Strands of Her by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Horror

 

Strands of Her

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,963

Kia never intended to buy anything from the street vendor. She was only killing time between the bus and her night shift at the Waffle House. But the velvet-lined table, draped in a sheer purple cloth and surrounded by mannequin heads with cascading waves, stopped her.

The wigs shimmered unnaturally under the flickering lamplight of the abandoned parking lot. Jet black coils, honeyed ringlets, tight 4C curls, bone-straight silk—each one more beautiful than the last. Real hair. Human hair.

Kia’s own hair had been falling out in clumps since her last relaxer turned wrong. She’d been tying scarves tighter and tighter, avoiding mirrors. The ache of self-consciousness clung to her like a second skin. But these wigs? They were radiant. Regal.

“You got a good eye,” the vendor said.

Kia hadn’t seen her approach. The woman was tiny, wrapped in a fur-trimmed coat, her smile slinking beneath hollow cheekbones. Her voice sounded like a cough halfway through a cigarette.

“They come from all over,” she said, gesturing to the display. “India. Brazil. Nigeria. Even some real local pieces. Pure. Untouched. No heat. No dye. Hair full of memory.”

“Memory?” Kia repeated.

“Everything we are stays in the strand,” the woman said, lifting a long, dark curl between her fingers. “Energy. Story. Soul. We only give what the head no longer needs.”

Kia squinted. “Wait, you mean—these are from dead people?”

The woman smiled wider. “Don’t they always say, beauty is eternal?”

Kia should’ve walked away. She should’ve laughed, called the woman crazy. But her hand moved before her brain. It hovered over a curly bob with a deep side part and a shine like oil on water. It was soft. Too soft.

“How much?” Kia asked.

The woman held up five fingers. “But once it’s yours, it’s yours. Can’t give it back.”

Kia paid. It was all the cash she had left for the week, but she didn’t care. Something about the wig pulled her. A magnetism that felt warm, familiar. She took it home and, under the yellow glow of her bathroom light, she placed it on her head.

The fit was perfect. Uncannily so. The curls framed her face like they belonged there. She turned her head left, then right. Ran her fingers through the strands. It didn’t even feel like a wig. It felt… natural.

She wore it out the next day.

And people stared.

But not in the usual way, not like they were judging her for being tired or Black or poor. They stared like she glowed. Like she’d stepped out of a magazine. At the Waffle House, her manager stammered when he asked her to wait tables instead of working the register. Customers tipped extra. Even James, her regular who never said more than “scattered, smothered, covered,” looked at her like she’d grown wings.

Kia felt beautiful. That night, she ran her fingers through the curls and whispered, “Thank you.”

She swore the wig pulsed. Like it heard her.

Then, deep in the quiet of her apartment, a sound slithered through the air. A whisper. Faint, like breath against her ear.

“You’re welcome.”

Two nights later, she started dreaming.

She was underground. Cold. Dirt in her throat. Someone was screaming, but the sound never left their mouth. Nails scratched the inside of a coffin lid. The air was thick—choking—with decay and... grief.

Kia woke up gagging, clutching her throat as if she could still feel the weight of the soil pressing in. Her sheets were damp with sweat, clinging to her body like a second skin. She sat up, rubbing her arms, shivering despite the heat in her apartment.

Then she saw it.

The wig.

It sat on her nightstand exactly where she had left it. But it wasn’t the same.

It looked longer.

The curls were tighter, richer, like they had been freshly coiled overnight. Darker, too, though she hadn’t washed it, hadn’t even touched it since tossing it aside two days ago.

With slow, reluctant fingers, she picked it up.

It was damp.

Heavy with moisture, as if it had been left out in a storm. Droplets clung to the ends of the strands, slipping down onto her fingers. And when she turned it over, she saw something caught in the netting.

A fingernail.

Lavender polish, chipped and cracked.

Kia gasped and dropped the wig, stumbling back like it had bitten her. Her scalp tingled, burned with phantom fingers, as if the wig had been trying to creep back on while she slept.

No. No. It was a prank. Had to be.

Maybe the vendor used recycled burial hair from morticians or something. Maybe this was what the lady meant by “local.”

Still, she wore it again.

She didn’t want to—but the mirror begged her to.

When it was on, she wasn’t just Kia anymore. She was stunning. Radiant. Magnetic. Even her voice changed—silkier, smoother, a sound that made people lean in closer, listen harder. Men followed her home with wide, wet eyes, tripping over their own feet to be near her. Her ex called after six months of silence, his voice trembling when he said her name.

Like he couldn’t believe he had ever let her go.

But something changed.

The dreams got worse.

The woman from the grave began speaking. Whispering. Pleading.

Find me.
Fix me.
Free me.

Kia’s hands moved in her sleep. She woke up one night digging into her mattress, fingernails split and bloodied, clawing at something that wasn’t there.

She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t rest.

And the wig—it moved.

She saw it crawl once, inching across the floor like it had tiny legs, dragging itself toward her.

That was the final straw.

She grabbed it with shaking hands, stuffed it into a trash bag, and dragged it outside. The dumpster behind her apartment reeked of old food, but she didn’t care. She shoved the bag in, tied it tight, and set it on fire.

The flames devoured the hair, twisting it like burning flesh. The air filled with the stench of rot and something worse—something sweet and spoiled, like decay masked by perfume. Kia covered her mouth, eyes stinging.

It was over.

She slept better that night.

But in the morning, it was back.

Sitting on her dresser.

Damp. Perfect.

And this time, there was dirt under its lace front.

Kia went back to the lot. The vendor was gone.

In her place was a small girl, maybe nine, hair shaved down to the scalp, sitting cross-legged on the same velvet cloth. Her eyes were too old for her body.

“She said you’d be back,” the girl mumbled. “She don’t sell to people twice. You ain’t supposed to wear the hair more than three nights. After that, it gets hungry.”

Kia trembled. “Whose hair was it?”

The girl tilted her head. “Used to be a preacher’s daughter. Died in ’92. Buried with her Bible and her mama’s ring. But they dug her up. She was fresh.”

Kia’s mouth went dry. “What do I do?”

The girl didn’t answer. She just stared. And then, almost too softly to hear, she said, “She wants her face back.”

She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn’t cooperate. “What do you mean, her face?”

The girl didn’t blink. Her eyes, dark and depthless, stayed locked on Kia’s own, unrelenting. “The preacher’s daughter. She wants back what was hers.”

Kia’s stomach lurched. She had thought the hair was just… hair. An extension, a weave, something exotic but harmless. But when she had pinned it into her braids that first night, she had felt something—an odd tingling along her scalp, like the strands were whispering against her skin.

And the dreams.

A girl standing at the foot of Kia’s bed, face blurred like smeared paint, mouth moving in silent rage. A hand reaching—no, clawing—at Kia’s head, fingers sinking into her skull like roots into soil.

Kia squeezed her eyes shut. “I—I can take it out,” she whispered. “I’ll burn it. I’ll—”

The girl shook her head. “It don’t work like that.”

The wind picked up, rustling the abandoned lot, sending dried leaves skittering across the cracked pavement. Kia shivered. “Then what do I do?”

The girl pushed herself to her feet, slow and deliberate. She was small, but her presence was heavy, as if something larger lurked just beneath her skin.

“You give her back what she lost,” the girl said finally.

Kia’s pulse pounded. “And if I don’t?”

The girl’s lips barely moved, but the words cut through the cooling air like a blade.

“Then she takes it.”

Kia’s breath gasped, and she took a stumbling step backward. The evening air had turned thick, pressing against her skin like damp wool. She hadn’t noticed before, but the lot smelled strange—like turned earth and something sweeter beneath it, something wrong.

