Guilty Pleasures

After an accident, Skila finds love while uncovering her past and confronting deception.

Chapter 1 - Guilt

The rain had started before sunset, a low steady hiss that pressed against the windows and softened the

edges of everything.



But when he stepped out and the first blast of wet wind hit him,



he caught a scent—her scent, coconut—roasted garlic, pepper, rosemary.



Not the burnt-coffee-and-oatmeal-limbo that haunted their weekday evenings,



but real food, something homemade. There were lights on in every room.



The porch was swept clean. He felt a strange, brittle hope—maybe things will be normal again now



Maybe tonight she’d let him in, just enough. Maybe tonight would be the reset they both needed.







B dropped his keys on the counter, feeling the echo of metal on stone ripple through the house. He pictured her there—hair up, apron knotted, maybe laughing at some video as she diced. Sometimes, when she forgot to hold herself together, she was almost giddy, a flash of the woman he fell for. He wondered if he’d see that tonight, if she’d let it slip. Maybe he’d finally be brave enough to tell her what had been eating at him for months: that he hated the distance, that he hated who he was when they were both pretending not to care. That he’d rather fight with her every night than risk becoming the kind of couple who just dissolved, quietly, without a scene. “Amelia?” he called, hopeful, and for a moment the only answer was the hush of the storm outside. Then a pan clattered somewhere deeper, followed by the clean, bright hum of a playlist that made him cock his head. Not her usual classic rock—something more pop. He frowned, tracing the music to the kitchen.





He turned on the light switch, ready to wrap his arms

around her. “Raven?” he questioned the woman by the stove who was

not his wife, but his coworker. She was barely dressed, lips curved

in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.



“Hey,” she said lightly. “I thought you might like a surprise.”

He stared, jaw heavy and dumb, refusing to catch up to what his eyes were seeing. The table was set for two. There were candles, real ones, not the battery-powered jokes they kept for emergencies. There was wine—Raven’s favorite, not his. There was a suitcase by the coat rack, half-zipped.





He looked back at Raven, who was now stirring sauce with one hand, balancing a glass in the other. Her lips were painted, her posture casual, the way she always was at work when she wanted something. “What the hell are you doing in my house?” he managed, each word digging in like gravel.

She cocked her head, all innocence. “You looked like you could use a home-cooked meal. It’s just pasta.” She thickened the air with her smile, as if that explained the entire tableau. “I remembered your favorites.”







“This isn’t your home.” he said, voice gone flat.

She continued to smile as if that wasn’t a problem. “You’re

welcome, you know. After the week you’ve had, I though it would be nice.” She was close now, close enough for him to smell wine and perfume and a trace of the sweat she always worked up when she was nervous. She tucked her hair behind her ear, let her hand graze his chest.

He flinched, backing away so hard he bumped the wall. “Stop.”





But she moved closer. There was a flicker of something desperate in her eyes, a need to fill the silence. “You don’t have to pretend, B. You told me how lonely you are. How Amelia never makes time anymore.” She said the name with a precise, careful cruelty. “You said you missed being seen.”

“That doesn’t mean—” He meant to finish the sentence, to put a wall back up, but before he could, Raven leaned in and kissed him. Not a gentle, exploratory kiss, but a hard, claiming one, meant to be seen, meant to be remembered. He froze, every muscle seizing, too stunned to push her away. It lasted a second—maybe less—but it was enough.

“B?” Amelia’s voice—soft, hopeful, exhausted—cut into the kitchen. He jerked away from Raven, trying to hide her behind his own body, but in the reflection on the oven he saw the whole scene: the candles, the two glasses, Raven’s lipstick on his mouth.

“Raven, leave,”

he said hoarsely, finally stepping back. “Dinner will get cold and

Amelia needs to cool off,” Raven murmured, trying to recover the

situation.



He turned, and there she was: Amelia, standing in the doorway, rain plastering her hair to her forehead, coat dripping onto the tile. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, but her face was drained of all color. She took in the room, the table, the steam curling from the pot, and then his face. He reached out, but she stepped back, colliding with the doorframe.







The candles flickered in the draft. No one spoke. Raven’s hand hovered at her side, frozen mid-gesture. Amelia looked at the suitcase, then at B, then at Raven—her gaze so sharp it felt like a knife. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She turned and walked away, each footstep wet and deliberate. The front door slammed so hard behind her that one of the candles toppled, splattering wax on the tablecloth.







Silence. Then the entire world seemed to tilt, like the floor was suddenly an ice rink and he was the only one left standing.







Raven was the first to speak. “I… I didn’t know she’d be home so early,” she said, voice shaky. She tried to smile but something in her face broke. “Maybe we could—”







“Get out,” he said. At first it was a whisper, but then he found his anger, hot and bright, and let it burn. “Get out of my house!”







She hesitated, wounded, then scrambled for her bag. He half expected her to argue, to make a scene, but instead she slipped through the door without another word, the storm swallowing her whole.







He stood staring at the empty kitchen, chest heaving, as the rain grew louder outside. Then he grabbed his keys and bolted after Amelia, nearly sliding on the wet tile as he ran for the truck.







He drove blindly, windshield wipers overwhelmed, every streetlight warped through tears and water. He called her name, over and over, even though he knew she couldn’t hear him. He saw her in flashes—running down the sidewalk, ducking into the old park, standing at the edge of the creek where they used to skip stones. But each time he stopped, she was gone, vanished into the rain.







She would not take the bridge. She hated that thing—the way it groaned under trucks, the way the boards flexed and popped. The county had posted warnings for years, but no one ever fixed it. Not after the last flood. If anything, it had become an unspoken dare: cross at your own risk.







If she went anywhere, it would be their spot. Miller’s Hill. The place where he proposed, where she said yes through tears, where they once made love in the bed of his father’s pickup, laughing at the mosquitoes and the lightning bugs. That’s where he went.







The dirt road was more river than road, his tires sloughing mud in every rut. Lightning forked the sky, lighting the hilltop in quick, lurid frames. But when he reached the overlook, it was empty. No car. No Amelia. Just the wind and the rain and the raw edge of the valley below.







He screamed her name into the storm, voice hoarse and wild, but not even an echo came back. He felt the panic then, real and physical, a cold hand closing over his spine.







He ran to the edge, shoes sinking




Chapter 2 – The Aftermath

ond of runoff. I backed the truck up to the door, killed the lights, and carried her inside. 

The power was out, but the woodstove’s embers glowed faintly, and the kerosene lamp above the table was right where I’d left it. I fished for matches and lit the wick, careful not to wake her. 

I laid her on the faded blue couch, stripped off her soaked jacket and boots, and wrapped her head in a clean towel. I hesitated with her blouse button, then steeled myself and undid it, just enough to check her ribs for bruising. I’d seen enough car wrecks to know how easy it was for a broken rib to puncture a lung. She was battered, but nothing moved the wrong way. I exhaled, a long, shaky breath. 

“Sorry,” I muttered. “This is just first aid. I’m not a creep.” 

I poured a glass of water and set it by her hand. Checked her pulse again. Slower, but steady. 

The rain battered the roof in fits and starts. Somewhere in the dark, a branch snapped and thudded to the ground, but the woman didn’t stir. I sat beside her, elbows on knees, trying not to think about the other times I’d sat up through the night, willing someone to live. 

The worst was the silence. No phones, no news, not even the hum of the refrigerator. Just the hiss of rain and the tick of ash settling in the stove. 

I tried not to look at her, but I couldn’t help it. The wound on her temple was already turning deep purple. One eye was swollen shut, lashes glued together by rain or tears. Her lips were cracked and colorless. She looked as fragile as Sara had looked in that hospital bed, the night after the fire. 

I told myself I’d left all that behind—left the city, the badge, the endless parade of emergencies. But the past didn’t burn away with the uniform. It followed me here, to this cabin in the woods. 

Sara’s last night played in my head like a reel I couldn’t shut off. 
He wasn’t even on duty that night—just out picking up supplies. Fifteen minutes. That’s all it took. Fifteen minutes while a power surge tripped the breaker, while the oxygen machine shorted and the wires caught. By the time he made it home, the street was full of flashing lights and smoke, and Sara was gone. 

He could still smell it sometimes—burnt plastic, ozone, her perfume. He’d sworn he’d never let himself near another rescue again. But here he was, soaked in rain and guilt, saving

Then he turned to the woman on the couch. Her chest rose and fell in slow rhythm under thsomeone anyway. 

He went to the fireplace. Above the mantel was a photo of Sara: her smile, her eyes, the wavy hair she hated and he loved. He picked it up, thumbed the frame, and whispered, “Not this time.”  e blanket. Alive. Against every odd, she was alive. 

He sat down again and watched her, until the storm became nothing more than a lullaby of distant thunder and memory.



