pink and blue— a cotton candy dusk that tasted like you and I.

A song played softly, one that belonged on our playlist. Same romantic sadness, same aching note I lived in when I dreamed of us.

I wanted— God, I wanted— to leap from this dying body, to fall weightless into the arms I never forgot.

But there is something in me, something old and watching, that keeps me away— because loving you meant keeping you safe, even from me.

[saraphenamavros]

To the One Who Will Hold Me Without Fear —a love letter from the softest parts I almost buried.

Somewhere in the distance between everything I’ve lost and everything I survived, you’re standing. Maybe at a train station, maybe in a kitchen making something warm, maybe you’re reading this after finding it folded in a library book I left behind like a breadcrumb. But I know you exist. And that knowledge saves me quietly every day.

I want you to know I didn’t get here clean. I arrive covered in ash and laughter. I’ve been kissed by men who couldn’t look me in the eyes unless they were drunk, and I still tried to call that love. I’ve been the moon for people who only wanted shadows. I’ve been kind in rooms where no one even learned my name.

But still—I believe in you. In the kind of touch that doesn’t ask for payment. In the type of gaze that sees the whole story and doesn’t flinch. In the voice that says, “You don’t have to prove anything. Just be.”

My love, I am the aftermath of too many betrayals and the miracle of still choosing softness. I know how to read a room like scripture, how to make strangers feel safe, how to throw parties in empty hearts and sweep the floor afterward in silence.

I’m not pretty all the time. I twitch when the memories get too loud. I spiral into grief like it’s a second job. But I’ll hand you a poem instead of a scream. I’ll walk beside you in the city, finding beauty in graffiti and strangers, taco trucks and pet cemeteries.

I’ll make you laugh. Not the cute kind—the choking, gasping, how dare you be this ridiculous kind. Because I carry pain like a performance and joy like a rebellion. You’ll never be bored. And you’ll never be unloved. Not if you stay.

When I look at you, I won’t be looking for someone to fix me. I’ll be looking to build with you. To offer you my strange and holy world, full of tarot cards and glitter-stained truths, handwritten letters and secrets I only whisper under moonlight.

You don’t have to be perfect. Just present. And willing to learn the language of someone who’s been made to feel like a ghost in rooms they lit up.

And when we kiss— it will not be the first kiss I’ve had. But it will be the first one I don’t feel the need to apologize for.

I’m waiting for you. Not passively. Not desperately. But faithfully. Like a flame waits for the wind.

Love, me. Still here. Still burning. Still soft—because I chose to be.

[saraphenamavros]

The Dog Returns

Maria picked the café. Of course she did. It had pink chairs and velvet napkins and wallpaper covered in flamingos drinking martinis. I pulled up looking like a girl who definitely had weird dreams and possibly keeps secrets in her glove compartment.

She waved from the table like we hadn’t just seen each other yesterday. That’s the thing about us—we treat every meeting like a reunion. Because some of us don’t get many lifetimes.

We ordered food—breakfast tacos and overpriced matcha—and settled into the comfort of us.

“So tell me,” Maria said between bites. “What weird witchy shit happened last night?”

I blinked. Took a sip.

And then I told her.

The dream. The beach. Dante.

I didn’t call him that last night. But today, in daylight, it fits. He’s not a man. Not really. He’s the shadow that followed me home. The one who knocks before he shows you the truth.

I reached into my jacket pocket. Pulled out the photo. The one I found in his coat.

Only— there was nothing there. Just blank paper.

I froze. Looked around. Checked my other pockets. Purse. Inside my phone case.

Gone.

Maria paused. “Did you lose it?” “I didn’t.” “Are you sure it was ever there?”

I didn’t answer. Because I wasn’t.

Maybe it wasn’t about the photo. Maybe it was about the moment it gave me.

We ate. We laughed. We lingered too long like we always do when something heavier is beneath the day.

She walked me to my car. We hugged like people who might dream of each other later.

I drove away thinking I was fine.

Turned down one of those winding San Francisco side streets that only ghosts and locals know.

And there— dead center in the road— was a black dog.

Still. Staring. Like it had been waiting.

I slammed the brakes. My heart fell into my shoes.

The tension from the dreams came flooding back. Like fog under the door.

We stared at each other.

The dog didn’t growl. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at me.

Like it knew.

Then—

“DANTE!!!”

A voice from the sidewalk.

A man running with a leash in his hand. The dog glanced once and then ran toward me.

Straight to my driver side window. Stopped.

And just looked.

Not like a threat. Like an old friend. Like a promise.

And behind him— the man caught up.

And my breath caught too.

Mr. Perfect. From the dinner party. From the pet photos. From the ring conversation.

His dog.

Of course it was his dog.

I didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Just a breathless laugh, an awkward smile. A nod that said, You see it too, right?

And I drove away, heart hammering, hand clenching the wheel like it might float away.

After-Credits Scene

I’m getting ready for a night out.

Hair’s a little fuller. Skin’s got that glow like someone’s been whispering confidence into my dreams. I put on a jacket. Check myself in the mirror.

Something’s shifted. I’m still me. But a little more her. A little more Seraphina.

The moon’s full. Of course it is.

I walk to the bar. The usual haunt. Smell of cheap cologne and spilt regret.

I order a drink. Sit alone.

At the bar behind me, some guy’s ranting about his girlfriend. Loud. Gross. Calling her crazy. Saying he “lets her” go through his phone like that’s a gift.

I sip slowly. Listen. Then glance at the mirror behind the bar.

“Asshole,” I whisper.

He steps outside for a cigarette.

And just outside— on the curb— under the streetlamp—

is a black dog.

Watching him.

Just… watching.

Next entry? Maybe I go outside too. Maybe I follow the dog. Or maybe—I let him do what he came for.

After all… he always knocks for a reason.

[saraphenamavros]

My Dove

I didn’t know what I expected when I got to the beach. Fog maybe. Nothing maybe.

But not him. Not standing there. Alone. Looking out at the ocean like it was reading him secrets.

I hesitated, suddenly unsure of my entire body. My skin. My voice. My purpose.

He didn’t turn until I spoke. “Hey... are you okay?”

He turned slowly. Not startled. Not surprised. Just calm. Present.

“I am now,” he said. Then smiled. “Come watch with me.”

It was cold. Ocean wind always finds the parts of you that are still soft.

Without saying anything, he slipped off his coat and handed it to me. It was heavier than I expected—lined, warm, old but cared for. I put it on and everything in me settled.