That night, Kia locked the wig in the freezer, double-bagged. She told herself it was just paranoia, that the strange whispers she’d heard when she wore it were only in her head. Still, she made sure to push it behind the frozen peas and the half-empty tub of ice cream, as if burying it beneath layers of frost would silence whatever had been murmuring against her scalp.

She wrapped her scarf tightly around her braids and climbed into bed, forcing herself to scroll through her phone, watch a mindless show—anything to keep her thoughts from spiraling.

But at 3:33 a.m., something whispered beneath her floorboards.

“You borrowed my beauty. Now give me your body.”

The voice was soft but insistent, slipping between the cracks of her consciousness like a draft of cold air. Kia’s limbs went stiff. Her breath hitched in her throat. She tried to turn her head, to move even a finger, but her body refused.

The air in her room thickened, heavy with the scent of lavender and something else—something damp, something rotten. Then came the pressure. A slow, deliberate weight against her forehead. Cold. Wet. The touch of lace.

No—

The wig.

It pressed down over her scalp, the icy fibers slithering into place. Curls coiled and twisted around her throat, tightening with a slow, merciless patience.

Kia’s chest seized. Her vision darkened. She could feel the weight of the grave in the air, the pull of something unseen but hungry.

Her last breath bloomed against her lips, tinged with lavender and dirt.

The next morning, Kia stood in the mirror, perfectly still. But her eyes looked wrong. They were too far apart, almost as if her face had been subtly rearranged overnight. Her skin was unnaturally smooth, stretched taut over her bones, reflecting the soft morning light in a way that made her seem more doll than human. And her smile… practiced. Too perfect, too precise, like it had been sculpted rather than formed by emotion.

She reached up, fingers trembling, and brushed the wig gently. The strands were soft, silken, warmer than she remembered them being when she first picked it up. It settled on her scalp like a second skin, whispering secrets she couldn't quite understand. It was hers now. Forever.

Outside, beneath the ancient oak, the girl moved with quiet precision, setting up the deep crimson velvet cloth over the wooden stand. The morning mist curled around her ankles as she placed another mannequin head atop its perch, careful, reverent. A new offering. Another crown.

Her hands hovered over the freshly adorned mannequin, fingers barely grazing the strands of hair before she murmured the familiar words:

“Hair full of memory,” she whispered.

She turned slightly, her gaze lifting to the house, to the window where Kia stood frozen. A knowing smile curled her lips.

“Only give what the head no longer needs.”

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Anti-Romance / Supernatural

 

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,129

The first time Jasmine saw her, she was walking home from work—past the towering high-rises of Midtown Atlanta, their sleek glass exteriors catching the last light of day. The sky bled into shades of burnt orange and dusky violet, a striking contrast against the neon signs flickering to life. The warm scent of roasted coffee from a nearby cafe mixed with the metallic tang of the city, grounding her in routine.

Then came the scream.

Not the sharp wail of an ambulance or the distant howl of a siren, but something raw, jagged—a sound that clawed up from the belly of fear itself.

Jasmine stopped mid-step, heart slamming against her ribs. Across the street, just beyond the blur of moving headlights, she saw her.

Herself.

The woman was a mirror image, but distorted. Jasmine’s own high cheekbones, honey-brown skin, and precise locs—except this version of her was wild, frantic. Her hair hung in uneven long locs, she looked like she had been running for miles. A torn blouse sagged off one shoulder, her skin glistening with sweat.

She was sprinting straight for her.

Jasmine’s breath hitched as their eyes locked. The woman’s lips moved, desperate, shaping words Jasmine couldn’t hear over the city’s noise. Her arms stretched out, fingers trembling, pleading.

Then—

A car horn blared.

Jasmine stumbled back, her heel catching on the curb. The world jolted into motion again—tires screeched, a cyclist shouted, a couple laughed as they passed by, oblivious. Jasmine whipped her head around.

The woman was gone.

Nothing but the rush of traffic and the distant hum of Atlanta’s nightlife surrounded her.

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her chest.

Stress, she told herself. Wedding stress.

But as she turned toward home, the phantom of that scream curled around her like a whisper, refusing to let go.

Jasmine sat curled on the sleek leather couch, her fingers distractedly tracing the seam of a throw pillow as she recounted what she had seen. The city skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but she kept glancing at her reflection in the glass, half-expecting to see that woman staring back at her.

Grant barely looked up from his whiskey, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler before taking a slow sip. “You probably saw a homeless woman,” he said, his voice even, dismissive. “Midtown’s full of them.”

Jasmine’s stomach twisted. “She looked like me.”

Grant exhaled sharply, the sound edged with impatience. He set his glass down with a soft clink, then leaned back, stretching one arm across the back of the couch. “Baby, you’re overworked. Between your job and planning this wedding, your mind’s bound to be frazzled.” He slid closer, the warmth of his body pressing against her side. His fingers skimmed her hip, soothing, comforting. “Besides, aren’t you the one who always says the subconscious plays tricks?”

Jasmine wanted to argue, wanted to insist that what she saw wasn’t just some stress-induced hallucination. But Grant’s certainty—his unwavering, effortless confidence—settled over her like a weighted blanket, muffling her doubts.

She forced a nod, her voice quieter than she intended. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

But later that night, as she drifted into uneasy sleep, the dream came.

The woman was back.

And this time, she was screaming her name.

The next warning came through her email.

Jasmine was buried in work, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she juggled deadlines, emails, and staff messages. Her inbox was a battlefield—branding proposals stacked on top of campaign updates, meeting requests squeezed between last-minute client edits.

Then one subject line stopped her cold.

DON’T DO IT, JASMINE.

Her breath hitched. A slow, creeping dread slithered up her spine.

With a shaky hand, she clicked.

The email body was empty. No sender. No signature. Just a void staring back at her.

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears. The office around her buzzed—phones ringing, heels clicking against polished floors, the hum of the espresso machine in the break room—but she felt distant, confused, as if the world had taken a step back.

She reached for her phone, fingers fumbling to take a screenshot. But the second her fingertips grazed the screen—

The email vanished.

Gone. No trace. No record. She refreshed. Checked her spam folder. Opened and closed her inbox twice.

Nothing.

Jasmine swallowed hard. A glitch, she told herself. Just a system error. But when she reached for her coffee, her hands were trembling too much to lift the cup.

The video call came that night.

Jasmine and Grant had just finished dinner—one of their usual nights in, where he picked the wine, the music, the conversation. He had chosen a bold red from Napa, something expensive but impersonal, and queued up a jazz playlist that hummed low in the background. She had barely touched her glass.

Now, standing at the sink, she rinsed their plates under the warm stream of water, watching the soap swirl down the drain. Her phone, propped against the marble counter, lit up and started ringing.

Unknown Caller.

A cold prickle crawled up Jasmine’s spine. She hesitated, her fingers damp as she swiped to answer.

The screen flickered—static crackling at the edges—then resolved into an image that made her stomach plummet.

Herself.

Not a reflection. Not a mirror.

Her.

But this version of her looked hollowed out, like something had scraped her soul raw. Her skin was pale, her eyes rimmed red, and tear tracks streaked her cheeks. Shadows pooled beneath her collarbones, like she had been drained of light.

The woman on the screen parted her lips, and a hoarse whisper slipped through.

"Please listen to me."

Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. She took an involuntary step back, her hip bumping the counter. “Who—who are you?”

The woman flinched like the words physically struck her. But her voice, when it came, was steady. "You know who I am. And you know what’s happening. Don’t marry him. Please."

A slow, creeping numbness spread through Jasmine’s limbs. The faucet was still running, the distant murmur of Grant’s voice carried from the living room, but all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.

“This is a joke,” she said, though her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Who is this?”

Future-Jasmine leaned forward, the screen distorting slightly as if reality itself struggled to hold her image. Her expression was raw, stripped bare, her pain so tangible Jasmine could feel it like a weight pressing on her chest.