Chapter 3 — The Fallout





Three days. I counted them in coffee spoons, in phone calls that went unanswered, in the thumbprint smudges left on the front window where I checked for her headlights after midnight. Our house ran on routines—laundry on Saturdays, movie night Fridays, leftovers and late emails and the hush that falls over a home when its bones remember laughter and wonder where it’s gone. Now, every clock seemed to tick out of sync, the minutes stretching and snapping, waiting for her voice to smooth the tension. I called her cell until the automated mailbox filled, then called again just to hear the way my own silence bounced back at me, tin and hollow and familiar. I scoured her socials, then the banks, then the hospitals. I left messages with friends and checked the door every few hours, like maybe she’d pop in with an apology and a bag of groceries. Maybe she’d say it was a misunderstanding. Or a work thing. Or a test. But nobody forgets home for three whole days unless they want to.



The rain hadn’t stopped since she’d left. Neither had I. I mapped every movement through the house, traced every hair left on the pillow, every misplaced mug, every book splayed open as though she’d only stepped out for a moment. The place was a mausoleum for the living. I found meaning in the smallest things—her hairband on the stair, the towels crosswise on the rack. I catalogued her absences like wounds. And in the void, the house began to fill itself with ghosts of possibility. By the second night, I started seeing her in my dreams: first, just the back of her head as she walked away, then her hand at the door, then a single eye, watching me through the window as if I were the one locked out.



That morning, Raven showed up again. No text, no call, just the soft tread of her boots on the doormat, the slow way she let herself in, dripping water down the hall. I should have been annoyed. Instead, I was relieved that someone else could see how empty the place had become. She said she was worried. She said I shouldn’t be here alone, that I needed company, that people in crisis do unpredictable things. But her worry reeked of cheap coconut and cheaper wine, and I didn’t want to be anyone’s charity project. Still, Raven moved through the kitchen like she’d been rehearsing it for years—straightening photos, making coffee, humming a song I recognized but couldn’t name. She touched everything that wasn’t hers to touch, and when she saw me watching, she smiled like we were sharing a secret.



“You need rest,” she said, setting a mug in front of me.



“I need answers,” I told her.



She didn’t flinch. “You’ll get them.” The way she said it made my skin crawl, but I drank the coffee anyway, and for a moment I pretended that this was normal, that she was supposed to be here, that there was nothing strange about a woman making herself at home in another woman’s absence.



We talked about Amelia’s new job—how it had landed in her lap, how fast she’d decided, how she called it a ‘stepping stone to something bigger, better.’ I remembered telling her I was proud, and I meant it. But somewhere between pride and the present, something had curdled. She worked late, came home later, her words clipped and her face a half-lit shadow in the doorway. I told myself it was just an adjustment period, a rough patch, the kind of thing every couple survives. But it started to feel like she was coming home to the house, not to me. I used to think love could weather any storm. Turns out, it’s not the fights that kill you. It’s the slow fade, the silence that stacks up between one goodbye and the next.



Raven must have seen my face, because she put her hand over mine and pressed down hard, grounding me in the moment. For a second, I thought she was going to say something wise or comforting, but she just squeezed harder, until it almost hurt. Then she let go and started cleaning again, filling her arms with the detritus of our life—coffee cups, newspapers, a half-written grocery list. She hovered near the doorway, watching me as if she expected me to collapse.



That evening, we went out to hang Missing posters. I didn’t want to bring Raven, but she insisted, and I was too tired to argue. We drove through the rain in her sputtering hatchback, the heater blasting on the vents, fogging the glass so we had to wipe it clear with our sleeves every few blocks. Every red light was a prayer. Every empty street felt like punishment. At first, we didn’t talk. Then Raven started to fill the pauses, talking about her car, her mother, her old dog, anything but the reason we were driving through the dark with a box of photocopied faces in the backseat. I wanted to tell her to shut up, but she looked so proud of herself every time she made me laugh, like it was a competition I didn’t know I’d entered.



When I snapped at her, she just grinned and said, “There’s the B I remember.” I hated that. I hated that it worked. But I also hated how good it felt to want to scream at somebody, to play at being alive again. We stopped at every telephone pole and bus shelter, taping up Amelia’s face for strangers to ignore. The rain blurred her features, streaking the ink until her eyes floated above an anonymous smile. Once, I thought I saw her standing across the street, hands in her pockets, watching us. But it was just a trick of the light, a shadow thrown by a traffic signal.



On the way home, Raven made me pull over at the river’s edge. She said she needed air, but it was just an excuse to be somewhere other than the car, other than the house, other than anywhere the walls might close in on her. We stood under the awning of a shuttered ice cream stand and smoked her last cigarette, passing it back and forth. She told me once that she quit for good, but I guess some rules only matter when people are looking. The city lights reflected off the water, shivering with the wind.



“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth. “You think she left you.”



“I think I don’t know what to think.”



She smiled sadly. “Everyone leaves. Eventually.”



I wanted to punch the wall, or her, or myself. Instead, I flicked the cigarette into the river and watched it spiral out in an oily bloom. “Not everyone,” I said, but my voice was so small I barely heard it.



When we got back, Raven was still there. She spread her things out on the dining table like she was moving in, opening her laptop and stacking old notebooks and pens in neat rows. She said she was ‘checking for updates,’ her voice too calm, her hands too steady. I watched her search for Amelia’s name over and over—on news sites, in the police database, on random forums with names like ‘Lost Loved Ones’ and ‘Gone But Not Forgotten.’ Each time she hit enter, she closed her eyes, like she was hoping for a different answer every time. When I asked if there was any news, she shook her head, and for a moment she looked genuinely relieved.



Then she cleared the browser history with a single click, wiping the slate clean. She caught me staring and smiled, too wide, her teeth pale against her dark lipstick. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Nobody needs to know what we’re doing.”



The next morning, I found her in the kitchen again, barefoot and humming. I realized then that she’d never actually left the night before. She must have crashed on the couch, curled around a throw pillow the way a dog curls around something that smells like home. She handed me coffee before I asked. “You look like shit,” she said fondly.

She shrugged, as if that was all the world owed me. “Let’s do something about it.”



We went out again, this time to the old haunts—corner stores, the university campus, random strip malls where Amelia might have wandered if she’d wanted to disappear. The more places we crossed off the list, the more it felt like we were chasing a ghost, like Amelia had never really existed outside the boundaries of my own need. Raven talked non-stop, always steering the conversations away from the past, away



“I feel like shit.”



from the details that might trip her up. If I tried to reminisce, she’d pivot, asking me about my favorite childhood memory, or the worst haircut I ever had. At first it was annoying. Then it was a relief.



We came home late. The power had gone out in our block, leaving the house filled with gray shadows. Raven lit a candle and set it on the table between us, the little flame throwing everything into sharp relief: the cracks in our mugs, the stains on the linoleum, the way Raven’s hands trembled when she thought I wasn’t looking. She poured us both wine—red, the cheap kind—and toasted “to finding what’s lost.” I drank, because I didn’t know what else to do.




After The Storm




I woke up — not from sleep, something
heavier.
Sleep fades. This felt like clawing my way out of the
dark.

My body didn’t feel right. My ribs ached with every
breath; my arm throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I tried to move,
and pain ripped through me so sharp it forced a cry out of my
throat.

A chair scraped the floor.
Footsteps crossed the
room.

“Hey—easy,” a man’s voice said, close and
low.

I froze. My eyes darted toward the sound — a man moving
out of the shadows, kneeling beside me. His face blurred in the
firelight.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You’re
safe now.”

Safe. The word didn’t mean anything yet.

He
reached for a glass on the table, offered it carefully. “Here.
Drink slow.”

The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of
tin, but it grounded me enough to speak.
“Where…” My voice
cracked. “Where am I?”

“My cabin,” he said. “You
were in an accident. Bridge washed out — couldn’t get you to
town.”

The words floated past me, slow and heavy. Accident.
Bridge. Cabin. None of it felt real.

He studied me a moment,
then asked gently, “What’s your name?”

“My…” I
stopped.
I tried again, slower. “I’m…”

The rest
wouldn’t come.
It was just gone. Blank.

“I don’t—”
My breath hitched. “I don’t remember my name.”

His
expression softened, brows drawing together.
“Hey,” he said
quietly. “Don’t push it. You took a pretty big blow to the
head.”

He meant it to calm me, but the words made it worse.

My pulse quickened. My hands started to shake under the
blanket.

Because if I didn’t know my own name… what else
didn’t I know?

He must’ve noticed my panic because he
reached out, resting a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Just breathe,
okay? In and out.”

His voice had that calm weight people use
when they’ve seen panic before.
I focused on it — the low,
rough edge of it, the warmth under the worry.

“In… and
out,” he repeated.