The moment I pulled it around me, he caught sight of the ring.

“Nice ring you got there. Labradorite, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, barely above a whisper. “I got it when I moved here.”

He smirked. That knowing kind. The kind that makes your stomach flutter and freeze all at once.

“I bet you’ve had a real good time here so far,” he teased. Then added, “You know what that stone’s all about, right?”

I looked at him.

Really looked.

And for the first time since this all started, I felt it— the same feeling a child has when they see their father angry for the first time. Not fear. Just the realization that power has depth.

He saw my expression. Gently said, “You shouldn’t be scared of me. I’ve been showing you what I do.”

And it clicked.

The dreams. The deaths. The black dog. The ring.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he continued. “I’m here to show you what we’re meant to do. I eat a lot of things, so you’re safe. I guide you to the right people… and the right places… that will help you learn.”

And I remembered. The shower. That night. When I asked— “I want to see more than death.”

He nodded, like I’d said it aloud. “I heard that request. And I showed you the better part of the job.”

Then he reached for my hand. Held it up gently, the ring glinting in the moonlight.

“Here, let me show you.” His voice like velvet. Like shadow. Like something ancient that still loved.

He positioned my hand so the ring caught the glow of the moon. The wind stilled. Everything stilled.

“You’ll be my moon,” he said. “And I’ll be your shadow. Your light will be a dove to many. If you want… you can call me when you need help.”

Then he let go. His hand dropped.

Mine stayed raised. Just me. Holding the moon in my ring.

“Will I have to see more awful deaths?” I asked.

He laughed. Not cruel. Just warm.

“Never again, my dove.” He smiled. “I’ll see you at home.”

I blinked. He was gone.

The ocean was back to whispering its secrets to no one.

I looked down— still wearing his coat.

Still warm.

I got back in my car. Turned on the heat. Pressed the sleeves up a little—

And felt something.

Inside the lining. A lump.

I reached in, fingers grazing paper. Pulled out a photograph.

Of me. Young. Maybe five? Holding a teddy bear.

On the back, in soft pencil: “The love of my life.”

I whispered to myself, “What the fuck…”

I drove home. Quiet.

Still wearing the coat. Still holding the photo.

When I walked in— The house felt strange again. But not hostile. Just aware.

And there—on the counter— was the letter.

The one I got when I moved in.

It wasn’t there before. But it was now.

I opened it again. Inside— a new photo.

This time: my uncle.

The one I’d nearly forgotten. The one who died when I was still too small to remember his voice. He was holding me.

Smiling.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t run.

I just stood there. In his coat. Holding the past. Wearing the present. And, maybe—finally— understanding the future.

Next entry? I don’t know if there will be one.

But if there is— It’ll be for the doves. For the dreams. For the dog.

For whatever I’m becoming now.

[saraphenamavros]

The Final Knock

Last night felt different.

Not worse. Not better. Just… final.

The dream came slow. No screams. No blood. Just the black dog. Already inside.

I saw the hallway first—quiet, golden from a single dim light above the stairs. I wasn’t me. I was him. Low to the ground, bone still, shadow-soft. Watching.

He walked up the stairs of my building. One paw at a time. Like he’d been here before. Like he knew the way.

Passed my neighbor’s door. The one with the cactus wreath and the smell of cinnamon.

Paused at the old woman’s. The door with the faded dove sticker still peeling at the corner. He waited. Long enough to feel the silence.

Then—he turned his eyes back to the hall.

And that’s when I saw him.

The man. The one from the party. From the beach.

He was standing at the end of the hall with his back to me, looking out the window like someone waiting for their past to show up and ring the bell.

The dog walked slowly, without sound, without warning— And stopped.

At my door.

I woke up gasping. My heart slamming like it wanted out of my chest.

The air in my room was thick, like someone had left grief burning on the stove overnight.

I sat up and whispered: “Is it my turn?”

I didn’t mean to say it out loud. But I meant it.

Something about that dream felt... real. Too real. I thought about the man at the beach, how he looked at me like he’d seen me before I’d ever arrived. How the dog came into his life and vanished the week I moved here.

I trust these dreams now. I don’t always understand them— But I believe them.

Still, my chest was heavy with the fear of what they bring. The deaths. The warnings. The countdowns you don’t know are happening until it’s already zero.

And then it happened.

Knock. Front door.

Knock. Hallway.

Knock. Bedroom door.

Three. Always three.

The sound wasn’t loud. It was knowing. Like the house was exhaling and the sound came from inside its lungs.

The same chill I felt the night the old woman passed washed over me.

But this time, it didn’t paralyze me. It moved me.

I got up. Opened the door.

The hall was empty. But the front door— Was wide open.

I walked down slowly, bare feet against the cool floor, heart beating like a second set of footsteps behind me.

When I reached the door, I looked out. Hoping. Dreading. Thinking I’d see him.

But there was only the dark street. The city breathing slow.

Then it hit me— The beach. He might be at the beach.

And something in me knew —if he was, he might die.

I threw on clothes like armor. Jeans. Hoodie. Boots. The ring on my finger pulsing like it had its own alarm.

I ran down the stairs, keys in hand, barely breathing. The cold air hit my face like icewater. It helped. It woke me up.

I got in the car. Hands shaking. Heart pounding.

I pulled out of the driveway and whispered, “Please don’t let me be too late.”

China Beach wasn’t far. But dreams aren’t measured in miles. They’re measured in moments.

And I didn’t know how many I had left.

Next entry? If I’m right—he’ll be there. If I’m wrong— I don’t think I want to know what that means.

[saraphenamavros]

Chola Clowns & City Shrines

We hadn’t done each other’s makeup since we were sixteen, maybe seventeen. You know—back when we thought “smokey eye” meant attacking your entire eyelid with black eyeliner and a prayer.

Maria sat cross-legged on the floor like it was 2009 and we were doing this in her mom’s kitchen. I started with her brows.

“Bitch,” I said, holding the pencil like a tattoo gun. “You ready for this ride?”

“Take me to church.”

She did mine after. And, I’ll be real—she did too much in the best way. Overdrawn lips. Razor-sharp liner. Chola glam with a touch of “accidentally kissed a Crayola.”

We both looked in the mirror. Simultaneously gasped.

“We can’t go out like this.”

Maria flipped her hair like a novella villain. “Why not? Who needs attention when we can be weird, cute, and crazy-looking?” Then she winked. “*Besides—*a lot of Latinas love this look.” She pointed at her lips, lined with dark brown, filled with sparkly pink. “Straight up Mexican gangster lady meets Rosie the Riveter.”