"You think you’ll be okay. That you can fix him." Future-Jasmine’s voice trembled, her breath ragged. "You can’t. He will take everything from you. He will break you down, piece by piece. And when you finally understand, it will be too late."

Jasmine’s throat was so dry it ached. “Why should I believe you?”

A broken laugh escaped the woman on the screen, a sound so brittle it sent a shiver through Jasmine’s bones.

"Because I didn’t believe myself either."

The screen glitched, warped—her own image stretching and twisting as if something was pulling it away—then the call dropped.

Jasmine stood motionless, her pulse hammering. The water still ran, sending steaming swirls of soap down the drain. From the living room, Grant called her name, his voice smooth, expectant. The sound blurred against the rush of blood in her ears.

She should tell him. Should tell someone.

But deep in the pit of her stomach, a sickening certainty settled.

She already knew exactly how that conversation would go.

The next morning, Jasmine tried to convince herself it was stress. She really did.

She blamed the late nights, the wedding planning, the pressure of making everything perfect. She told herself she was overworked, overstimulated—that her brain was just playing tricks on her.

But at 3:00 AM, her phone vibrated on the nightstand.

The sound yanked her out of a restless sleep, her body rigid beneath the silk sheets. Grant stirred beside her but didn’t wake. Heart pounding, Jasmine reached for her phone.

One new voicemail.

A tight knot coiled in her stomach as she hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the city outside, the high-rise windows reflecting back nothing but black.

She pressed play.

At first, nothing. Just breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Uneven, like someone had been running for their life.

Then—her own voice.

Shaking. Desperate.

"You have to listen. You have to leave. You have to leave before—”

Static. A choked sob. Then silence.

Jasmine’s breath strangled in her throat. Her fingers went numb, and the phone slipped from her grasp, landing on the comforter with a muted thud.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The stillness of the room pressed in around her, the silence thick and suffocating.

She wanted to wake Grant, to tell him, to do something—but she already knew what he would say.

It’s stress, baby. You’re overthinking. Go back to sleep.

But her body knew the truth. The tremor in her hands. The cold sweat at the back of her neck.

This wasn’t stress.

It was a warning.

The wedding was in two days.

Jasmine stood in the bedroom, wrapped in a silence so thick it pressed against her ribs. The city outside moved as usual—car horns, distant laughter, the hum of Atlanta just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows—but in here, time felt frozen.

The wedding dress hung from the closet door, a ghostly silhouette in the dim light. Layers of ivory silk cascaded down like a waterfall, delicate, pristine. It was beautiful. It was suffocating.

Her breath came shallow as she stared at it, fingers curling into her palms.

She hadn’t told Grant about the email. Or the video call. Or the voicemail.

She hadn’t told him because he wouldn’t believe her. Because she barely believed herself.

But as she stood there, the weight of it all pressing down on her, she realized—this wasn’t about the visions anymore.

It was about what she already knew.

The way he dismissed her fears with that easy, condescending smile.
The way his love felt like a performance, something she had to earn rather than something freely given.
The way she had already begun shrinking for him.

This was her last chance to stop it. To stop herself.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She had to leave.

She made it halfway to the door before she heard it.

His voice.

“Where are you going?”

The words cut through the air, low and measured, sending a jolt down her spine.

Jasmine spun around.

Grant stood in the doorway, blocking her exit. His arms were crossed, his posture casual—but his eyes weren’t. They were locked onto her, unreadable, calculating.

She swallowed. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

“I—” Her throat felt tight. “I need to think. I need space.”

Grant exhaled slowly, stepping closer. “You’re just nervous,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “It’s normal.”

No.

It wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t cold feet. It wasn’t the wedding.

It was him.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s more than that.”

A flicker of something—something dark—passed behind his eyes. His jaw clenched, so briefly she almost missed it.

“So, that’s it?” His voice was even, controlled, but his fingers twitched at his side. “You’re throwing everything away?”

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears.

“I’m not throwing anything away. I just—”

His hand shot out.

Fingers wrapping around her wrist. Hard.

A sharp breath caught in her throat.

His grip wasn’t tight enough to bruise. Not yet. But it was firm. Unyielding.

A silent warning.

Jasmine’s skin went cold.

Because suddenly, she knew.

This was the beginning.

The moment Future-Jasmine had tried to warn her about.

The moment where it all started—the slow unraveling, the suffocating, the feeling of being trapped in something that wasn’t love but looked too much like it to question.

She should have ripped her arm away.

She should have run.

But just like before, just like always—

She didn’t.

Jasmine stood at the altar, her hands locked in Grant’s grip, her fingers numb, ice-cold.

The church was warm, filled with soft candlelight, the scent of roses thick in the air. A string quartet played something elegant, something meant to sound like forever.

But inside, she was frozen.

Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, she could still hear herself screaming—raw, desperate, clawing at the edges of her consciousness.

But the echoes had faded.

The veil settled over her shoulders. The vows left her lips. The ring slid onto her finger.

And the cycle began again.

Jasmine sat at the long dining table in their sleek Buckhead condo, staring at the untouched filet mignon Grant had ordered. The scent of rosemary and butter filled the air, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her fork.

The candlelight flickered between them, its glow casting jagged shadows across his chiseled face. The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain.

Grant swirled his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been quiet all night.” His voice was smooth, measured—too measured. He set the glass down with a deliberate clink, the sound slicing through the silence.

Jasmine forced a smile, her fingers twisting the hem of her dress beneath the table. “Just tired.”

His eyes narrowed. “Again?”

There it was. The shift. Subtle, but unmistakable.

It was always like this now. The wrong answer, the wrong tone, and his patience would thin, unraveling into something sharper. He would remind her, softly at first, how much he had done for her—the apartment, the wedding, the life she was so lucky to have.

And if she didn’t answer right, the warmth in his voice would cool.

She knew where this was going. She had seen it before. Lived it before.

The cycle had started, just as her other self had warned.

This wasn’t love anymore. It was control.

Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat.

And yet, she stayed.

Just like before.

The warnings never stopped.

Emails from addresses that didn’t exist. Muffled voicemails of her own voice crying—begging. Messages vanishing the moment she tried to show them to someone.

At first, she deleted them. Ignored them. Convinced herself they were stress-induced hallucinations, figments of an overworked mind. But no matter how many times she tried to erase them, they always came back—like echoes from a future she didn’t want to believe in.

One night, the glow of her phone screen pulled her from sleep.

Another email.

IT NEVER GETS BETTER. LEAVE.

Jasmine’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the sheets.

Beside her, Grant lay still, his breath deep and steady. The dim light from her phone screen cast long shadows across his face—the face of the man she had promised forever to.

His arm was draped over her waist, heavy and possessive.

The weight of ownership.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She closed the email. Turned off her phone.

Rolled back into the cage of his embrace.

And tried to sleep.

The first slap came a year later.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. No raised voices, no shattered glass—just a swift, casual motion, his palm cutting across her cheek like an afterthought. A flick of the wrist, a correction, as effortless as straightening his tie.

Jasmine barely registered it at first. The sting came second, the shock third. She blinked, frozen in place, fingers drifting to her cheek where the heat of his touch still lingered.

Grant exhaled, already turning away, as if the moment didn’t matter. As if she didn’t matter.

“Don’t overreact,” he muttered, his tone bored.

Jasmine stood there, rooted, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. Something inside her cracked.

In the silence that followed, she could still hear herself screaming in the distance— a voice lost in time, warning, pleading.

She closed her eyes.

And let the silence swallow her whole.

The rain poured in sheets, soaking Jasmine’s nightgown, clinging to her skin like a second layer of cold regret. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there—barefoot in the mud, the city skyline blinking behind her, the storm washing over her like some kind of baptism that refused to take.