I did.
The air hurt coming in but
helped going out.

“That’s it,” he said quietly, thumb
brushing once against the blanket before he pulled his hand back.
“You’re alright. You’re safe.”

Tears burned the
corners of my eyes, and I blinked them away, embarrassed by how
exposed I felt — shaking, nameless, in a stranger’s bed.

He
stood slowly, running a hand through his hair, exhaling like he’d
been holding his breath too.
“You probably haven’t eaten in
days,” he said after a pause. “How about I make you something?
Just a little food. It might help.”

I frowned, the words
snagging somewhere in my fogged mind.
“Days?” My voice was
small. “What… what do you mean, days?”

He glanced over
his shoulder at me, the firelight cutting across his face.
“You’ve
been out almost three,” he said gently. “Since the
accident.”

Three.

The number didn’t feel real. My
heart started to pound again, faster this time.
Three days I
didn’t exist.
Three days I couldn’t remember.

My
stomach twisted, a strange mix of nausea and hunger.

He
must’ve seen it hit me because his tone softened even more.
“Hey,”
he said, voice low. “You’re okay now. You’re here.”

I
nodded, but the motion made the room tilt. He was already moving
before I could protest, steadying the edge of the blanket with one
hand, his other hovering near my shoulder like he wasn’t sure if he
should touch me again.

“Don’t try to move yet,” he said
quietly. “I’ll bring it to you.”

He turned back to the
stove — every movement unhurried, deliberate. The kind of calm that
only comes from someone who’s seen chaos before.

The smell
of something warm drifted through the air — eggs, maybe. Butter.

It was simple, comforting, and painfully human.

I watched
him in silence, still clutching the edge of the blanket like it was
the only thing tethering me to this world.

Three days.

Gone.

I didn’t even know who I’d been before
them.

The smell of food filled the air — eggs and something
buttery, warm enough to make my stomach ache.

He set a plate
on the small table beside the bed, then hesitated, studying me.
“You
think you can manage?”

I nodded before I really thought
about it. When I tried to lift the fork, my right hand barely moved.
My left trembled, weak and useless. Pain flared sharp through my
arm.

I tried again — stubbornness or pride, I wasn’t sure
which — but the fork clattered back against the plate.

He
stepped closer. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.”

“I can do it,”
I muttered, though my voice shook.

He crouched beside me,
taking the plate in one hand. “Your arm’s broken,” he said
gently. “And the other’s badly sprained. You need rest more than
anything.”

Before I could argue, he blew softly across the
food and lifted the fork toward me. “Here,” he said quietly.
“Just one bite.”

I stared at him — at the patience in
his eyes, at the ridiculousness of it — and before I could stop
myself, the words slipped out fast and sharp:
“I may not know
my name, but I can blow on my own food.”

He froze, the fork
still midair.

Then—he smiled. Just barely.
“Fair
enough,” he said softly, setting the fork down. “Guess that
answers one question.”

“What question?”

“If
you’re stubborn,” he said.

A reluctant laugh slipped out
of me, quick and shaky. It hurt to laugh — but it also helped.
For
a second, I wasn’t just the girl who didn’t remember her name. I
was someone else. Someone real.

The first few bites went down
slow. The food was simple — eggs, toast, nothing fancy — but it
tasted like something solid, something alive. My body remembered what
hunger felt like even if my mind didn’t.

When I’d eaten
all I could, I leaned back against the pillow, breathing through the
dull ache in my ribs. Eli watched from the chair beside the bed,
elbows on his knees, like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or give
me space.

I looked at him. “You said I was in an
accident.”

He nodded once.

“Was… anyone else
injured?”

His gaze flicked to the fire, the shadows playing
across his face. “No one else was there when I found you.”

That
answer didn’t sit right.
“You sure?” I pressed. “Maybe
someone got out before you came? Maybe they—”

He shook his
head slowly. “I checked. You were alone.”

The words hit
harder than I expected.
Alone.
The way he said it — quiet,
final — made something twist in my stomach.

I stared down at
the blanket, tracing the edge with my good hand.
“Was it… my
fault?”

His head lifted. “What?”

“The
accident.” My throat tightened. “Did I cause it?”

He
leaned forward, the firelight catching in his eyes. “Hey. Look at
me.”

I did.

“You were run off the road,” he said
carefully. “I saw the tracks before the rain washed them out.
Whoever hit you didn’t stop.”

A chill spread through me,
deeper than the pain.
“Run off the road?” I whispered.

He
nodded once. “You’re lucky I was behind you.”

I tried to
swallow, but my throat felt dry again.
Lucky.
It didn’t
feel like luck.

I shifted under the blanket, pushing myself
upright with my good arm. My ribs protested, but I managed to sit
halfway before the room tilted.

“Whoa—hey.” He was on
his feet instantly, hands out before me. “Don’t push it.”

“I’ve
been lying here for—what did you say—three days?” I rasped,
forcing a weak smile. “You’ve probably been sleeping in that
chair the whole time. The bed’s big enough, you know. I could scoot
over.”

His mouth twitched, the ghost of a laugh escaping
him. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Why not?” I
asked, settling back onto the pillow. “I’ve been hogging it long
enough.”

“Because,” he said, tugging the blanket higher
around me, “you can barely sit up. And I’m not taking your
bed.”

“My bed?” I murmured. “Pretty sure it’s
yours.”

That earned a real smile—small, crooked, tired.
“You’ve got me there.”

I let out a breath that sounded
almost like a laugh. “You’re stubborn.”

He arched a
brow. “Takes one to know one.”

The fire popped, sparks
briefly lighting his face. The exhaustion was still there—etched
deep—but so was something else. Relief.

For the first time
since waking, I felt safe enough to close my eyes again.




That Gut Feeling


Eli heard there was a makeshift clinic and insisted we go. “You clearly

have broken bones and can’t remember your name,” he said, and before I could argue, I was in his

truck. The walls were too white, the light too flat, and everything smelled like bleach and rain-soaked

wool. People came and went—volunteers, nurses, someone who might’ve been a doctor—but none of

them looked at me like a person. Just a patient. A puzzle to solve. They said I was lucky. No spinal

injury, no internal bleeding. Just bruises, a sprain, and a mild concussion. Lucky. I didn’t feel lucky.

They told me my memory would come back, “eventually” meant,

the answer went slippery as a rain puddle.

Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe never.

The only certainty was that the present was a blank, and the future was a question mark.

But no one could say when.



Eli wheeled me outside anyway. Said maybe the fresh air would trigger my memory. 

The soles of his boots squeaking against the tile. When the automatic doors swept open,

the city hit me in the face: wind-sharp, sodden, metallic.

They told her the memories would return, eventually. “In cases like yours, it’s usually a matter of days or weeks,” the nurse said. “The brain is resilient. Sometimes it just needs time.” But whenever Skila asked how long “eventually” meant, the answer went slippery as a rain puddle. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe never. The only certainty was that the present was a blank, and the future was a question mark.



Eli wheeled her out of the clinic before she could protest, the soles of his boots squeaking against the tile. When the automatic doors swept open, the city hit her in the face: wind-sharp, sodden, metallic. The storm had melted into a damp, sullen drizzle. The sidewalks glistened, reflecting the long, bruised haze of the sky. She squinted into the diffuse light, half-blinded by the sudden gray expanse. Every parked car felt like a rumor. Every person passing looked like a clue. She tried to recognize something—her own hands, the shape of her shadow on the ground—but every detail felt foreign and flattened, like a photocopy of herself.



They found a bench beneath a maple tree, its black limbs cupped around them like fingers. Eli helped her from the chair to the seat—gentle, but not patronizing—and they sat together in silence, watching the rain stipple the sidewalk. He kept his hands folded, as if uncertain whether she wanted to be touched, or left alone.



“You keep calling me Skila,” she said after a while, pulling the hospital blanket tighter around her shoulders. Her voice sounded oddly round in her mouth, like someone else speaking through her lips.



He smiled, faint and lopsided. “You needed a name. Something to hold on to.”



“But why Skila?” she pressed. “Is that a real name, or did you just invent it?”



He thought for a moment. “I heard it once, in a story. It sounded like hope. And I figured you could use a little hope.”



She let the word settle in her, tasting it. “I like it,” she admitted. “Skila.” She tried saying it again, quietly, like a magic spell. Hope. The name felt fragile and borrowed, but it was better than nothing.



They sat for another few minutes, the only sound the drizzle and the faint, muffled city noise. It was—despite everything—almost peaceful. The kind of calm that felt like it might break if she moved too fast, or breathed too loud.



Then a voice split the quiet: “There you are!” It wasn’t angry, or relieved, or even surprised—just impatient, as if she’d wandered away from a dinner party instead of a hospital waiting room. Skila turned. A man stood at the edge of the path, his black overcoat glossy with rain, his hair slicked and perfect. He looked like he’d been carved from money—sharp jaw, straight nose, expensive discomfort. His eyes were so wide and blue they looked fake, almost painted on.