We added some fake moles. Maria threw on hoops the size of steering wheels. I tied a bandana over my head. We walked out the front door like we were about to jump someone and unionize a shipyard.

San Francisco Photo Montage Begins: (Set to a dreamy Chicano soul song. Something with organ and echo and heartbreak.)

Clarion Alley: We strike a pose in front of a giant mural of Heklina—painted in full drag regalia, arms stretched wide like a queer saint. We salute her. We blow kisses. We leave a flower.

Balmy Alley: We find a mural of two women in love, surrounded by papel picado and prayers. Maria touches one of the hands. Says, “She looks like my Tía Rosa.”

City Lights Bookstore: We try to act intellectual, but end up in the banned books section giggling over a poetry book titled Your Lip Gloss Is Still Poppin’.

The Wave Organ: We sit at the edge of the sound sculpture, listening to the ocean gurgle like a haunted throat chakra. Maria whispers, “I think it just burped in Spanish.”

The Vulcan Stairs: Painted steps, one of them says: “You Are Not Lost.” We take a selfie, holding each other, laughing like we’ve always been found.

The Musée Mécanique: We get our fortunes read by the creepy animatronic gypsy and scream when it tells us we’ll be married within the year. Maria: “To who?! My Uber driver?!?”

The Tonga Room: We drink overpriced cocktails under fake thunderstorms and toast to making it out alive.

The Castro Theatre Marquee: It says: "TONIGHT: CARRIE (1976) - IN 35MM" We squeal. “She was right to burn it all down,” Maria says.

We end the night sitting on a bench near the Conservatory of Flowers. The city glows in a way only San Francisco can—soft, weird, old, and holy.

Maria looks at me. Eyes shiny, but not from tears. Just love.

“Thanks for today,” she says. “I forgot how good it feels to be a mess.”

I laugh. “We’ve always been a mess. We’re just better at accessorizing now.”

Places We Love (In No Order):

Clarion Alley Mural Project

Casa Guadalupe Tienda on 24th

The Castro Theatre (specifically for cult movies)

Dog Eared Books (shout out to the witchy section)

El Rio (for dancing and deviance)

The Beat Museum

The Vulcan Steps (to feel dramatic and vaguely European)

Mission Dolores Park (the grassy gay coliseum)

Paxton Gate (where every trinket has a soul)

Red Blossom Tea Company (where Maria flirts with the tea guy every time)

The GLBT History Museum (our church)

The Alley Piano Bar (chaos in musical form)

Tony’s Pizza Napoletana (because divinity comes with melted cheese)

Next entry? Maybe I tell Maria the ring was warm all day. Or maybe we stay like this a little longer.

Beautiful. Weird. And finally, feeling like this city might just be ours.

[saraphenamavros]

Sisters & Stones

I woke up this morning to Maria’s face inches from mine like she was auditioning to be the ghost in my next dream sequence.

“What do you want for breakfast?” she whispered like a serial killer in a glitter crop top.

I screamed. She laughed. Balance was restored.

We shuffled to the kitchen, still wrapped in our sleep and leftover eyeliner. The sunlight through the window made the whole house look like a dream you’d want to keep.

We made eggs like we were curing a hangover we hadn’t fully earned, and Maria—still wearing my hoodie—started spilling.

“So... the boys last night? Cute. Flirty. But let’s be real... no one wants me.”

I stopped mid-toast. Dropped the knife.

“Shut the hell up,” I said. And I meant it. Not in a joking way. In a 'let me drop the gospel' way.

I turned to her and rattled off the truth like it was scripture. “You’re brilliant, Maria. You’ve survived more than most people could handle and still walk into rooms like you own the damn place. You’re gorgeous. Your brain is terrifying—in the hottest way—and that scares weak men. That’s not your fault. That’s their expiration date.”

She rolled her eyes. I didn’t let her off the hook.

I walked her to the mirror and pulled her hair up. “Look at this. Look at this jawline. Look at this goddess.”

I poked her side. “All this and so much more up here,” I said, pointing at her temple. “I’m the one who’s jealous. And the luckiest bitch alive to have you as my sister from another mister.”

Maria rolled her eyes again, this time with peak sarcasm. “Ugh, I hate you. I love you. Whatever.”

We laughed, sipping our coffee like witches casually waiting for the moon to call.

Then Maria stopped mid-sip. “Wait… the fudge were you saying about your dreams yesterday?”

I hesitated. I gave her a little. She asked for more.

Eventually, I caved. Told her about the dog. The deaths. The weirdness.

She laughed. Thought I was joking. Until I pulled up the articles. One by one. Names. Photos. Timelines. Too real to be coincidence.

Her smile faded. Brows pulled together like she was trying to knit logic out of something supernatural.

Then she noticed it. The ring.

“What is that?” she asked. I turned my hand slowly. Black stone. Cool to the touch. Still snug.

“It’s labradorite,” I said. “It was in a package of housewarming gifts. No return address. Just… there.”

Maria blinked. “You… just wear it?”

I looked at it for a moment. Felt that pull. That familiar hum.

“It doesn’t matter where it came from,” I said calmly. And I meant it. For once.

Maria reached out. “Can I try it on?”

I nodded. Held her hand. Slid the ring onto her finger.

CRASH.

Two wine glasses fell from the counter. No one touched them.

Maria yelped. I yanked the ring off her hand so fast we both gasped.

Slid it back onto my own. Felt the air settle.

We both crouched to clean up. Silence for a moment.

Then she grinned. “You’re fucking much more interesting now. Beautiful and weird.”

We laughed. Got up. Shook it off.

Just another morning with my trans fairy goddess sister bestie. And the haunted ring that may or may not be choosing me for something I don’t yet understand.

[saraphenamavros]

Lets go home

Last night’s dream wasn’t like the others. It didn’t chase. It didn’t bleed. It waited.

And I went to it like I always do now—watching from behind eyes that aren’t mine. Low to the ground. Quiet. Still. Dog’s view.

The house was familiar, though I’ve never been in it. There was a soft yellow light spilling through the blinds, like honey dripping over time itself. A woman sat alone in her room. Older. Delicate. But not weak.

She was holding a photo in her lap. It was a man—her husband, I knew that instantly. The kind of photo you only keep framed if it once held your whole world.

Above her bed: a picture of a white dove. It wasn’t just décor. It meant something. It was a promise.

I thought I knew what would come next. Another death. Another unraveling. The air in the dream always grows heavy before someone goes.