She looked down.

Her reflection rippled in the puddle at her feet—distorted, unfamiliar. Her eyes were hollow, her lips pressed thin. She didn’t recognize herself.

Then—a whisper.

“You know what you have to do.”

Her breath hitched. Slowly, she turned.

Her.

Future-Jasmine stood a few feet away, rainwater streaming down her face, her arms wrapped around herself as if holding together something fragile. Her expression was raw—pleading.

“I know you’re scared,” she said, voice barely audible over the storm. “But listen to me this time. RUN.”

Jasmine’s chest tightened, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

“I—I can’t,” she whispered, the words barely making it past her lips.

Future-Jasmine shook her head, stepping forward, her soaked dress dragging against the pavement. “You’ve said that before. And you’ll keep saying it. Over and over, until there’s nothing left of you. Until you wake up one day and realize you’re just—gone.”

Jasmine shuddered. The words felt heavy, sinking into her bones, pressing against the deepest parts of her she had tried to ignore.

“I don’t know how,” she admitted, voice breaking.

Future-Jasmine studied her, something soft and knowing in her gaze.

“Yes, you do.”

Jasmine swallowed hard. The rain dripped from her chin.

And then—she vanished.

Leaving Jasmine alone in the storm, staring at the space where she had stood.

That night, Jasmine moved like a ghost through the dimly lit condo, her breath shallow, her pulse a steady drum in her ears.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t let doubt creep in.

She stuffed clothes into a duffel—just enough. Just what she could carry. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Grant stirred once in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. She froze in the doorway, heart hammering, but he didn’t wake.

The key turned smoothly in the ignition.

As she drove, the city lights blurred past, but for the first time, she wasn’t looking back.

Years later, in a sunlit apartment in Savannah, Jasmine stirred beneath soft linen sheets, a faint breeze whispering through the open window.

A feeling brushed against her skin—a presence.

Her breath hitched, muscles tensing, the old instinct returning. She turned, half-expecting to see her—the version of herself that had once chased, pleaded, warned.

But the room was empty. Only morning light pooled on the floor, golden and warm.

For the first time, the past was truly behind her.

Jasmine inhaled deeply.

And finally, slept without ghosts.

Whispers Through the Veil by Olivia Salter / Drabble / Supernatural

 

Whispers Through the Veil

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 387

The first time I dreamed of Kenny, it was raining. I stood in the middle of a street that looked like our old neighborhood, except the houses were faded, like a painting left too long in the sun. The air smelled of wet asphalt and magnolias—his favorite scent.

Then, I saw him.

Kenny stood a few feet away, dressed in the same hunter green hoodie he wore the last time I saw him alive. His dark skin glowed under the flickering streetlamp, and his eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—held something unreadable.

"Kenny?" My voice was small, uncertain.

He smiled, the same slow grin that used to make my heart skip. "You remember me, baby?"

A shudder ran through me. Of course, I remembered. I had spent years trying to forget the way he left this world. The way the news of his death had shattered me. But here he was, standing in front of me as if time had folded in on itself.

"I miss you," I whispered.

He stepped closer, his movements fluid but otherworldly, like he was walking on air. "I came back for you," he said, his voice rich with something heavier than longing. "I had to tell you—I never stopped loving you."

My breath caught. "But you're..." I couldn't say it.

"I know." His hand lifted as if to touch my face, but he hesitated. "I should have told you before. Should have fought harder for us."

The dream shifted. The street blurred, melting into a memory—a night years ago, Kenny standing outside my window, begging me to believe in us. I had turned away, scared of the future, scared of how much I loved him.

Tears burned my eyes. "I loved you, too. I still do."

His smile turned sad. "Then let me go."

A cold wind swept through me, and I realized what this was. Not just a dream. A goodbye.

"But—" My voice cracked.

He shook his head, the streetlamp flickering wildly behind him. "It's time, baby. You have to wake up."

I reached for him, but my hands met only air.

Then, I woke up.

The room was silent except for the distant hum of the city. My cheeks were damp. My hands trembled.

But for the first time in years, my heart felt light.

Flawless by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Science Fiction / Supernatural

 

Flawless

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 600

Jade knew Malik was obsessed with perfection, but she never thought he’d turn that obsession on her. His voice was smooth, practiced, but there was something unsettling in the way his eyes lingered on her face. “You know, babe,” he said as they lounged in their sleek, glass-walled apartment overlooking Atlanta, “I’ve been working on a new serum. It could smooth out that little mark on your face. Make your skin absolutely flawless.”

Jade’s fingers brushed the coffee-colored crescent beneath her left eye, a mark her mother once called a kiss from God. A faint chuckle left her lips, but unease curled in her stomach. “I don’t need to be flawless, Mal. I like my birthmark.”

He sighed, tilting his head as if analyzing a scientific anomaly. “But imagine how much more beautiful you’d be without it.”

Her smile faltered. “I’m already beautiful.”

Malik kissed her forehead. “Of course you are. But perfection is power.”

That night, Jade lay awake, staring at the city lights flickering through the window. She had spent years loving herself exactly as she was. Why couldn’t Malik?

As weeks passed, his obsession deepened. He gifted her expensive serums, subtly left articles about laser treatments on her nightstand, and even edited pictures of her, erasing the mark so she could see how ‘perfect’ she’d look. Each time, Jade refused. But the way Malik looked at her birthmark—like it was a stain on an otherwise pristine canvas—began to chip away at her confidence.

One evening, Malik handed her a cup of chamomile tea. She took a sip, not knowing he had slipped a few drops of an experimental formula into it. “Trust me,” he murmured as she drifted into sleep.

Jade woke up light-headed. Stumbling into the bathroom, she gasped. The birthmark was gone. Her skin was eerily smooth—flawless, just like Malik wanted. But something was off. Her reflection looked... hollow. A perfect image of herself, but missing something vital.

Malik stood behind her, smiling, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You’re perfect now.”

Jade touched her cheek, expecting relief, maybe even joy. Instead, a slow, creeping dread spread through her, sinking into her bones. It was as if a part of her had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a beautiful shell. Her mother’s words echoed in her head: A kiss from God. Her fingers lingered on the spot where it used to be, and for the first time in her life, she felt incomplete.

A week later, the side effects began. Her skin became eerily pale, then translucent. Dark veins webbed beneath the surface. Her body ached. Malik worked tirelessly to reverse the effects, but the damage was done. The woman who once radiated warmth now looked cold, artificial. Flawless.

One evening, as she lay in bed, weak and fading, she whispered, “You stole something from me, Malik.”

Tears welled in his eyes. “I was only trying to make you perfect.”

Jade smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I was perfect.”

The next morning, she was gone—vanished like mist, like she had never been there at all. But Malik would never forget the way she looked that last night, a ghost of the woman he once loved, destroyed in his pursuit of perfection.

And in the mirror, just beneath his own eye, a faint mark began to form—a coffee-colored crescent, shaped like a kiss from God. Malik’s breath hitched. His fingers trembled as they traced the mark, a curse etched into his skin. A deep, bone-chilling realization settled over him; perfection had demanded a price, and it had come to collect.

The Weight of Names by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Black History / Supernatural

 

The Weight of Names

By Olivia Salter 

Word Count: 813

The names whispered to her in dreams. Some she recognized—Tubman, Douglass, King. Others felt distant yet familiar, like echoes from a past she’d never lived but somehow carried in her bones.

The first time she heard the voices, Naoimi thought she was dreaming.

She was in history class, staring out the window while her teacher lectured on the Civil Rights Movement. The lesson drifted in and out of her ears like background noise—until something else replaced it.

"Names are more than words, child. They are echoes."