“Amelia,” he said, striding toward her. The name hit her like a slap, not because it was familiar, but because it was not. Eli’s grip on the wheelchair handles went rigid. She could see his shoulders bunch, the way a dog tenses before a thunderclap.



The stranger didn’t slow down. He dropped to his knees in front of her and seized her chin with a cold, practiced hand. She recoiled, but he was already leaning in, mouth crashing onto hers. It was more invasion than kiss. His tongue was a trespasser; his lips pressed until her teeth hurt. She jerked away, gasping. The taste lingered—bitter, unfamiliar, wrong.



He frowned, as if she’d made the mistake. “Coconut?” he said, voice curling into a sneer. “You never wore that before.” He turned to Eli, ignoring her entirely. “What is that? Some cheap hospital lotion?”



Eli’s reply was slow and deliberate. “It’s just how she smells,” he said. “Some people are born with different pheromones. It’s science.”



The man’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Well, I don’t like it. I miss her in watermelon.” He pronounced the word like a correction, a returning of order to the universe. “Come home,” he ordered, turning back to Skila. “We’ll get you that watermelon bath scrub. The one I love.”



The way he said “I love” made her skin crawl. It wasn’t fondness. It was a locked door.



Eli’s voice sliced in, gentle but absolute. “She’s not going anywhere until she’s ready.”



The man—Daniel, she assumed—looked Eli up and down, calculating. Then, like flipping a switch, he softened his features. “I’m her husband,” he said, to no one and everyone at once. “We’ve been looking for her for days. There’s been a misunderstanding. I can explain everything.” He reached for her arm again, but she flinched so hard she nearly fell off the bench.



“I don’t remember you,” she said. Fingers instinctively flew to Eli’s sleeve, clutching tight. “I don’t remember anything. Shouldn’t that matter?”



He knelt, catching her gaze with his own. “It’s just trauma. You’ll remember me. I promise.” He smiled, but the expression was all teeth. “Let’s go home, Amelia. I’ll take care of you.”



She turned to Eli. She suddenly wanted—needed—his voice, his steadiness.



“I want to go home,” she said, meaning the word in the broadest, most abstract sense: home as safety, as sanctuary, as the opposite of this man’s grip.



Daniel’s jaw flexed. He tried again, softer, “Come with me.”



“That’s enough,” Eli said, standing between them so solidly it was almost funny. He was shorter than Daniel, but in that moment, he looked immovable. “You heard her.”



Daniel’s eyes darted—first to the hospital, then to the wheelchair, then to Skila. Everything about him screamed calculation, like he was weighing the risk of making a scene. He straightened, smoothed his tie, and stalked off, leaving a trail of expensive cologne and bad weather.



When he was out of sight, Skila let herself breathe again. Her hands were trembling. Eli didn’t say anything at first—just offered his shoulder, which she took.



The drive back to Eli’s apartment was silent, except for the clatter of rain and the sighing wipers. She watched the city blur past, streetlights smearing into comet trails. The hospital bracelet was still tight on her wrist; she twisted it until the skin bunched white beneath.



After a few blocks, she spoke. “You think he was the one chasing me?”



Eli hesitated, then: “It’s highly possible. He’s got that… off energy.”



“Off?”



“The kind that smiles too wide when he’s lying.”



She shivered, but it didn’t feel like cold. It felt like a fracture running through her, a splinter of fear she couldn’t shake. “You really think he could’ve done it?” she whispered.



Eli stared straight ahead. “I don’t know. But if someone wanted to erase your memory, keep you from leaving, that’s exactly what they’d do. Hold you down and make you forget.”



The rest of the ride was a long, taut silence. By the time they reached Eli’s building, the rain had eased to a mist. He helped her out of the car and up the stairs, careful not to look like he was helping, and let her into his apartment. It was small, but warm—more books than furniture, more plants than light. She wandered the living room, fingers trailing the spines of novels, the curled leaves of vines. The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and toast. She tried to imagine herself somewhere like this, a life made of simple things, not expensive coats or watermelon bath scrubs.



Hope, she thought, testing the name again. Maybe she could be Skila for a while. Maybe that was enough.



The next few days blurred together—Eli refused to leave her alone, and she didn’t mind. He made her eggs, told her dumb jokes, let her watch whatever she wanted on his ancient, dust-caked TV. Sometimes he left for work, but never for long. The only time she felt truly alone was at night, when the dark pressed in and her mind tried to remember. She’d stare at the ceiling, trying to reconstruct the man who claimed to be her husband, to prove or disprove the feeling in her gut. The memory wouldn’t come. Only the taste of that kiss lingered, sour and inescapable.



Every now and then, she’d catch Eli watching her—when he thought she was asleep, or reading, or lost in thought. She wondered what he saw: a mystery to solve, a burden, or maybe just a person trying to find her way back to herself.



One morning, he set a mug of coffee in front of her and said, “They found your purse.”



She blinked. “Where?”



“Some kid turned it in at the precinct. Had your wallet, your phone, everything. It even had a sticky note with your name on it—Amelia Bennet.”



Amelia. The word crackled through her. “Guess that means it’s real, then,” she said. “That’s who I was” she whispers



Aftershock



The Wish to be Forgotten


(Eli’s POV)

The cabin was quiet again. Too quiet. It had been days since the clinic, and the rain hadn’t really stopped—just softened, trading thunder for a steady, endless hiss that settled into the wood and bones of everything.

She’d started moving around more, trying to help—folding blankets with one hand, rinsing dishes, brushing her hair into something that half-behaved. She was restless, and I couldn’t blame her. The walls were closing in, even on me.

“Amelia, can you—” She turned fast, sharper than I’d ever heard her. “Don’t call me that.”

The air snapped between us. “Sorry,” I said quickly. “Force of habit.”

Her expression softened a little, but her voice didn’t. “I’m not her,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

That line stuck in my chest long after she walked away. She didn’t just forget her life—she was rejecting it, like the name itself was poison. Maybe she didn’t want it back. Maybe she shouldn’t.



That night, I couldn’t sleep. The laptop’s glow painted the walls a tired blue, the only light in the room. I typed Daniel Cross into the search bar and wished I hadn’t.

On paper, the guy looked clean—some charity work, business awards, smiling in every photo like the world had never told him no. But behind that grin, I started finding things that didn’t line up: sealed court records, anonymous forums whispering about NDAs, “unsubstantiated claims” of assault or coercion.

I dug deeper, through cached news pages, old EMT forums, even police bulletins that hadn’t made the public feed. Everywhere, the same pattern—power, silence, money.

Men like that didn’t get caught. They just rewrote the story until it sounded right.

I sat back, rubbing my eyes, the glow still burned behind my lids. If she ever remembered him, if someone found out she was alive, the system would hand her right back. Not while I was breathing.

If I’m wrong, I’m a fool. If I’m right, she’s better off never remembering.



Sara would’ve hated this. She used to say I took too much on. That every stranger’s pain was another brick in my chest.

The night she died, I wasn’t home. I’d gone to town for supplies—the nurse said she’d be fine for a few hours. The oxygen line sparked, and by the time I made it back, the flames were already through the roof. I never got to say goodbye.

I left emergency work after that. Told myself I couldn’t save people anymore. Couldn’t even save her.

But now there was Skila—breathing, broken, alive. And I was doing it again. Trying to rewrite fate.

Sara told me once that saving someone isn’t always love. Maybe this time, I just wasn’t ready to lose again.



“Take me there,” she said the next morning.

“To the crash site?”

She nodded, holding the sling tighter. “I keep seeing water, headlights, metal. I don’t know if it’s memory or imagination, but I need to know.”

I hesitated. “It’s not safe.”

“I’m not asking for safe,” she said softly. “I’m asking for real.”

I almost called her Amelia again but caught myself. “Alright, Skila. We’ll go.”



I knew if I didn’t take Skila, she’d take herself. So I agreed. When we got there, the wind was mean, carrying the smell of burnt rubber and wet dirt. She moved slow but steady, boots sinking into the mud. Before I could ask what she was doing, she crouched near the guardrail and started digging through the puddles.

“Careful,” I said, but she didn’t stop. A second later, she held something up—small, gold, caked in grime.

A ring. Possibly a wedding ring. It was too filthy to tell for sure, but my gut already knew, same as hers.

Didn’t mean it was hers. Didn’t mean she was married to that Daniel creep.

So help me God, I thought, if she was, I’ll still find a way to undo it.



The bridge was still blocked off with police tape, but there was a dirt path along the side that hadn’t washed out completely. The truck bounced and groaned the whole way, and when we finally stopped, she sat staring through the windshield like the world had turned into static.