But she didn’t scream. Didn’t fight. She just... rested.

In the daylight.

I watched as her eyes fluttered shut, and something in me—something human—broke.

I couldn’t take it. Not this time. It was too still, too sad. I covered my eyes.

Turned around.

And that’s when I saw her.

Sitting up. Alive. But not quite here.

In her chair again, backlit by something warmer than sunlight.

The front door creaked open. Soft. Like it knew how to enter without disrupting the sacred.

A man walked in. Not young. Not old. Timeless.

“I’ve missed you so much, my dove,” he said. Voice like velvet laced with memory.

He walked to her. Kissed her forehead like it was the first and last time.

“Let’s go home.”

She smiled. Took his hand like it was never gone. Kissed it.

And together, they walked through the open door. She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

Moments later, a nurse burst in. The front door still wide open. Like it was meant to be.

She didn’t see me. No one ever does.

She ran to the old woman, panic blooming. Hands on her wrist. Phone to her ear. 911.

But I already knew. She was gone.

She was already home.

Then I felt it. A tug.

Something pulling at my leg. Gently. Not urgent.

Like someone saying, It’s time.

Not to die. To move on.

I woke up with tears dried on my face. But not from fear. From something else.

Peace.

Next entry? I don’t know. Maybe this is the last one.

Maybe the dog was never here to haunt me. Maybe he was here to show me how to watch.

And maybe—just maybe— there’s something better on the other side of letting go.

We don’t all die screaming. Some of us go home holding hands.

[saraphenamavros]

The Party (Where It Begins Again)

Last night reminded me I still have a pulse. Not just a heartbeat. A pulse. A rhythm.

It was the first time since I moved here that I didn’t feel like something was waiting for me in the corner of the room.

I drove to the party in my usual “I don’t belong anywhere” mindset, but the second I saw Maria—that melted away.

She opened the door like a hurricane in heels. Her hair was up, lipstick perfect, boobs out like they’d been blessed by Aphrodite herself.

“Bitch,” I gasped, “your tits look better than my entire personality.”

She grinned, arched her back, and modeled them like she was walking a Paris runway. “They better. You know what these cost? I could’ve bought a used Prius.”

We posed. We mimicked. Hand on hip. Hip pop. Pout. Laughter.

I don’t think I’ve ever laughed like that without some kind of sadness tucked behind it. But with Maria? I get to be loud. I get to be safe.

We hugged. Hard. I whispered, “I needed this.” She pulled back, her eyes soft but knowing. “The stress. The dreams.”

“What dreams?” she asked, brows rising.

Before I could answer, he walked in.

Tall. Sharp. Understated. A man who looked like he read books and could ruin your life in a single kiss if you let him.

We made eye contact. And the air changed.

Maria, of course, clocked it instantly. “Ugh, already after my crush? I swear to god, I love you, but you are such a magnet for emotionally complex men with good jawlines and tragic dog stories.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m just saying… I hear wedding bells and mild emotional trauma.”

The living room was cozy—firelight flickering, red wine being passed like communion.

We talked. All of us. Where we’re from. What we want. Who we used to be.

Eventually, the conversation turned to pets. Photos flying around—cats, dogs, reptiles in sunglasses.

He hesitated when it was his turn.

“I don’t have a pet anymore,” he said, quiet. “But I used to have a black dog.”

He pulled up a photo. Not cute. Not posed. Just… a black dog. Watching. Still. Like it knew.

“One night,” he said, “he just ran away. No sound. No warning. Door was open. He left.”

I asked: “When was that?”

He paused. “Same week you moved here, probably.”

And there it was. That sinking. That knowing.

I touched the ring on my finger—tight. Too tight again.

For a second, I wanted to leave. Wanted to scream. But then—

He looked at me. Soft. Present. Tipped his head. “There you are,” he said. And I forgot how to be afraid.

We ended up in the kitchen, away from everyone.

We talked about hobbies. Favorite recipes. Embarrassing movie crushes. He liked horror movies and made his own hot sauce.

I liked the way he said my name.

I was buzzed and loose and felt more like myself than I had in weeks.

At some point, I crashed on the couch. Fell into the cushions like I belonged there.

I remember a blanket being draped over me. A glass of water placed by my side.

And then—

In the early, too-still hours, I felt something tug at my sleeve. Just a gentle nudge.

My hand found the glass. Cold. Comforting.

I drank. The headache softened. And I fell back asleep.

The last thing I heard was a low breath. Not threatening. Not human.

Just... watching. Keeping guard.

Maybe it was the dog. Maybe he’s not just showing me what’s wrong anymore.

Maybe—he’s staying. Until I finally learn to stay too.

[saraphenamavros]

What's next

I woke up calm. Not because I was rested—just because by now I expect it.

The dream. The death. The dog. The dread.

Again.

I reached for my phone, blinking at the light, already knowing what I’d find. Typed it in: “woman dies in jacuzzi san francisco” And boom.

There it was.

Headline from the same off-grid news account: “High-powered executive found drowned in private spa. No foul play suspected.” (Which basically means we don’t know how this happened, but we’re too scared to look harder.)

She was beautiful. Of course she was. They always are.

I sighed. Rolled my eyes.

“What’s next?”

Because at this point, the only thing scarier than the dreams… is how used to them I’m getting.

I got up and headed to the shower. Water always helps. Steam. Soap. Silence. Trying to scrub off whatever I’m bringing back from the other side.

But I could feel it again. That presence. That low-to-the-ground hum in the room.

And I knew. He was watching.

From the bathroom doorway. Dog’s eye view. Still. Quiet. Not hunting. Just… observing.

I muttered through the water: “I need to see a doctor. This is fucking my sleep.”

And then something weird happened.

That eerie energy shifted. Like when someone finally exhales after holding their breath.

The air softened. The light in the room turned warmer. Not bright—but golden. Gentle. Like morning finally letting me be alive.

Still wet, wrapped in a towel, I walked to the kitchen. Passed a photo I’d forgotten I put up.

A pair of white doves, mid-flight, wings outstretched over a cloudy blue sky. They looked like freedom. Like surrender. Like maybe not all messages come wrapped in blood.

Later that morning I headed out to meet Maria. I promised her a proper hang—and I needed it.

But just as I was locking the door, I saw my neighbor across the street. Older woman. Thin. Elegant in that “I used to wear gloves to the grocery store” kind of way.

She was struggling. Balancing grocery bags like it was a circus act.