Naoimi sat up, her heart racing. She looked around, but no one else seemed to notice. Her teacher’s voice continued, steady and mundane, but layered beneath it was a whisper—one she could almost feel against her skin.

"Remember us."

The bell rang, shaking her from the moment.

She gathered her books and rushed out, her best friend Amari jogging up beside her.

"You good?" Amari asked, stuffing her hands into her hoodie pocket.

Naoimi nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just… thinking."

About the voices. About why they felt so heavy, as if they carried the weight of something old and urgent.

That night, she dreamed of names.

They spiraled around her, ink dripping from them like they had been freshly written in history books. Tubman. Douglass. Ida B. Wells. But then there was another. A name she didn’t recognize.

Josephine Calloway.

When she woke, it was still there, lingering on the tip of her tongue like a secret she wasn’t supposed to know.

Naoimi became obsessed.

She searched online, scoured library archives, even asked her grandmother, who was the family historian. But no one had ever heard of Josephine Calloway.

Until the day her grandmother sighed and said, “That name… that’s old history.”

Naoimi’s breath caught. “Who was she?”

Her grandmother hesitated. “A woman who saw too much. Knew too much. And was buried under the weight of silence.”

She wouldn’t say more.

That was when the voices got stronger.

"You need to know."

"Find her."

"Truth buried still breathes."

Naoimi followed their call, chasing fragments of Josephine’s life. She found an old article buried in a forgotten corner of the internet. Josephine Calloway: The Woman Who Defied a Town and Vanished.

She had been a journalist in Alabama in the 1930s, exposing lynchings that local newspapers refused to print. Then, in 1938, she disappeared. No records, no grave, no explanation.

History had erased her.

But history had also left her behind, whispering in Naoimi’s ear.

Each clue Naoimi uncovered made the voices grow louder.

She found Josephine’s old articles—hidden, faded pieces that spoke truth so raw it burned. She tracked down distant relatives who barely remembered her name. She discovered that Josephine had left behind a manuscript—a book she had been writing before she vanished.

No one had ever found it.

Until Naoimi did.

The journal was buried beneath dust and time in a forgotten attic of an abandoned house. Its pages trembled as she turned them, the words aching to be read.

Josephine had written everything—names of the men responsible for the violence, the corruption, the lies. She had died for this truth.

And now, Naoimi held it in her hands.

The night she found the journal, the whispers stopped.

And in their place, a presence.

She saw her reflection in the attic’s cracked mirror—but it wasn’t just her. A woman stood behind her, dark-skinned, sharp-eyed, wearing a suit that belonged to another era.

Josephine.

Naoimi turned, breath hitching.

“You found me,” Josephine said, her voice layered with sorrow and gratitude. “I’ve waited so long.”

Naoimi clutched the journal. “What do I do?”

Josephine’s eyes burned like embers. “Finish what I couldn’t.”

Naoimi knew what it meant. The men Josephine exposed had descendants—powerful ones. People who had spent decades making sure her story never saw the light of day.

And now, it was in Naoimi’s hands.

She had a choice.

She could let Josephine remain a footnote, another name swallowed by silence.

Or she could make the world remember.

The article went live at midnight.

Naoimi published everything—Josephine’s story, her articles, the names of those who tried to erase her. Within hours, it spread. Historians, journalists, activists—people who had spent lifetimes searching for missing pieces—began to piece Josephine back together.

And the voices?

They faded, not in sorrow, but in peace.

As if, for the first time, history had exhaled.

Naoimi stood at her grandmother’s doorstep the next morning.

Her grandmother looked at her for a long moment, then smiled. “You heard them, didn’t you?”

Naoimi nodded.

Her grandmother pulled her into a hug. “Good. That means you’re listening.”

Naoimi hugged her back, eyes burning with something between grief and pride.

Because history was no longer just something she studied.

It was something she carried.

And this time, she would not let it be forgotten.

North Has Shifted by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Science Fiction

 

North Has Shifted

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 876

Ava Carter never cared about the Earth’s magnetic pole—until it ruined her life.

Ava’s hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles white. The GPS chirped:

“Recalculating… Recalculating… Recalculating…”

She had driven this stretch of Highway 287 a thousand times. But tonight, everything felt wrong. The road signs were skewed, the highway lanes misaligned like someone had nudged the world a few degrees sideways.

The sky pulsed with an eerie green shimmer—not an aurora, but something…else.

She tapped her phone. No signal. The radio hissed with static.

Her pulse quickened. Something was happening.

Then—

The road disappeared.

Her stomach lurched as she slammed the brakes. Dust billowed, swallowing the car whole. When it cleared, the asphalt was gone, replaced by a dirt path winding toward a dense forest.

This wasn’t possible.

Ava threw open the door, stepping onto unfamiliar ground. The highway had been here minutes ago. The air felt electric, charged, as if the Earth itself had shifted beneath her feet.

She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out her compass. The needle spun wildly.

Her throat tightened.

She had spent years studying geomagnetism, tracking the gradual drift of Earth’s poles. But this wasn’t a drift.

This was a reset.

A dirt path stretched ahead, leading to a lone cabin. Smoke curled from its chimney, the only sign of life.

Ava hesitated, then pushed forward. She needed answers.

She knocked. The door creaked open.

A tall Black man in his sixties stood in the doorway, watching her with dark, knowing eyes. His clothes were rugged, worn—like he had been living off-grid for years.

“You lost?”

Ava swallowed. “The road—I mean, the highway—” She exhaled. “It was just here.”

The man studied her, his expression unreadable.

“You felt it,” he said.

Not asked. Stated.

Her skin prickled. “What do you mean?”

He stepped aside. “Come in before it gets worse.”

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of burning wood and something metallic. Maps were sprawled across a table—except they were wrong.

Coastlines were jagged, slightly altered. Cities misplaced. Like a different version of Earth.

Ava ran her fingers over the faded paper. “Where did you get these?”

The man poured a drink. “Ellis,” he said, finally giving his name. “And those maps? They ain't from this version of the world.”

Ava stared at him. “What?”

Ellis set the drink down. “What you’re feelin’—what you’re seein’—it ain't just a pole shift. The Earth don’t just change direction. It remembers.”

Ava shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Ellis chuckled. “Neither does a highway vanishin’ under your feet.”

She rubbed her temples. Think, Ava.

“The pole didn’t just move,” she murmured. “It…reset.”

Ellis nodded. “Now you’re catchin’ on.”

A sickening thought formed in her mind. “If Earth reset, then…” Her voice trailed off.

Ellis finished for her. “Time did, too.”

Ava’s breathing shallowed.

“We didn’t just shift direction,” she whispered. “We slipped—into a different version of time.”

Ellis tapped the maps. “Earth’s done this before.”

She stiffened. “What?”

Ellis sat back. “There are stories. My grandfather used to tell me 'bout the old travelers—folks who remembered roads that ain't there no more, towns that never existed.” His gaze darkened. “I used to think they were just stories.”

Ava ran a hand through her hair. This wasn’t just an anomaly.

It had happened before.

Her pulse quickened. “If we don’t fix this, history could unravel.”

Ellis nodded. “Now you’re askin’ the right questions.”

The old radio in the corner crackled.

Ava barely noticed it—until a voice cut through the static.

Her own voice.

“January 29, 2025. The world isn’t where we left it. If you’re hearing this, we’ve lost time.”

Ava stumbled back, her chest tightening.

Ellis watched her grimly. “That’s tomorrow.”

She turned to him, wide-eyed. “No. That’s today.”

Her voice meant one thing—she had already lived this moment.

The world wasn’t just shifting. It was looping.

Her hands clenched into fists. She wasn’t going to let it happen again.

They worked through the night.

Ava mapped distortions, tracing Earth’s memory shifts. The poles weren’t just moving—they were searching for stability.

“What’s it lookin’ for?” Ellis asked.