The crash site looked worse than I remembered. Twisted guardrails, a charred patch of grass, broken glass glittering like salt in the mud. The air still smelled faintly of gasoline and wet metal.

Skila knelt near the shoulder, her fingers brushing the gravel, tracing shapes in the mud like she could summon the past if she wanted it bad enough.

She looked at me and managed a faint smile. “I don’t remember loving anyone,” she said quietly. “But someone must have.”

I crouched next to her, took the ring from her shaking hand, and slipped it into my pocket. “We’ll clean it up later.”

She didn’t argue. But she saw me do it. We both pretended she hadn’t.



On the way back, I noticed it—the tire tracks. Fresh. Too deep to be from rain. At the ridge above us, a black SUV sat idling, headlights cutting through the mist.

By the time I blinked, it was gone.

I told myself it was no one. Just another ghost of this place. But my gut had been right before.



That night, after she fell asleep on the couch, I sat watching her. She looked peaceful for once, the tension gone from her brow. Sara used to look like that after chemo—like she was finally somewhere pain couldn’t touch her.

“Eli?” she’d asked earlier, half-asleep. “You really think he’s my husband?”

I’d hesitated too long. “I don’t know,” I’d lied.

But I did know. Men like Daniel Cross didn’t marry—they possessed.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the ring, and turned it under the lamplight. Inside the band, an engraving caught my eye.

To my always — D.C.

I closed my fist around it, then dropped it into the drawer beside me. The sound was small, but it felt final.

I lost one woman to fire. I won’t lose another to a man who burns everything he touches.



Skila

I couldn’t stop thinking — if Daniel really was my husband, was he the reason I ended up in

that crash? The question looped in my head until it hollowed me out.

Eli hadn’t asked again about the ring. I hadn’t mentioned it either. We both pretended it was

just another artifact from the wreck — a mystery for another day. But I could feel it calling to

me from across the room.

When Eli left to pick up supplies, I finally gave in.

I carried the ring to the bathroom, set it on a hand towel, and rummaged through the medicine cabinet for supplies. Eli had shown me how to clean road rash: gentle soap, warm water, circular motion, slow and steady. I filled a glass, dampened the towel, and set to work with the same patience he’d taught me. The first layer of mud came off easily, leaving streaks of black and brown on the terrycloth. But underneath was a sticky, resinous grime that clung in every groove, like the ring had spent a season buried in tar. I scrubbed harder, ignoring the ache in my right wrist, and watched as a shimmer of silver emerged beneath the filth.

At first I thought they were just scratches, until the light shifted and words emerged.

I lost track of time. At some point, the storm outside deepened, and the power flickered. I braced the ring in my palm and held it to the light, tilting until I could see the inside of the band. That was when I noticed the lines—not random scratches, but a pattern, almost like writing. I rinsed the ring, dabbed it dry on my shirt, and squinted, trying to decipher the marks. It took a minute, but as the light shifted, the faintest letters appeared.

I’m glad I moonwalked into your life — B.



For a second nothing made sense. My heart hammered so loud I thought it might drown out the rain. I read the engraving again and again, tracing each letter with my thumb. It felt like a secret code, some past version of myself reaching out with a private joke only I would understand. But I didn’t. I didn’t remember ever meeting someone who would sign a ring like that, let alone marrying them. All I had was a single initial—B—and a tiny, wild hope that maybe, just maybe, my memory was starting to return.



But if B had given me this ring, and Daniel was the man who’d called me his wife, what did that mean? Did I belong to one of them, or neither, or both? Was I the kind of woman who kept secrets even from herself? I pressed the ring to my lips, just to feel the coolness, and tried to imagine what it would be like to slip it onto my finger. Would the memory come back in a rush? Would it even fit?



I almost tried it, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the fear that if I put it on, I’d have to own whatever story it told. Maybe it was loyalty to the woman I used to be, whoever she was. Or maybe it was because the last time I wore that ring, the world had ended in twisted metal and cold water.



A shiver ran through me. I turned the tap, rinsed the ring again, and wrapped it in a soft towel. I was about to hide it in the medicine cabinet, but at the last second I set it back by the kitchen window, exactly where Eli left it. No more pretending. If I was going to find the truth, I had to stare it in the face.



The sky outside had gone the color of bruised grapes, the clouds swollen and flat against the ridgeline. I tried distracting myself with dinner prep—chopping onions, boiling a packet of soup, slicing bread so thin the knife nearly took my finger with it. The cat prowled the counters, mewling at every shadow. I fed her, then sat in the living room and watched the minutes tick by on the old clock above the mantle.



Eli was late. Later than usual. I told myself he’d probably stopped for gas, or maybe ran into someone at the general store and got stuck in polite conversation. But the longer he stayed away, the more the shadows pooled in the corners of the room. I kept glancing at the ring, half-expecting it to move on its own, to vibrate with some magnetic pull toward the past.



It wasn’t until I heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway that I realized how tightly I’d been gripping the arm of the sofa. I stood too fast, head spinning, and steadied myself on the doorframe. At first I assumed it was Eli, but the engine was wrong—a deeper, more expensive purr. I moved to the curtain, barely parting it, and saw the black SUV parked by the shed.



Someone was inside, silhouetted against the glow of the dashboard. For a minute, neither of us moved. The cat hissed and bolted under the couch. I bent down, heart in my throat, and watched as the driver’s door creaked open. A man stepped out. He wore a suit, dark and perfectly dry, as if the rain itself hadn’t dared to touch him. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he expected every window in the house to be watching.



He paused at the edge of the porch, smoothed his coat, and looked directly at me. Or maybe he just sensed the movement behind the glass. Either way, his lips twisted into a smile so small and perfect it made my stomach turn. I let the curtain fall, backed up three steps, and tried to remember if I’d ever seen that face before.



I heard his footsteps on the porch, sharp and unhurried. He knocked once, twice, then waited. I stayed frozen in the hallway, torn between answering and hiding. The only weapon within reach was a can of hairspray I’d left by the door, and I gripped it like a club. I counted the seconds: ten, twenty.







The pounding shook the walls — fierce, relentless, like the echo of some inevitable disaster. Once. Twice. Three times. Each blow sent a vibration through my bones, each pause between a threat in itself, calculated with a patience all its own. There was no way to ignore it, no way to hide; the knocks came so fast and hard I knew I’d never make it to the door first. I grabbed my phone, thumbs slipping over the screen, and fired off a panicked message to Eli: “Come quick. Daniel’s here and he’s pissed.” Rain clattered against the tin roof above, a frantic percussion, drowning out every sound except the hammering in my chest.



I snatched up the nearest object that might pass for a weapon — a cheap can of hairspray, slick and cold, as if I could ever aim it at Daniel’s eyes before he got to me. My hands were shaking badly, but I told myself that spray in the face was better than nothing. I forced myself a breath, steeling for the next knock. But it didn’t come. The instant silence was worse, somehow — like the feeling you get just before a car crash, when time stretches out, and you know something awful is about to happen but you can’t stop it.



Then a single, softer knock. Not the violence from before, but almost a caress. Manipulative. Intimate.



“Amelia…” His voice slithered through the wood, coated in false warmth. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s talk like adults.”



I let out a laugh so brittle it could have shattered. “Adults?” I called back, projecting bravado I didn’t feel. “You can’t wait thirty seconds for an injured person to get to the door? I’m coming, Daniel.”



Seconds passed. My mind was a kaleidoscope of old memories and new dread — the endless rehearsals of what I’d say, what I’d do, never preparing me for this. My grip tightened on the can. My feet slid across the gritty floor. I could see his shadow, elongated and monstrous, under the gap in the door.



The next flashback hit like a migraine: Daniel’s hand snapping around my wrist, knuckles white, grip unyielding. His breath, sour with whiskey and something meaner, hot in my ear. “You think anyone else would put up with you?” he’d sneered. The memory was so real I nearly dropped the can, but it was the sound of glass shattering — not now, but in some distant echo — that made my knees buckle. I flinched so hard I lost my grip, and the can clattered across the tile, rolling to a stop by the baseboards.



“Stay back!” I shrieked, louder than intended, my back against the wall, hands up in defense.



For a moment it was silent again, except for the rain. I could hear Daniel breathing on the other side, his patience thinning, his mind working. When he spoke, his voice was all condescension: “Did you fall?” He almost sounded concerned, as if he were a bystander and not the cause.



“Amelia, don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he warned. The old Daniel, the manipulator, the one who turned everything into your own fault.



My pulse stuttered. I slid sideways, inching toward the bedroom, when something caught my eye — a sudden glare, headlights slashing through the front window, wild and blinding. For a split second I thought maybe I’d imagined it, but then a familiar engine roared above the storm, headlights carving through the downpour, splashing off the porch steps. Eli’s truck.