I didn’t hesitate. Ran across the street.

“Let me help you with that.”

She smiled. Soft. Surprised. “You’re so lovely. Thank you.”

I carried the bags in. Her place smelled like oranges and old perfume. It felt lived-in. Loved.

We put away the food together. She moved slowly, but precisely.

That’s when I saw the photo.

Framed on the wall. A younger version of her. With him. A man with kind eyes and a wide smile. He was holding her hand like it was made of glass and gold.

“Who’s that?” I asked gently.

She looked at it with that faraway softness. “Oh, you know... look at me. Old lady living alone. That’s the man who held my hand through a lot.”

I didn’t say anything. Because sometimes silence is the only language grief understands.

She kept talking, though, in that lilting, comforting rhythm only older women seem to master. “Love finds you when you least expect it. Don’t go looking too hard. Just stay soft. Stay open.”

She yawned. Tired.

I walked her to her bedroom. Helped her to bed. Tucked the covers gently over her small frame.

The room was simple. Peaceful. There was a dove figurine on her nightstand. Another on the windowsill.

They were everywhere. Watching.

Just like him.

When I left, I stood outside her door for a second longer than I needed to. Something about her words lingered.

Love finds you. When you least expect it.

Maybe death does too. But not everything that watches is trying to harm you. Some things protect in silence. And some stories aren’t warnings. They’re reminders.

[saraphenamavros]

Cold Heart/Hot Water

Last night I had another dream. Or maybe it had me.

It started red. Not blood. Not danger. Just light. A low, slow, glowing red.

There was a jacuzzi. Outside. Steaming like the breath of something ancient. The kind of hot water that lures you in with promises of peace, then keeps you there too long.

She was already there.

This woman—god, she was perfect. Like the version of me I’d be if I hated everyone. Model body. Cold stare. Money behind her eyes and no shame about it. She moved like someone who made people cry in job interviews and never once lost sleep about it.

She stepped out onto the deck like it was a runway. Heels still on. Shirt unbuttoned. Skirt unzipped. Bra and underwear so Victoria’s Secret it probably came with a bottle of champagne and a nondisclosure agreement.

Hair down. Glistening. And in her hand— A giant glass bottle of seltzer.

She burped. Loud. Like she meant it.

“Fuck, finally,” she said, stepping to the edge of the jacuzzi. “Just relax and let’s vibe.”

She climbed in slowly, letting the heat swallow her like a lover she didn’t respect.

Then she started talking. To someone who wasn’t there. To someone named Matt.

“Maaatt… god, just the name. I swear the first day you started, my office started going to shit.” She took another sip. “You’re slow. You dress horribly. The clients aren’t warming up to you.”

She leaned back, staring up at the sky. Fake stars. Real venom.

“Sales better go up, buddy, or your days are numbered. Three weeks. That’s it.”

She smirked. The bubbles rose.

Then—three knocks. Soft. Hollow. Wooden. Not from a door. From the air.

She didn’t hear them. But something did.

The camera—yes, because this dream was a movie— began to pull back. Further. Lower. Settling at dog’s height. Watching her. Still. Patient.

She closed her eyes.

The bubbles grew louder. More aggressive.

And then—

SPLASH.

Her body jolted. She was yanked under.

Just a flash of her legs above the foam. One heel kicked off.

Silence.

Then thrashing. More splashing. The dial on the jacuzzi turned—click click click—all the way up. Full heat. Max bubbles.

She surfaced—gasping, snarling— but the water was dragging her back like it had hands.

From the dog’s-eye view, the scene shifted. Up. Rising to human height.

Like he was standing now.

And watching.

She was pulled under again. Harder. Longer. This time, the water spilled over the edges, rushing onto the deck like blood down tile.

Then the red came. Not light this time. Actual red. Blooming across the foam. Spreading slow. Like it enjoyed the reveal.

And then—nothing.

Just still water. Steam. Silence.

The camera dropped again. Low. Small. Animal.

And backed away. Pacing calmly. Eyes on the door.

Watching. Waiting.

The light flickered once. The wind stilled.

And then, just before waking— The dream ended at the threshold.

Where he always waits. Where Null watches. Where the dead don’t knock.

Because he already has the key.

I woke up sweating. Ring still too tight. Breath still shallow.

And now I can’t stop wondering—

what happens to people who make the wrong kind of waves… in the water.

[saraphenamavros]

The "Ring"

Today was… uneventful.

In the best way.

A normal kind of strange. The kind where nothing happens, but something still feels off, like the wallpaper’s watching you and the groceries know your middle name.

I made it through another workday—barely. Emails, Zoom calls, five passive-aggressive Slacks and one guy who asked if I could “make it a little more digestible for leadership” which is code for: “Do all the work and don’t make me look stupid.”

Check. Check. Still got it.

Between calls I unpacked two more boxes. Books and candles mostly. Found my old dream journal—worn edges, spine cracked like a back that carries too much. I flipped through and saw old entries that read more like prophecies than memories.

I forgot how often I dreamed of drowning in houses. Or bleeding into carpet. Or hearing three knocks with no door in sight.

At some point I ended up buying three books online:

Dreams & Their Meaning in the Modern Occult

Psychic Hygiene for Sensitive Bitches (yes, real title)

Hecate & the Art of Ghostwork

Will they help? Maybe. Will I pretend they’re “research” and not just validation? Absolutely.

Dinner was leftover pasta and one bite of a chocolate bar I immediately regretted.

The house felt chillier tonight. Not in temperature. In vibe. The kind of cold that makes you check under the couch even though you know nothing’s there.

Still—I felt okay.

Before bed, I took the ring off. The black one. The gift. It felt heavier than usual tonight. Not in weight—in meaning.

I placed it on my nightstand. Took a long bath. Lit lavender. Listened to a playlist called “Ethereal Girl Walking Through Fog.” You know the vibe.

When I climbed into bed, the room felt quiet. Like the house was listening. And maybe—for once—approving.

I drifted off feeling normal. Safe.

This morning.

The first thing I noticed wasn’t the sun. Or the alarm. Or the slight crick in my neck from sleeping like a shrimp.

It was the weight. On my hand.

I looked down and— The ring was back.

On my finger.

Not just on—tight.

Too tight.

I tugged gently. Nothing. Twisted. Soap. Nothing.

It’s not cutting off circulation or anything. But it’s stuck. Like it wants to be there.

Like it knows something I don’t.

I don’t remember putting it back on. I remember taking it off. I remember the sound it made when it hit the wood of the nightstand. I remember deciding to rest from it.