Ava hesitated. Then, it hit her.

A point of alignment.

She grabbed her compass, its needle still spinning.

Then, she did something insane.

She let go.

The compass stopped.

And for the first time, she felt it—true north wasn’t where it used to be.

It was inside her.

She turned to Ellis, breathless.

“I know where to go.”

Ellis grinned. “Then go.”

Ava ran outside. The world shimmered, colors bleeding into each other.

The wind roared. The ground trembled.

She stepped forward—aligning herself with the shift.

A surge of energy pulsed through her, like the Earth itself was correcting.

And then—

Silence.

The road was back. The sky was normal.

Her phone buzzed. A message from the conference committee:

“Looking forward to your presentation on the magnetic pole shift!”

Ava exhaled, steadying herself.

She checked the time. January 29, 2025.

She had done it.

But as she turned the car around, a new thought struck her.

Ellis.

She had to find him.

Because deep down, she knew—

North would lead her back to him.

Whispered in the Quiet Hours / Flash Fiction / Supernatural / Contemporary

Whispered in the Quiet Hours

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 916

When Anika's dreams are haunted by her late ex-boyfriend, she must confront unfinished business, unanswered questions, and a truth that could finally set her free—or leave her broken forever.

The fan rattled in lazy circles overhead, the sound filling the small apartment like a hollow heartbeat. Anika lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wasn’t coming, but she refused to open her phone. She couldn’t bear to scroll through curated versions of lives she didn’t care about.

Instead, her mind wandered, uninvited, to Jonah. It had been months since their breakup. His name was a wound she didn’t dare press, but tonight, the edges felt raw.

She closed her eyes and let the quiet take her.

She found herself standing in the park where they used to meet after class. The air smelled like cut grass and damp earth, and the bench—their bench—looked just as she remembered.

But Jonah wasn’t just a memory. He was sitting there, alive in the way dreams make the impossible seem ordinary.

“Hey, Ani,” he said, his lopsided grin unchanged.

Her breath caught. “Jonah?”

He tilted his head. “You don’t call anymore.”

It felt like a punch to the chest. “I… you left,” she managed, though the words felt clumsy.

Jonah’s expression softened, his smile fading. “I didn’t mean for it to be this way.”

She blinked, and the park dissolved, her room rushing back around her. The fan hummed its empty tune, and she sat up, clutching her chest.

It wasn’t just a dream. It felt too real.

The second night, Jonah was waiting for her.

“You look tired,” he said, leaning against the kitchen counter of the apartment they once shared.

“I am tired,” she shot back, folding her arms. “What is this? Why are you here?”

He spread his hands. “You tell me. It’s your dream.”

Her anger flared. “No, you don’t get to be cryptic and charming, Jonah. That’s not fair.”

His face flickered with regret, the kind that always came too late. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ani. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

She snorted. “The right thing? You ghosted me without so much as a goodbye.”

Jonah stepped closer, his expression pained. “I didn’t ghost you. I—” He hesitated, as if searching for the words. “I was scared. I thought I’d ruin you if I stayed.”

Her voice cracked. “And leaving didn’t?”

The dream unraveled, and Anika woke with her pillow damp from tears.

The next morning, Anika called Layla, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“Hey, Lay,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Have you talked to Jonah lately?”

There was a long pause, heavy with something unspoken.

“Ani…” Layla’s voice broke. “You don’t know?”

Anika’s stomach dropped. “Know what?”

“Jonah died three weeks ago. Car accident.” Layla’s words came slowly, as if they might hurt less that way. “He was on his way to see you.”

The world tilted, and Anika sank onto her couch. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” she whispered.

“I thought… I thought someone would’ve,” Layla said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

The call ended, but the words hung in the air. He was on his way to see you.

That night, she didn’t fight the dreams.

When Jonah appeared, she was ready.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she demanded, standing in the doorway of the bedroom where she found him waiting.

“I needed you to know,” Jonah said simply.

“Know what?”

“That I loved you,” he said, his voice thick. “I still do, I always have.”

Anika’s anger boiled over. “You don’t get to say that now. You don’t get to—haunt me with something you should’ve told me while you were alive.”

Jonah looked at her, his eyes full of something she couldn’t name. “I was coming to tell you, Ani. The night I died, I was finally ready to fix things.”

Her breath hitched. “You were coming to see me?”

He nodded, his voice trembling. “I wanted to make it right. But I didn’t get the chance.”

Tears streamed down her face. “So what now? You just show up in my dreams, say your piece, and leave me to pick up the pieces?”

Jonah stepped closer, his form shimmering. “No. I’m here so you can let me go. You’re stronger than you think, Ani. You don’t need me anymore.”

Her voice cracked. “I don’t know how to let you go.”

“You will,” Jonah said softly. He smiled, his image fading. “You always were the strong one.”

The sun was rising when Anika woke. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel like the air was pressing down on her chest.

Over the following days, she began to let go in small ways. She visited their park, sitting on their bench and allowing herself to cry. She packed up the box of his things, keeping only a Polaroid from her birthday—the one where they were laughing so hard they were blurry.

But something still lingered.

The twist came two weeks later when she opened her email.

At the top of her inbox was an unread message from Jonah, dated the day of the accident.

Her heart pounded as she opened it.

It wasn’t an apology or a confession of guilt. It was a single line: “You’ve always been my home.”

Anika stared at the screen, tears spilling over but not from grief.

For the first time, they felt like closure.

Beneath the Lavender Sky by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Supernatural / Lupus

 

Beneath the Lavender Sky

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,731

The lavender-scented bathwater rippled around Rosa’s body, the steam curling into the air like restless spirits. The heat seeped into her skin, enticing her stiff, aching joints into a reluctant truce. For a moment, the inflammation and agony in her knees retreated to the edges of her consciousness, leaving her with a fleeting illusion of peace. She leaned back against the cool porcelain, her eyes closing, but the silence was not the remission she’d hoped for.

Keisha’s voice replayed in her mind, cutting through the haze like a jagged blade.

“You’re so dramatic, Rosa,” her sister had said, her attention fixed on her phone as she casually scrolled through Instagram. “We’re all tired. You just have to push through it.”

Rosa had smiled then, tight-lipped and brittle, as if her teeth were the only thing holding back the flood of anger and frustration threatening to spill out. Push through it? she’d thought. What did Keisha know about exhaustion that went bone-deep, about pain so penetrating it rewrote the very language of your body?

She thought of the mornings she’d spent staring at her coffee maker, her fingers trembling, unable to grip the handle of her favorite mug without feeling like her joints were filled with broken glass. She thought of the nights when even the weight of a blanket was too much to bear, her body screaming in protest as though it were at war with itself.

But what was the point of saying any of that? Arguing with Keisha would have been like shouting into a void. No one believed pain they couldn’t see.

Her fingers grazed the water’s surface, leaving trails in the faint purple hue. The scent was supposed to be calming, restorative even, but it felt sickening now, almost oppressive. Keisha’s words clung to her, heavier than the water she soaked in.

Rosa’s eyes opened, and she stared at the bathroom ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster. She wondered how many more cracks her spirit could endure before it shattered completely.

The bathwater had cooled by the time she climbed out, her knees protesting even the small act of standing. She reached for the towel and caught her reflection in the mirror. Her face looked older than her years, the weariness etched into every line and shadow. But beneath the fatigue, there was something else—something defiant.

She tightened the towel around herself and stared at her reflection as if daring it to speak. “Push through it?” she whispered, the words bitter on her tongue. Her jaw set, her fingers gripping the edge of the sink until her knuckles turned white.

“I already have,” she said, her voice steady now.

And she would. Again and again. Even if no one believed her pain, even if no one saw her pain, even if no one understood her pain.