Relief hit so sharp it was almost painful. I sagged, breathless, as Daniel’s silhouette shifted. The new presence outside threw his posture into uncertainty. I watched as he turned, sizing up the truck, probably recalculating his odds.



Then, Eli’s voice boomed over the storm like an order from God: “STEP AWAY FROM THE DOOR!” His feet hit the front steps, heavy and quick.



Daniel’s control faltered. He tried to recover, to look like he belonged here. “She fell,” he called out to Eli, voice syrupy with fake concern. “She’s confused. You know how she gets.”



This time, Eli didn’t bother with permission. The door rattled. Daniel’s hand fell away just as Eli burst in, boots tracking mud and rain, eyes already scanning for injuries. He looked first at me, then the can on the floor, then at Daniel, and set his jaw in a way I’d only seen once before — at the fire, when the ceiling started to cave.



“Eli, can we talk privately?” I asked, hoping to get Daniel out of my space for even a moment. Eli nodded, never breaking eye contact with Daniel.



Daniel sneered. “You don’t trust your own husband, but you trust the help?” The word landed hard, and Eli’s face went cold.



Eli put a gentle hand on my elbow, guiding me toward the bedroom. In the hallway, I could still hear the rain, but now it was drowned out by the rush of adrenaline and the pounding in my ears.



Inside the bedroom, Eli closed the door, but I knew Daniel would be listening. My hands shook so badly I had to press them together to make them stop.



“E, I remember—well, kind of… Don’t let him near me,” I said. My voice was a whisper, but the plea in it was huge.



Eli nodded. “He’s not getting past me.”



A wildness took over me, suddenly braver with Eli in the room. The ring — the one I’d found, the one Daniel swore he’d never seen — burned on my finger. “Daniel,” I called out, raising my voice, “Who’s B?” I couldn’t believe I was asking, but there was something about the way he’d looked at it, like it meant everything and nothing at once.



There was a pause. Daniel slipped, just for a second, and I saw the calculation behind his eyes, the scramble to find the right lie. “B? Hmmm, need more than a letter, A,” he said, a joke that fell dead on arrival. He’d never had a sense of humor before — why start now?



I pressed. “If I’m your wife, what does my ring say?”



He hesitated. “Your ring?”



“Yeah. My wedding ring,” I said. “You didn’t see it at the clinic, did you?”



Daniel shook his head. “No. You must have found it in your things.”



“Then how do you know it’s mine?”



He looked at me like I was a child. “Why wouldn’t it be yours?”



Behind me, Eli’s voice was a steel cable: “You should go.” Not a request. A command.



But I wanted to finish. “Remind me,” I said, icy now, “what my ring says. Does it say ‘you’re nothing without me, you gold digger’?”



Daniel’s whole frame went rigid. He stared at the wall, eyes flat and reptilian. “I think Eli’s right. You should rest.”



But the words hung there, heavier than the rain, heavier than the truth, and everyone in the cabin could feel it. Eli stepped forward, not threatening, but with the immovable weight of someone who had carried bodies out of burning buildings.



“You need to leave. Now,” he said.



Daniel’s lip curled. He looked at Eli, then at me, as if memorizing the power shift. “You two look cozy,” he spat out, bitterness dripping like motor oil. “Don’t get too comfortable. She remembers more than she’s letting on.”




The Spiral







The fluorescent lights hummed above the wine aisle — too bright, too sterile — when I reached for the same bottle as her.



Her fingers brushed mine.



She looked up fast, startled, eyes sharp.



Raven froze, then smiled.



"Shh," she murmured — and kissed him harder.



He didn't stop her.



Her body pressed close — warmth, skin, memory. His hands found her hips, pulled her in.



For a heartbeat, it was her.



It was the sound she made — that tiny sigh against his throat — that undid him.



Not lust.



Not love.



Just the unbearable relief of pretending the past hadn't already died.



"Daniel?"



Her voice cracked the quiet like glass.



"Amelia's replacement," I said.



She blinked, chin lifting.



"Replacement?" A bitter laugh. "Try upgrade."



I smiled.



"Then pick better wine."



I plucked a bottle from the top shelf and dropped it into her cart beside strawberries and whipped cream.



"This one. Trust me. B will enjoy it."



She hesitated — then nodded, too quickly.



Maybe she thought I knew wine.



Maybe she just didn't want to look naïve.



As she pushed the cart forward, the scent of her perfume trailed behind — not Amelia's, but trying.



I watched her go.



Her hair — that same cut Amelia got after me. Shorter. Sharper.



I hated it.



Careful, B, I thought, lips curling.



I might be the one stealing your little Raven next.



The bottle gleamed dark and familiar — the same vintage Amelia and B toasted with on their wedding night.



I almost laughed.



Some ghosts don't need invitations.



They just find new hosts.



Rain hit the windows like nails when B opened the door.



Coconut.



Candlewax.



Red wine.



He froze, heart catching.



"Amelia?" he called into the dim.



But it wasn't Amelia waiting.



It was Raven — her hair curled like Amelia's, silk robe sliding off one shoulder, a glass of red glinting between her fingers.



"What the fuck, Raven?" His voice cracked.



"You left your phone," she said, tone light, easy. "Thought I'd surprise you."



He stared past her — the candles, the bottle, the familiar smell.



His throat closed.



"Where did you get that?"



Raven smiled faintly, pretending to understand.



He took the bottle from her and drank.



Too much.



Too fast.



By the time the glass hit the table, the room had tilted.



"B," she whispered, setting her drink down.



Her hand found his chest.



He didn't move.



Her fingers slid higher, under his shirt — slow, tentative, then sure.



Her breath touched his jaw.



Her lips found the hollow beneath his ear — that spot Amelia used to claim.



His breath hitched.



He could smell her perfume, the coconut heavy in the air.



He wanted to stop.



But ghosts make better lovers than the living.



—



I wore a rut in the floor pacing, as if the friction of soles on old wood might burn down my nerves to something manageable.



The rain tapered from thunderous to a steady patter, but the tension thickened anyway, pushing the air closer around my face.



I turned the old radio on and off and on again, running the dial up and down just to hear the static, anything to distract from my pulse.



Finally, I settled in the bedroom doorway, back braced against the frame like a barricade — as if I could protect the world behind me by staying upright.



I must have fallen asleep that way.



Because I drifted into a dream — the kind that loops itself around the places I never visit with company.



In the dream, Sara lay on the old bed, her hair a scatter of static electricity, her skin almost luminous in the half-light.



"Eli," she called, patting the mattress next to her the way she always did, gentle and amused. "Come lay down. It's just the wind."



"I need to keep watch," I told her. "If something happens—"



She laughed — not at me, but at the certainty of my gloom. She could always find the tender inside a knot.



"Something already happened, Eli. You can't keep sleeping in doorways waiting for it to pass."



Her voice was honeyed with forgiveness, but it was the smell that got me.



Hospital soap.



Cheap oranges.



Clinging to the sheets like static.



I had never hated anything as much as that smell.



She reached for my hand, and I felt the familiar coolness — not gone, just impossibly tired.



"You couldn't save me," she said, softer still. "That was never the test, E."



My throat locked.



"Then what is?"



Sara smiled, thumb tracing my knuckles the way she did the night before she left for good.



"The living, Eli. It's always the living."



Her eyes softened, the blue of fading sky.



"Go on, E. The living need you."



There was a pull behind her words, a riptide that folded the dream inside out.



Somewhere beyond the dream, another voice called to me.



"E?"



It was smaller. Less certain.



Sara's eyes flicked away, and I felt the loss again — knife-clean and total.



Then I jerked awake in the dark, heart jackhammering against my ribs.



It wasn't Sara sitting up in the bed.



It was Skila — hair wild, cheek pressed to her palm, worry etched delicate in the lines around her mouth.



"E?" she said again, softer this time. "You okay?"



There was rain in her hair, little glints of it on her temple.



I blinked at her, caught between dimensions — between the gravity of what I'd lost and the unfamiliar weight of what I might still have.



She looked at me like she already knew.



Some part of her familiar with the shape of grief.



I stood — or tried to. My legs didn't quite want to work, so I stumbled a bit, laughing mostly to fill the air.



I hovered awkwardly at the edge of the mattress.



"I'll, uh, stay on top of the covers," I said, half apology, half habit.



Skila's lips twitched.



"You can stop guarding the doorway," she said, patting the mattress with her left hand — the good one — as if she could summon me like a wish.



I lay down, careful and formal.



I left space.



A buffer of inches that might as well have been miles.



She closed it anyway.



One inch.



Then another.



Then her forehead rested just shy of my shoulder.



She sighed.



And the release of it made something in my chest loosen.