And now… it won’t let me.

Anyway. I’m off to shower and pretend that I’m not spiraling.

Maybe it’s stress. Maybe it’s nothing.

Or maybe some gifts don’t wait to be accepted. They choose you. And they hold on.

Next entry? We’re gonna figure out who sent the damn ring. And why it feels like the house is waiting for something.

Or someone.

(But first… coffee.)

[saraphenamavros]

What I found that morning....

I woke up with that cotton-mouthed ache like I didn’t sleep, even though I know I did.

The morning light was silver. That weird coastal glow that makes everything look prettier than it feels. I sat up slowly, black fur blanket wrapped around me like a hug from something ancient.

And I remembered the dream. Or was it someone else’s?

The hotel. The man. The envelope. The bite.

My stomach twisted like it knew something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

I grabbed my laptop. Typed without thinking.

“Dead man hotel san francisco bite marks.”

It felt stupid. Until it wasn’t.

Third result.

Not major media. Same weird, local Instagram news account as before. It had less than a thousand followers. And somehow, it knew everything.

The headline: “Businessman Found Dead in Hotel Room — Mysterious Wounds on Neck.”

I clicked. My hands were shaking.

"A man was found dead at The Wakefield, a historic boutique hotel near Union Square. Cause of death unknown. Body found nude, signs of strangulation, and—according to an anonymous source—bite marks on the neck resembling an animal attack. No signs of forced entry. Nothing stolen. Nothing disturbed. Just… gone."

And then: “Survived by wife and two children.”

There was a photo.

Him. Not stock-photo-handsome. Real-handsome. The kind of man who knows he’s wanted and acts like it’s owed.

And I knew him.

I’d never seen him before, but I knew him. He was the man from the dream.

Same tie. Same smirk. Same ending.

The article had no byline. No comments. No updates. Just there. Sitting. Waiting.

Like a warning.

I sat there for a long time.

I didn’t touch my coffee. I didn’t even blink for what felt like minutes.

What the fuck is happening? Who is posting these? Why did I dream it before I found it? And why is no one else talking about this?

I closed the laptop.

The air in the room felt heavier. Like I’d invited something in just by reading.

I looked at the door. Still closed. Still quiet.

But somewhere deep in the house, I swore I heard a knock.

Just one. This time. I don’t know.

But I think Null’s keeping score. And I’m afraid I’ve started playing a game I can’t quit.

Stay with me. I need someone else to remember this too.

[saraphenamavros]

Hope this works...

Woke up today with the crust of last night still in my mouth and that what-the-hell-happened hangover—but like, the emotional kind.

The sunlight hit my window all soft and apologetic, like it knew I’d been through it. I made coffee before I even brushed my teeth. Priorities. Took the first sip and instantly cringed, remembering…

The dream. The doomscroll. The story. The guy in the crossroads.

Ugh. My whole soul flinched. Full-body cringe.

So I chugged my coffee like it owed me rent and cracked open the laptop to face my actual horror: capitalism.

Zoom meetings.

Boss #1: “Sara, can you redo this report? I know I asked for that version yesterday but I meant the old version—just make it look new.” Boss #2: “Can you take lead on this thing we haven’t explained but need tomorrow?” Random coworker: “I actually did most of this already, but it’s fine if Sara presents it.”

My camera stayed on. My smile stayed fake.

Near the end of the day, when my soul had leaked halfway into my chair, Work Bestie slid into the last call like an angel with a blunt and a spreadsheet.

“You crushed that presentation, by the way. Honestly, they don’t say it enough but you’re kind of carrying the team.”

I don’t cry at work. But if I did? It would’ve been right there.

After work, I needed a reset.

So I went shopping. Not for serotonin. Okay. Yes. For serotonin.

Dressing room montage, obviously. We’re talking sweaters. Scarves. A jacket that looked like a hug and a breakup in one.

I stood in the mirror, fully bundled, arms crossed like a pouting cartoon character.

“Okay, San Francisco. I’m ready.”

Then came the witchy store. Had to find one. Needed sage. Needed to feel like I had some control over the energy in the house that definitely watches me like it’s deciding whether or not to trust me.

Parked. Walked in. Wind chimes. Velvet curtains. A cat that may or may not be employed.

The woman behind the counter didn’t say a word—just looked at me and pointed to the shelf. Found the sage. Grabbed a little candle for “protection and clarity” because why not.

Back home. Pasta on the stove. Tomatoes in the pan. Music low.

I walked around the house with the sage burning slow in my hand.

“I hope this works,” I whispered.

Every room. Every doorway. Even the closet that gives me Victorian ghost vibes.

The house didn’t react. But it felt... less tense. Like it exhaled too.

Later, I stood in the doorway of my bedroom. Looked at the bed like it had personally wronged me.

Popped a melatonin. Brushed my teeth. Crawled in slowly.

The black fur blanket was waiting. Still soft. Still strong.

“I’m fine,” I whispered again.

And this time, I almost believed it.

End scene. Tomorrow: Maybe she finds a coffee shop that doesn’t taste like broken dreams. Maybe she writes. Maybe something follows her there. But for now— she sleeps.

DREAM - “Let Me Show You” He arrived late. Always does.

The kind of late that leaves your skin sticky and your conscience humming. Hotel hallways have that sterile horror to them—like a crime scene waiting to happen. He loosened his tie as he stepped inside.

Too tight. Strangled. Not unlike the girl last week. She fought. That one fought.

He sits.

The glow of the television flickers across his wedding ring. He scrolls. There’s a photo of his wife on the home screen—two kids in a pumpkin patch. Everyone smiling, teeth and warmth and love. He unlocks the phone. Opens the app. The smile disappears.

Swipe.

Click.

"Too fat." "Too old." "Too desperate." Then—her.

Big eyes. Black lipstick. Tight corset.

“We love a goth girl with big tits,” he whispers, wet and low, like it’s a prayer.

He texts her. Conversation flows easy. She flirts back. He adjusts his crotch and mouths, “Full chub.”

“Do you want to come over? I’d love to see all of you,” he texts.

Silence.

She hesitates.

He sets the phone down.

It buzzes.

She responds, “Let me show you.”

He smiles.

Starts undressing.

Ripped. Vain. Tighty-whities (the horror).

He admires his body in the reflection of the window. He believes he’s a god.

*perspective shift*

Something watches from the corner. Low. Near the floor. Canine height.

He walks into the bathroom, door clicking shut behind him. He’s shaving, prepping for sex like it’s war.