***

The cabin sat deep in a forgotten stretch of forest, nestled among towering pines that swayed and whispered secrets to the wind. Rosa had found it in an online listing during one of her sleepless nights, scrolling with shaking hands and tear-streaked cheeks. The pictures had shown a modest, weathered retreat, promising isolation, peace, and a kind of calm she hadn’t felt in years. She booked it in a haze of desperation, needing a place to escape the pitying looks and unsolicited advice from people who thought they understood her pain.

She packed hastily: heating pads, an assortment of pills, and an old used paperback novel she knew she wouldn’t open. The drive was long, the road winding narrower with each mile until it became a dirt path overgrown with weeds. The cabin appeared suddenly, like something conjured out of the dense woods, its sloped roof blanketed with moss and its porch sagging slightly under the weight of time.

The first two days were uneventful. Rosa spent them wrapped in blankets, staring at the ceiling as the light shifted through the trees outside. She drifted between restless naps and half-eaten meals, her body aching no matter how she positioned herself. The only sounds were the occasional groan of the old cabin settling and the distant rustle of wind through the pines.

But by the third night, the quiet turned on her. It wasn’t peaceful anymore—it was suffocating. The silence pressed against her chest like a weighted blanket, amplifying the sharpness of her thoughts and the constant throb in her joints. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness, her hands clenching and unclenching out of habit.

Then came the knock.

It wasn’t loud, but in the stillness, it echoed like a thunderclap. Rosa froze, her pulse quickening. She hadn’t seen another soul since arriving—who could possibly be out here?

The knock came again, patient but insistent.

She forced herself to her feet, every movement slow and deliberate as her joints protested. Her hand hesitated on the doorknob before she finally opened it.

A man stood on the porch, his figure backlit by the warm glow of a lantern he held in one hand. His face was rugged, etched with lines that hinted at years spent in the outdoors. A patchy beard framed his mouth, and his eyes, dark and steady, studied her with quiet concern.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, almost apologetic. “I’m Jeb. Live just down the road. Saw your car and figured I’d check in. Make sure you’re okay out here.”

Rosa blinked, caught off guard by his presence and the frankness in his tone. “I’m fine,” she said, the words coming out more defensive than she intended.

Jeb’s gaze lingered, not prying but steady, like he was looking past her words to the truth underneath. “Fine doesn’t usually look like you’re about to fall over,” he said.

A dry laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. “You always this blunt?”

“Only when it’s true.”

She didn’t know why, but something in his tone softened her defenses. Against her better judgment, she stepped aside, the door creaking as it opened wider. “Come in, then.”

Jeb nodded once, stepping into the small cabin with the ease of someone who didn’t need an invitation. His lantern cast a warm, golden glow across the room, chasing away the shadows that had felt so oppressive just moments before.

He didn’t stay long that night, just long enough to share a few polite words and leave a small bundle of firewood by the stove. But as the door closed behind him, Rosa realized the cabin didn’t feel quite as heavy anymore. For the first time in days, the solitude loosened its grip, leaving her with something she hadn’t felt in a long time: the faintest flicker of connection.

***

Jeb’s visits became a part of Rosa’s routine, though she never invited him and he never stayed long. He would knock on the door or appear unannounced while she was chopping vegetables or sitting on the porch, his lantern casting warm light over the quiet space. He didn’t ask questions about her life before the cabin or offer empty clichés about her condition. Instead, he brought something Rosa hadn’t realized she needed: presence without pity.

At first, his lessons felt random. He showed her how to stack firewood so it dried properly and wouldn’t collapse when you needed it most. Another evening, he sat beside her and pointed to the sky, tracing constellations with a knobbly finger and telling stories about their names. “That one’s Orion,” he said, his voice low. “But some call it the Hunter. Depends on what you believe.”

“Why does it matter?” Rosa asked.

Jeb shrugged. “Because what you believe changes what you see.”

She didn’t press him for more. She was learning to let his words settle on their own, like snow on an untouched field.

On the fourth night, he arrived with a steaming mug in hand, the earthy scent wafting toward her before he even reached the porch.

“Try this,” he said, holding it out.

“What’s in it?” Rosa asked, eyeing the cup with suspicion.

“Just herbs,” he said, his tone casual. “Nothing fancy.”

Her instinct was to refuse, but the ache in her knees had been particularly brutal that day, and the thought of relief—even temporary—was tempting. She accepted the mug, its warmth spreading through her fingers.

The first sip was sharp, almost bitter, with an earthy base and a floral undertone that lingered on her tongue. She grimaced but kept drinking, the heat soothing her throat as the taste grew less offensive with each swallow.

“Not bad,” she muttered, handing him the empty mug.

Jeb smirked. “Told you.”

By the time she settled into bed that night, something strange began to happen. The familiar ache in her joints subside away, like a tide receding from the shore. Her body felt lighter, her limbs fluid and free of the usual stiffness.

She stretched her legs experimentally, waiting for the crackle of resistance that never came. For the first time in weeks, Rosa’s body felt... hers.

When sleep took her, it came swiftly and deeply, pulling her into a dark, dreamless void that felt as safe as it was unfamiliar. She didn’t toss or turn. She didn’t wake to shooting pain or the throb of aching joints.

In the morning, Rosa opened her eyes to the sun streaming through the cabin windows, her body soft and pliable, the chains of pain seemingly gone. It was the kind of peace she hadn’t known in years.

Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice whispered: What’s the cost?

***

The next morning, Rosa woke to a silence in her body that was almost deafening. For years, pain had been her constant companion, a relentless drumbeat she couldn’t escape. But now, it was gone. Her knees bent effortlessly, her fingers curled into fists without the usual crackling resistance, and she felt... light. Almost emancipated.

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she sat on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by the absence of agony. She flexed her hands over and over, testing the miracle, half-convinced it was a cruel trick. But the relief was real.

That afternoon, Jeb found her sitting on the porch, her eyes fixed on her hands as if they were alien objects.

“Tea worked, huh?” he said, his gruff voice breaking the quiet as he leaned casually on the railing.

She looked up at him, her lips trembling. “What is it?” she asked, her voice raw, still shaky from the flood of emotions.

Jeb shrugged, his expression calm. “Something special that grows nearby,” he said.

His vague answer tearing at her, but Rosa didn’t press. She was too afraid of disrupting whatever delicate balance had granted her this remission.

By the second day, her body felt almost unrecognizable. She moved with an ease she hadn’t known in years, walking to the creek behind the cabin without once having to stop and stretch her aching joints. By the third day, she felt invincible. The air smelled sweeter, her lungs filled deeper, and every inch of her felt alive, humming with vitality.

By the sixth day, Rosa was doing things she hadn’t dared to dream of. She hiked the narrow trails through the woods, paths she’d avoided for years because the pain had always been too much. She danced to the rustling melody of the wind in the trees, her laughter ringing out like she’d been freed from a prison she hadn’t realized she’d been in.

But as her body grew stronger, her mind began to deteriorate.

The lavender field started haunting her dreams. Every night, she saw herself standing at its center, the blooms glowing with an eerie violet light under a swollen, unnatural moon. The air in her dreams was heavy, almost stifling, the floral scent clinging to her skin like a warning.

And then there was the reflection.

In the field’s dew-covered petals, she would catch glimpses of herself—only it wasn’t her. The woman staring back had her face but not her eyes. Her eyes were hollow, dark as the space between stars, and her expression was empty, void of anything resembling emotion or humanity.

In the dreams, she would scream, but the sound never came. The reflection only stared, its lips curling into a smile that wasn’t hers, wasn’t real. She’d wake drenched in sweat, her hands clutching at her throat as though the dream-self might reach through and pull her under.

By the seventh morning, Rosa sat on the edge of her bed, trembling, the once-blissful silence in her body now feeling sinister. The lavender had taken her pain, yes, but what else had it taken? And what would it demand next?