For a while, we listened to the cabin click and settle as it cooled, rain still whispering at the eaves.



The world felt held together only by what was inside that room.



Two people.



The ghosts they carried.



And a silence neither of us wanted to break.



"Thank you," Skila said to the ceiling.



"For what?" I asked.



She looked at me, eyes glass-clear and honest.



"For staying," she said. "For being here while I figure out who I am."



There was a tremor at the end.



I nodded, because my voice was somewhere else.



When I next opened my eyes, the storm had faded to a hush.



Skila had inched closer for warmth.



But I was the one who'd scooted nearer in my sleep.



When I moved, my shin bumped hers.



I tensed.



Years of muscle memory telling me to apologize, to pull back.



But she didn't startle.



She just murmured, "S'okay," and pressed her chin to my shoulder, breath warm against my neck.



I closed my eyes.



Expecting another dream of Sara.



Instead, when dreaming came, it was the cabin exactly as it was — only lighter.



Someone said my name.



But it wasn't Sara.



The voice was new.



And it made me want to stay asleep.



I woke to a faint tremor against my side.



Skila was scooting closer, still asleep, reaching for more blanket.



I moved to give her room.



But the motion brought us back together, knee to knee.



She woke then, turning toward me.



"E," she murmured.



"Can I ask you something?"



She didn't wait.



She just looked at me.



"Kiss me."



In any other life, I would have made a joke.



Instead, I reached for her face, slow enough for her to change her mind.



She didn't.



I kissed her.



The first touch was tentative.



The second she leaned into.



Her mouth warm and insistent.



For a second the past was just a shadow on the wall.



Her hand slid under my shirt.



When her palm found my ribs, I flinched — not from pain, but memory.



Sara's hand.



Years ago.



Another life.



I expected Skila to pull away.



She didn't.



She just smiled into me and kissed my neck, right at the hollow that always made me lose my train of thought.



I said her name.



She said mine back.



Chapter 9: The Spiral



The fluorescent lights hummed above the wine aisle — too bright, too sterile — when I reached for the same bottle as her.



Her fingers brushed mine.



She looked up fast, startled, eyes sharp.



Raven froze, then smiled.



"Shh," she murmured — and kissed him harder.



He didn't stop her.



Her body pressed close — warmth, skin, memory. His hands found her hips, pulled her in.



For a heartbeat, it was her.



It was the sound she made — that tiny sigh against his throat — that undid him.



Not lust.



Not love.



Just the unbearable relief of pretending the past hadn't already died.



"Daniel?"



Her voice cracked the quiet like glass.



"Amelia's replacement," I said.



She blinked, chin lifting.



"Replacement?" A bitter laugh. "Try upgrade."



I smiled.



"Then pick better wine."



I plucked a bottle from the top shelf and dropped it into her cart beside strawberries and whipped cream.



"This one. Trust me. B will enjoy it."



She hesitated — then nodded, too quickly.



Maybe she thought I knew wine.



Maybe she just didn't want to look naïve.



As she pushed the cart forward, the scent of her perfume trailed behind — not Amelia's, but trying.



I watched her go.



Her hair — that same cut Amelia got after me. Shorter. Sharper.



I hated it.



Careful, B, I thought, lips curling.



I might be the one stealing your little Raven next.



The bottle gleamed dark and familiar — the same vintage Amelia and B toasted with on their wedding night.



I almost laughed.



Some ghosts don't need invitations.



They just find new hosts.



Rain hit the windows like nails when B opened the door.



Coconut.



Candlewax.



Red wine.



He froze, heart catching.



"Amelia?" he called into the dim.



But it wasn't Amelia waiting.



It was Raven — her hair curled like Amelia's, silk robe sliding off one shoulder, a glass of red glinting between her fingers.



"What the fuck, Raven?" His voice cracked.



"You left your phone," she said, tone light, easy. "Thought I'd surprise you."



He stared past her — the candles, the bottle, the familiar smell.



His throat closed.



"Where did you get that?"



Raven smiled faintly, pretending to understand.



He took the bottle from her and drank.



Too much.



Too fast.



By the time the glass hit the table, the room had tilted.



"B," she whispered, setting her drink down.



Her hand found his chest.



He didn't move.



Her fingers slid higher, under his shirt — slow, tentative, then sure.



Her breath touched his jaw.



Her lips found the hollow beneath his ear — that spot Amelia used to claim.



His breath hitched.



He could smell her perfume, the coconut heavy in the air.



He wanted to stop.



But ghosts make better lovers than the living.



—



I wore a rut in the floor pacing, as if the friction of soles on old wood might burn down my nerves to something manageable.



The rain tapered from thunderous to a steady patter, but the tension thickened anyway, pushing the air closer around my face.



I turned the old radio on and off and on again, running the dial up and down just to hear the static, anything to distract from my pulse.



Finally, I settled in the bedroom doorway, back braced against the frame like a barricade — as if I could protect the world behind me by staying upright.



I must have fallen asleep that way.



Because I drifted into a dream — the kind that loops itself around the places I never visit with company.



In the dream, Sara lay on the old bed, her hair a scatter of static electricity, her skin almost luminous in the half-light.



"Eli," she called, patting the mattress next to her the way she always did, gentle and amused. "Come lay down. It's just the wind."



"I need to keep watch," I told her. "If something happens—"



She laughed — not at me, but at the certainty of my gloom. She could always find the tender inside a knot.



"Something already happened, Eli. You can't keep sleeping in doorways waiting for it to pass."



Her voice was honeyed with forgiveness, but it was the smell that got me.



Hospital soap.



Cheap oranges.



Clinging to the sheets like static.



I had never hated anything as much as that smell.



She reached for my hand, and I felt the familiar coolness — not gone, just impossibly tired.



"You couldn't save me," she said, softer still. "That was never the test, E."



My throat locked.



"Then what is?"



Sara smiled, thumb tracing my knuckles the way she did the night before she left for good.



"The living, Eli. It's always the living."



Her eyes softened, the blue of fading sky.



"Go on, E. The living need you."



There was a pull behind her words, a riptide that folded the dream inside out.



Somewhere beyond the dream, another voice called to me.



"E?"



It was smaller. Less certain.



Sara's eyes flicked away, and I felt the loss again — knife-clean and total.



Then I jerked awake in the dark, heart jackhammering against my ribs.



It wasn't Sara sitting up in the bed.



It was Skila — hair wild, cheek pressed to her palm, worry etched delicate in the lines around her mouth.



"E?" she said again, softer this time. "You okay?"



There was rain in her hair, little glints of it on her temple.



I blinked at her, caught between dimensions — between the gravity of what I'd lost and the unfamiliar weight of what I might still have.



She looked at me like she already knew.



Some part of her familiar with the shape of grief.



I stood — or tried to. My legs didn't quite want to work, so I stumbled a bit, laughing mostly to fill the air.



I hovered awkwardly at the edge of the mattress.



"I'll, uh, stay on top of the covers," I said, half apology, half habit.



Skila's lips twitched.



"You can stop guarding the doorway," she said, patting the mattress with her left hand — the good one — as if she could summon me like a wish.



I lay down, careful and formal.



I left space.



A buffer of inches that might as well have been miles.



She closed it anyway.



One inch.



Then another.



Then her forehead rested just shy of my shoulder.



She sighed.



And the release of it made something in my chest loosen.



For a while, we listened to the cabin click and settle as it cooled, rain still whispering at the eaves.



The world felt held together only by what was inside that room.



Two people.



The ghosts they carried.



And a silence neither of us wanted to break.



"Thank you," Skila said to the ceiling.



"For what?" I asked.



She looked at me, eyes glass-clear and honest.



"For staying," she said. "For being here while I figure out who I am."



There was a tremor at the end.



I nodded, because my voice was somewhere else.



When I next opened my eyes, the storm had faded to a hush.



Skila had inched closer for warmth.



But I was the one who'd scooted nearer in my sleep.



When I moved, my shin bumped hers.



I tensed.



Years of muscle memory telling me to apologize, to pull back.



But she didn't startle.



She just murmured, "S'okay," and pressed her chin to my shoulder, breath warm against my neck.



I closed my eyes.



Expecting another dream of Sara.



Instead, when dreaming came, it was the cabin exactly as it was — only lighter.



Someone said my name.



But it wasn't Sara.



The voice was new.



And it made me want to stay asleep.



I woke to a faint tremor against my side.



Skila was scooting closer, still asleep, reaching for more blanket.



I moved to give her room.



But the motion brought us back together, knee to knee.



She woke then, turning toward me.



"E," she murmured.



"Can I ask you something?"



She didn't wait.



She just looked at me.



"Kiss me."



In any other life, I would have made a joke.



Instead, I reached for her face, slow enough for her to change her mind.



She didn't.



I kissed her.