Three steady knocks.

KNOCK

KNOCK

KNOCK

The razor slips. Blood runs. He panics.

He checks the door.

No one.

But—an envelope. Black wax seal. Stamped with the silhouette of a black dog.

He brings it inside, still bleeding.

He texts: “Where are you? Did you leave this by my door?”

She responds “Let me show you. What you have cuming.”

He opens the card. It’s damp.

He sniffs. Sweet. Like flowers dipped in rot. “Wtf is this?”

She responds, “It’s me. Taste me. I’ll be right over.”

He smiles. Licks the card like it’s her. “Fuck… that’s good.”

He throws himself on the bed. Lights off. Waits.

Then he hears her.

His wife.

Not the goth girl.

His wife.

Soft and clear, as though she’s just in the kitchen.

“How long do you think Daddy will be away?”

The kids respond. Little voices. Laughing. A bedtime story. Their bedtime story.

“Your father is a very good man.”

He reaches for his phone. Texts: “Something’s happening. I need to call it off.” She responds, “Let me show you what you have coming.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“You’re what’s wrong.”

The lamp crashes. He gasps. Lights on. Nothing there.

“WTF is going on?!” “What was on that letter?!”

“A lot of LSD.” In his children’s voices.

“I’m right here.” said in his wifes voice right behind he left ear.

His knees give. He falls. The lights flicker.

Then her voice—his wife—calm, soft, final: “Oh honey… I’ll take care of you.”

SNAP.

Something breaks. Neck? Reality? Yes.

The body hits the bed. Soft. Familiar. Wet sounds like love. Sounds like sex. The kids are laughing. The room is lit.

Nothing was ever knocked over. The lights were never off.

He lies there. Naked. Genitals gone. Throat torn out.

But the look on his face? Peaceful.

Like he just came. Or came home.

The phone buzzes. A text sent to his wife, who's now calling“I wasn’t the man you thought I was.”

The door creaks open. Just enough space. Just enough for a dog to slip through.

SLAM.

[saraphenamavros]

The 3AM Drive

It was 3:03 AM when I woke up. I know because I checked twice.

At first, I thought I heard something. But it wasn’t a sound exactly—it was that feeling. Like my nervous system sat up before I did.

I stared at the ceiling too long, hoping it would hypnotize me back to sleep. Didn’t work. So I got up.

The house creaked. Not in a spooky way, just in that old, breathing way. You know? Like it’s adjusting to having someone inside again.

I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. Tap’s cold. Good sign. Probably means the pipes won’t betray me for at least a month.

I checked the front door. Twice. Deadbolt locked. Chain latched. But I still turned on every light in the house like I was trying to scare off a ghost with ambiance.

The living room's still half-unpacked. Boxes labeled “Books and Vibes” stacked like drunk Tetris. I pulled my favorite black fur blanket out of the mess and curled into a corner of the couch that didn’t judge me.

I opened my phone. Just a scroll. Nothing too deep. Just enough to numb the static in my head.

And then I remembered—

That’s what the girl in my dream was doing. Scrolling. In bed. Wrapped in blue light like a noose.

And then—

There it was.

A story I’d never seen before. One of those random local Instagram accounts that posts about fires and break-ins and obscure community events.

“Young woman found deceased in her stairwell. Suicide suspected. Bite marks found on her neck.”

I dropped my phone like it burned me.

But I had to know. I needed to know.

I picked it up and read every word. She was well-known. Had a big circle. Part of the city’s social scene. The kind of girl people pretend to adore.

But no one came looking. Her body wasn’t found for days. The bite marks. The hanging. The decomposition.

And the strangest part? No major outlet covered it. Just this one eerie post from a barely-followed page.

Why wasn’t this everywhere?

Why wasn’t she everywhere?

I sat there, breathing too fast. The light felt too bright. The room too still.

Why did I move here? Why didn’t I just leave when I had the chance?

I couldn’t sit still anymore. I needed out of my head.

I grabbed my keys.

The city at night is a different kind of beautiful. Not alive—aware. Like it’s watching. But not in a bad way. Just... keeping score.

I drove with no real plan. Coit Tower. Alamo Square. The Presidio. Everywhere looked like a postcard but felt like a secret.

I ended up at China Beach. Sat there. Watched the ocean breathe. The sky was still dark.

I looked at my phone. Hours ‘til sunrise.

“This is just stress,” I whispered.

Held my head in my hands. “Okay. We’re in a new city. We’re young. We’re beautiful. We’re fresh meat.”

I tried to laugh. It didn’t land.

“I just have to get used to this. Something like that won’t happen to me. This is normal. I’m good.”

A pause.

And then: “I’m also hungry. And a bitch. And I need to get my ass back home before I end up sick and nuts.”

I climbed the hill from the beach, instantly regretting it. All you could hear was my voice echoing in the dark:

“Shit—fuck—crap—fuck—UGHHHHH.”

Why didn’t anyone warn me the real horror movie was walking back uphill in the middle of the night like a dumbass woodland creature with trauma.

Finally reached my car. Turned the heater up all the way. “Layers,” I muttered. “Dad was right.”

On the way home, I stopped at a red light. Pulled up Google Maps to adjust my route.

That’s when I saw him.

Just standing at the corner. Black hair. Tall. Beautiful in that “late-night jazz station” kind of way. Wearing a sleek raincoat. Like he belonged to the fog.

He was waiting to cross.

He looked at me. I looked at him. And then—he smiled.

Kind. Warm. Like he meant it. It lit something up in me I didn’t realize had gone dim.

The light turned green. I drove.

Checked my rearview mirror— There he was, in the crossroads, standing under the streetlight, waving at me.

The streets were still empty. Except for him. And the light.

And the crossroads.

Hecate’s crossroads.

I made it back home.

Pulled into the garage.

Went inside.

Didn’t even undress. Crashed into bed fully clothed.

Pulled the black fur blanket over me like armor.

Shook my head.

Whispered into the dark: “I’m fine.”

And for now, that’s all anyone needs to believe.

Even me.

[saraphenamavros]

First Night

I wanted the bed to be right.

Not “hotel-room-right.” Not “Pinterest-board-perfect.” Something between come-hither and don’t-touch-my-pillows. The blanket had to be the blanket: my favorite black faux fur one that looks like it was stolen from a vampire’s guest room. It’s dramatic. It’s unnecessarily heavy. It makes me feel safe.