***

The seventh night, Rosa couldn’t wait any longer. She found Jeb by the edge of the lavender field, his lantern casting long, flickering shadows over the eerie blooms. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

“What’s in the tea?” she demanded, holding up the chipped mug he’d handed her days ago. Her fingers trembled, but whether from anger or fear, she couldn’t tell.

Jeb studied her for a moment, his face darkening. He set the lantern down carefully, its light pooling between them like a fragile truce. “It’s not the tea,” he said at last, his voice low and rough. “It’s the lavender.”

Rosa felt a chill creep up her spine. “What’s wrong with it?”

Jeb hesitated, his eyes flitting to the glowing field behind her. “It takes your pain,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t stop there.”

Her stomach turned. “What does that mean?”

He took a step closer, his shadow stretching over her like a warning. “It doesn’t just take your pain—it takes everything. Your fire, your soul. You feel better, sure, but you stop feeling anything.”

The weight of his words sank into her, heavy and suffocating. Rosa’s grip tightened on the mug until her knuckles ached. “You could’ve warned me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I did,” he replied quietly, his gaze steady. “In my own way.”

Rosa slammed the mug onto the ground, its contents spilling into the dirt. “Why would you give me something like that?”

Jeb didn’t flinch. He leaned on his cane, his face etched with something between regret and joy. “Because misery loves company,” he said, his voice softer now. “I lost my wife to this field years ago. She drank the tea, just like you. It took her pain, her anger, her passion. Took everything that made her... her.” He swallowed hard, his eyes glassy. “I thought maybe if I wasn’t the only one, I could forget what it cost me. Maybe it’d feel fairer if someone else knew what it felt like to lose so much.”

Rosa stared at him, her chest tight. “So you wanted to drag me down with you?”

Jeb’s shoulders sagged under the weight of her words. “I didn’t want to be alone anymore,” he admitted, his voice breaking.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The lavender field swayed faintly behind them, its sickly glow casting strange patterns across the ground.

Rosa stepped back, shaking her head. “You’re pathetic,” she said, her voice trembling with disgust.

Jeb didn’t argue. He just watched her go, his lantern flickering behind her as she walked away from the field, the cabin, and the man who had tried to trap her in his grief.

Her knees ached as she climbed the hill, the pain clawing its way back into her body. But with every step, Rosa felt something else returning, too: her fire. Her anger. Her self.

***

Rosa stormed out of the cabin, her steps quick and sure, her body humming with a vitality that felt unnatural—alien, even. The strength she’d once prayed for now coursed through her limbs, but it carried a weight she couldn’t name, a hollowness that chilled her to the bone.

The lavender field beckoned her under the pale, swollen moon. Its scent grew heavier the closer she approached, no longer soothing but sickening, as if the air itself had turned syrupy sweet. The blooms swayed faintly in a breeze that didn’t exist, their violet glow almost hypnotic.

She stopped at the edge of the field, her chest heaving with anger and confusion. The lavender seemed alive, a sea of pulsing light, each flower straining toward her as though reaching for her soul. Rosa stepped forward, the soft earth giving way beneath her boots, and knelt in the center of the field.

The first stalk tore easily, its stem snapping with a sickly wet sound. She ripped another, then another, her movements frantic. Her hands moved faster than her mind, guided by a primal instinct to destroy, to purge this place of its malignant beauty.

The sharp edges of the stalks bit into her palms, drawing thin lines of blood that dripped onto the thirsty soil. But Rosa didn’t stop. She worked until her hands were scratched and raw, her breath coming in gasps, her chest tight with effort.

And then, like a tide rolling back, the pain returned. It began as a faint ache in her fingers, a whisper of discomfort that quickly grew into a scream. Her knees buckled under the sudden weight of it, her joints flaring with the sharp, familiar agony she’d thought she could never bear again.

Rosa dropped to the ground, clutching her hands to her chest. The broken lavender stalks around her seemed to tremble, their glow dimming as if the field itself jerk back from her defiance. She gasped as the pain surged through her body, relentless and raw, crawling into every joint, every nerve.

For a moment, she almost regretted it—almost. But then, as the tears streamed down her face, something deeper surfaced: relief.

The pain was cruel, yes, but it was hers. It was real. It was the one thing that proved she hadn’t been completely consumed by the hollow perfection the lavender had promised. It reminded her of her fight, her resilience. And despite everything, it reminded her of who she was.

She stayed there, crumpled among the broken stalks, until the moon sank lower in the sky and the field was cast in shadow. Her breaths steadied, the sharpness of the pain settling into a dull, rhythmic throb. Slowly, Rosa pushed herself to her feet, wobbling as her knees protested the movement.

The cabin door was ajar when she returned, creaking softly in the night breeze. Inside, the fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a dim, flickering glow. Jeb was gone—no note, no sign of his presence except the faint scent of his lantern oil lingering in the air.

Rosa stood in the empty cabin, her body aching with every beat of her heart. She looked at her hands, the scratches stark against her skin, and flexed her fingers despite the pain. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile.

“Guess you couldn’t stick around to face this,” she muttered to the shadows.

She sank into the chair by the hearth, letting the warmth of the dying embers seep into her skin. The lavender’s scent still clung faintly to her clothes, but now it felt distant, powerless. Rosa closed her eyes, feeling the rhythmic pulse of pain in her body as if it were the tempo of a song only she could hear.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t push the pain away. She didn’t fight it or curse it. She simply let it be, letting it remind her she was alive, still standing, still herself.

Jeb was gone. The lavender field lay in ruins. And yet, in the midst of all that loss, Rosa felt something she hadn’t in years: a quiet, unshakable sense of strength.

***

Back in the city, Rosa’s pain returned as relentless as ever, an old adversary reclaiming its territory. Her knees stiffened in the mornings; her fingers ached as she typed, each keystroke a reminder of the battles she fought daily. Yet, something fundamental had shifted within her. The pain was still there, but it no longer defined her—no longer consumed her.

At work, a coworker flopped into the seat beside her, cradling a finger wrapped in a colorful Band-Aid. “Worst morning ever,” they groaned, holding up the injury. “I got this paper cut, and it’s right on the knuckle. Can’t even bend my hand without wincing.”

Rosa paused, studying the sliver of red beneath the Band-Aid. She didn’t roll her eyes or offer the empty sympathy she might’ve before. Instead, she leaned forward, her voice calm but carrying the weight of something unshakable.

“You think you know pain?” she said, her tone soft yet firm, a quiet storm. “Let me tell you about mine.”

Her coworker’s eyes widened, startled. For a moment, they looked as though they might interrupt, but Rosa continued, her words deliberate and measured.

“Imagine waking up every day and feeling like your own body is at war with you. Imagine fighting to get out of bed, not because you’re tired, but because every joint in your body feels like it’s on fire. Imagine holding back tears just to pour a cup of coffee because even that feels impossible some mornings.”

The office grew quieter around them. Conversations dimmed as Rosa’s words hung in the air like smoke.

Her coworker mumbled an apology, but Rosa waved it off, a faint smile tugging at her lips. This wasn’t about them. It wasn’t even about the paper cut.

For years, she had worn the mask: the polite smiles, the hollow reassurances, the forced laughter that kept her pain hidden from a world too quick to dismiss it. But now, her smile wasn’t a mask. It wasn’t armor. It was something raw, unyielding—a reflection of who she had become.

She no longer needed anyone to understand the depth of her suffering. She no longer craved their pity or validation.

She understood herself. And that was enough.

When her coworker scurried away, Rosa returned to her desk, the ache in her hands sharp but familiar, like the chords of a song she’d long since learned to play. She stretched her fingers, pressed them to the keys, and began to type. Each letter, each sentence, was a quiet triumph.