The first touch was tentative.



The second she leaned into.



Her mouth warm and insistent.



For a second the past was just a shadow on the wall.



Her hand slid under my shirt.



When her palm found my ribs, I flinched — not from pain, but memory.



Sara's hand.



Years ago.



Another life.



I expected Skila to pull away.



She didn't.



She just smiled into me and kissed my neck, right at the hollow that always made me lose my train of thought.



I said her name.



She said mine back.



Like a password.



A promise.



And there was nothing in her voice but want and relief.



Eventually the storm slowed.



So did we.



My hand rested over hers at my waist, fingers interlaced.



She traced tiny circles on my skin.





The Risk




Raven sat cross-legged on her bed, robe slipping off one shoulder, candles flickering low. The forged sonogram lay hidden beneath her pillow, the phone vibrating insistently against it.

Daniel.

She let it buzz twice before answering, voice soft and practiced.

“I didn’t think you’d call.”

On the other end, his voice was rougher than usual, gravel and whiskey.

“I’ve been thinking about our last conversation.”

A pause, just long enough to sting.

“The one about making it look real?” she asked.

He exhaled, and she could hear the smirk in it.

“You still want to play house, sweetheart?”

“Not house,” she murmured. “Just… proof.”

“Proof you slept with me?”

“Proof it could’ve happened,” she corrected, jaw tightening. “B already suspects. I just need something to tip it.”

Daniel chuckled, low and dangerous.

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” she said lightly. “But you like it.”

Silence bloomed between them, hot and taut. Raven flipped the phone to speaker and set it on the nightstand. She leaned back against the headboard, letting the silk of her robe slide a little farther down her arm, even though he couldn’t see her. He didn’t have to; she knew he’d imagine it.

“You really think this will sell your story?” he asked, amusement laced with steel.

She tilted her head toward the phone, lips curving.

“Close your eyes, Daniel. Pretend you’re in the room.”

A derisive huff. “You sure you can handle that?”

Her laugh was soft, controlled. “I’ve handled worse.”

What followed was a dangerous duet—sarcasm wrapped in velvet, half-tease, half-challenge. Nothing explicit, yet everything suggestive. His voice dropped, hers thinned to a breath, and the pauses between their words said more than the words themselves.

On the nightstand, the little red light on the recording app blinked steadily.

When she finally hung up, the silence rang.

Raven picked up the phone and replayed the last few seconds: his low growl, her breath catching—ambiguous enough to be anything. A guilty moan. A confession. A mistake.

Perfect.

She slid off the bed and staged the rest: a half-finished glass of red wine, the sheets tugged loose and tangled, her robe tossed open across the mattress. She pulled her hair loose, smudged her lipstick with the back of her hand, and took a series of photos—angled, artful chaos.

To anyone else, it would look like the morning after a night she could barely remember.

To her, it was evidence.

---

Two nights later, she stood outside Daniel’s condo, rain still clinging to the hall windows. His aftershave hit her first—sharp, calculated, like everything else about him.

She knocked once. The door opened before she could knock again.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he said, filling the doorway in a perfectly pressed shirt, sleeves rolled to the precise midpoint of his forearms.

“You called,” she replied, stepping past him.

His apartment was spotless to the point of hostility—every book spine aligned, every surface gleaming, not a picture frame out of place. No clutter. No softness. No accidents.

“You said you’d help,” she reminded him, dropping her purse on the marble counter.

“I said I’d think about it.” He closed the door with a soft click. “But you showing up… that says more than words.”

She crossed her arms, chin lifting. “I just need it to feel real.”

He circled her slowly, like he was inspecting a crime scene.

“You smell different.”

“New soap,” she said, forcing a shrug.

He made a face, somewhere between contempt and boredom. “Too tropical.” He opened a bathroom cabinet, pulled something out, and tossed it to her.

A bar of watermelon-scented soap smacked into her palm. The cloying sweetness hit her nose a second later.

“I’m not Amelia,” she snapped.

“I know,” he murmured, and for a fleeting second something almost human flickered across his face. Then it was gone. “But it’s the only way I can stand to touch you.”

Her fingers tightened around the wrapper until it crinkled.

“You think smelling like her is going to fix anything?” she asked.

“I think,” he said calmly, “that if you want me to help you sell your little story—B’s baby, poor confused Amelia, all of it—then you’re going to make it easy for me.” His gaze sharpened. “And familiar.”

He turned on the shower without waiting for her answer. Water thundered against tile, steam spilling into the room in thick, white breaths. He unbuttoned his shirt as if it meant nothing, dropping it onto the counter, the muscles in his shoulders moving under his skin like something coiled.

“Come on,” he said over the roar of the water, voice gone low and dangerous. “You wanted proof.”

Raven stood at the threshold of the bathroom, steam curling around her ankles, watermelon soap cold and slick in her trembling hand. His outline blurred behind the fogged glass—broad shoulders, dark hair, a ghost or a promise depending on how sick you were.

She stepped forward.

Or maybe he reached for her.

No one else was there to see which.

All that remained was the pounding of the shower, the hiss of steam, and the sickly-sweet scent of watermelon thickening the air.

---

A few days later, the world was quieter, but Skila’s head was anything but.

“Take me out,” she’d said that morning, standing in the doorway with her sling neatly adjusted and her chin tilted in defiance of gravity and common sense.

“Out?” Eli repeated, like she’d asked him to rob a bank.

“That’s what people who are dating do, right?” she said, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to terrified. “They go places.”

He’d rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting like he was trying to find an emergency exit in his own kitchen.

“It’s been a long time since I dated,” he admitted. “But yeah. Generally, I’d take the girl out.”

“I don’t expect fancy,” she’d said, softening. “I know that’s not your style.”

So now they were here, in a dim booth at a small bar off the highway—wood sticky with age, fairy lights strung half-heartedly along the rafters. Eli’s beer sweated on a cardboard coaster. Skila’s fingers danced around the rim of her glass, but she wasn’t really present.

Her attention kept snagging on the booth behind them.

The woman was the first thing she noticed—a cascade of too-careful curls, makeup a little too precise. Something about the way she held her shoulders. The way she tilted her head when she laughed.

I know her, Skila thought. I swear I do.

She shifted slightly, pretending to adjust her sling, angling her ear just enough to catch their voices.

“Well, it looks pretty good for Photoshop,” the man said. His voice was smooth, polished, with a mean little edge under it. Daniel.

“It’s not Photoshopped,” the woman hissed back. Raven. The name hit her like a bruise. “It’s real.”

Skila’s skin prickled.

She couldn’t stop listening.

“Skila?” Eli nudged her knee under the table. “You wanted me to take you out, but I’m starting to feel very ignored.”

“Sorry,” she said quickly, eyes still fixed on the woman’s profile. “I just… I know her from somewhere.”

Before he could answer, something cracked open inside her.

Rain. A soaked doorway. Raven kissing a man—broad shoulders, familiar hands.

B.

“How could you?” she screamed in the memory.

She fled. Keys. Tires. A bridge. Headlights.

Raven in the other car.

Skila’s eyes snapped open.

Later, when they reached the cabin, she threw herself into making Eli a surprise dinner—anything to quiet the storm inside her. Garlic and tomato simmered. The table was set. A candle flickered.

Then headlights swung into the driveway.

Another pair followed—too fast.

Screech. Skid. A crunch of metal.

She ran barefoot into the rain. Coconut hit her nose—synthetic, sharp, unmistakable.

Her world aligned.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

And for the first time, the name **Amelia** didn’t feel like it belonged to a stranger.



"We should probably talk," I said.



"We will," she whispered, grinning. "But not this second."



The cabin was very, very quiet.



Outside, the gutters whispered to the dirt.



And somewhere in the dark, the living — us — kept choosing each a password.



A promise.



And there was nothing in her voice but want and relief.



Eventually the storm slowed.



So did we.



My hand rested over hers at my waist, fingers interlaced.



She traced tiny circles on my skin.



"We should probably talk," I said.



"We will," she whispered, grinning. "But not this second."



The cabin was very, very quiet.



Outside, the gutters whispered to the dirt.



And somewhere in the dark, the living — us — kept choosing each other.






Then, without another word, he turned and vanished into the night, the storm swallowing him up.



For a while, all I could hear was the rain and the sound of Eli’s steady breathing. The adrenaline drained, and I sank into him, letting his arms catch me before I could hit the floor.



“I know,” I whispered, voice shaking. “Do you think he ran me off the road?”



Eli stayed silent for a long moment. “Do you?”



“I don’t know,” I said, and meant it. But the way Daniel lied, so easily, so practiced — it made my skin crawl. “Maybe whoever B is will have answers.”



We listened to the thunder step off into the hills, the last roll deep and distant, the warning still alive in the bones of the cabin.