Silk pillowcases. Little spritz of rosewater on the sheets. And that candle I light when I want to feel powerful but soft, like if a Lana Del Rey lyric moved into a rent-controlled apartment.

I stood back. Looked at the room like it might look at me back. Good enough for a first night in a haunted witch-house? Yeah.

Texted my dad: “First night looks like a success 💫”

He texted back faster than expected: “Don’t get mugged. SF is nuts.”

Classic him.

So I sent: “Calm down. It’s Twin Peaks, not the Tenderloin.”

He read it but didn’t answer.

I stared at the screen too long. Thought about calling. I didn’t. Instead I typed:

“I’m really okay. I want you to be okay too. Call me. Any time. Even if you’re not okay.”

No response yet. But I left it there. Open door. No pressure.

He’s still grieving. I get it. But sometimes grief makes people sharp when they used to be soft, and I can’t keep slicing myself open trying to hug him. Still... he’s my dad. I just want to know someone’s holding him for once.

Anyway, I laid in bed. The fur blanket covering my sins. My bones. My hopes.

And I fell asleep to the quiet hum of the city breathing.

My first dream in the house......

There was a girl. I didn’t know her. But I knew her. She was doomscrolling in bed—blue light turning her skin into paper.

Her thumb flicked so fast I could hear it. Comment after comment. Hate after hate.

“Ugh, she’s so fat.”

“She wishes she looked like me.”

And then she whispered, teeth glinting like knives: “Look at me. I’m so fucking perfect.”

Then the house exhaled.

Three steady, silent knocks.

KNOCK

KNOCK

KNOCK

Not at the door.

Inside.

Somewhere deep.

She froze.

The phone light blinked out.

And then… A clawed step on the hardwood floor. Not loud.

Just wrong.

She got up.

Alone. Bare feet.

Pale legs.

She moved like someone pretending not to be afraid.

The stairs creaked under her weight, but the sound was... swallowed. The further down she walked, the darker my vision got. Like the air was thick with shadow.

Then— Her legs. They slowly raised to the air. Something had pulled her up? It was too dark to see. All I saw was her pale legs. She gasped.

A jolt.

Her body convulsed like something inside her snapped.

No sound.

The silence vibrated through my body and I couldn't breathe.

There was the kind of dead silence you hear in a forest right before something awful happens.

Her legs twitched.

Tensed.

And blood began to trickle down—slow, dark, deliberate. I could smell the blood? Like iron and warm.

Then a gurgle.

Not words. Not yet.

Just wet ruin.

Then— “I’m... so... perfect...” I felt a snap in my mouth? More warm goodness flowing into my throat?

And she went limp.

I looked up.

She was hanging.

Suspended from the second-floor railing.

Throat torn. Gnawed. Bloody crescent bite marks blooming across her neck like grotesque lace. Flesh ruined so badly she’d never spit cruelty again.

......there it was.

A black dog.

Big.

Solid.

Watching. Not angry. Just… there.

Ancient.

And as it left— One by one—the house lights clicked off. Room by room.

Until the door shut.

And it was over.

I woke up with my hand on my throat. The ring was cold. The blanket heavy. The room... still.

I’m not scared. Not yet. But something followed me here.

And it’s watching who I become.

[saraphenamavros]

The Man at the Corner Store

There’s a bodega three blocks down the hill from the house. You wouldn’t know it was there unless you lived here. It hides between two squat buildings like it’s trying not to be noticed. The sign is faded and the door sticks just enough to make you wonder if it’s locked, but once you’re inside—there’s warmth. There’s life.

It smells like incense and oranges and maybe something else… like a story.

I went there tonight. I hadn’t eaten anything real all day. Just coffee and memory. So I grabbed a basket and started wandering the tiny aisles. Plantain chips. Cheap wine. A microwavable risotto that definitely lied on the label but still made me feel fancy.

Then I saw him.

Not directly—no. I caught him in the mirror above the fridge case. You know those weird convex ones that make everything look a little off, like you’re already in a dream you haven’t woken from?

It was the man from earlier.

The one I passed on the sidewalk near my garage when I was carrying that box of books that felt heavier than it should’ve. He didn’t say anything then. Just nodded. Soft. A quiet hello that said, I see you, but I won’t ask more than you’re ready to give.

In the mirror, I could see he was watching me. And something stirred in me like a match that didn’t quite catch. I wanted to say hi. But my feet didn’t move.

Because I felt it—that stare. Not creepy. Not predatory. Just... known.

I turned toward the entrance, toward the feeling. And when I looked back, he was gone.

I made my way to the counter with my little collection of single-girl dinner sadness. And he was there. Just leaning against the lotto machine like he’d never left.

He tilted his head slightly. Not mocking—more curious. Almost amused.

I smiled without meaning to. “Hey,” I said. “Just moved in. Twin Peaks.” He raised an eyebrow. “The house with the weird door?” I laughed. “Yeah. It kind of looks like it used to belong to a witch. Which is probably why I like it.” He nodded, like he knew exactly what I meant.

“I grew up not far from here,” he said. “Left for a bit. But the city calls you back.” “Does it?” I asked, placing the ring box on the counter to grab my wallet. He saw it.

“That’s a beautiful ring.” “Thanks. It was a housewarming gift.”

He tilted his head again. “What kind of stone is it?” I looked at it. Black, with a shimmer that only showed up when the light hit just right. “I think it’s labradorite?”

He smiled, slow. “You know what that stone does, right?” I shrugged. “Makes me look mysterious?”

He shook his head. “It’s a protective stone. Ancient cultures believed it guarded the aura—kept dark things out. But more importantly… it reveals truth. Especially the kind that hides in shadows.”

I didn’t say anything. Just slid the ring back on. It fit even better this time. Like it heard him.

“Someone wants you to feel protected,” he added.

I didn’t ask what he meant. I already knew.

BATH TIME!!

I lit three candles and one accidentally sparkled. Not like sparkle-sparkle, but like it hissed at me—like it had something to say and then forgot mid-sentence.

The tub in this house is small but deep. The kind meant for one person with a lot of feelings. Bubbles. Lavender. A playlist that started sexy and accidentally slid into sad.

I slid under, exhaled, and stared at the ceiling like it might answer back. My hands floated. My knees peeked out of the water like shy islands.

And then— Silence.

The kind that isn’t peaceful. The kind that makes you remember who you’ve lost, what you escaped, and how loud your thoughts are when no one else is home.

The kind of silence that scratches.

I closed my eyes. I waited. And then I sighed.

“Ugh. It’s too quiet.”