A Love Story Across Miles by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Romance

 

A Love Story Across Miles

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 784

The city lights of San Diego shimmered like scattered diamonds on a velvet night, their glow washing over Anaya and Malik as they sat on their balcony. The hum of distant traffic mixed with the rhythmic sound of ocean waves, creating a melody of life that usually brought them peace. Tonight, however, the atmosphere was heavy, the cool breeze carrying the mingling scents of ocean spray and jasmine—a fragrance that had always felt like home but now seemed bittersweet.

Anaya’s fingers were threaded through Malik’s, their hands resting on her lap. His touch, always warm and steady, felt tentative, as if the weight of unspoken words trembled between them. She turned to him, catching the faint furrow in his brow and the way his lips parted slightly, searching for the right words.

“I’ve been offered a publishing deal,” Malik finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was low, the excitement within it carefully measured.

The words hung in the air, their weight pressing down on Anaya’s chest. Her heart stuttered, a mix of joy and unease surging through her. She had spent countless evenings by his side, supporting him through rejection after rejection, cheering him on when he felt like giving up. She had dreamed of this moment for him. Yet now, the reality carried with it a new kind of uncertainty, one she hadn’t prepared for.

“That’s amazing, Malik,” she said, forcing her voice to sound steady even as her chest tightened. “You’ve worked so hard for this.”

Malik turned toward her, his eyes meeting hers. The streetlights reflected in his dark gaze, turning them into a storm of emotions—hope, love, regret, and something else she couldn’t quite name. “It’s in New York, Anaya,” he said softly, as if lowering his voice might soften the blow.

Her breath caught. Of course, it had to be New York. The city of dreams, of endless opportunities, and now, the city that would steal him away from her. She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded, willing herself to focus on the pride she felt for him instead of the ache blooming inside her.

“I can’t imagine doing this without you,” he continued, his voice a whisper now, almost lost in the breeze.

Anaya’s throat tightened. She wanted to reassure him, to tell him everything would be fine, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she squeezed his hand, her grip firmer than before. “We’ll figure it out,” she said at last, her voice quieter than she intended.

They sat in silence, the night stretching out around them, the city alive with possibilities that felt both distant and immediate. Malik’s thumb brushed over her knuckles, a gentle rhythm that usually soothed her. Tonight, it only reminded her of how fleeting their moments together might soon become.

“I’m proud of you,” she added after a pause, her voice trembling just slightly. “You deserve this, Malik. You really do.”

He leaned closer, resting his forehead against hers. “I don’t want this to change us,” he murmured.

Anaya closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of him mixed with the jasmine in the air. “Neither do I,” she whispered. But deep down, she couldn’t ignore the fear twisting in her chest—the fear that this moment marked the beginning of a distance no plane or promise could bridge.

***

The weeks leading up to Malik’s departure passed in a blur of late-night conversations and bittersweet moments. On one of their last evenings together, they strolled along the beach. The wind whipped through Anaya’s hair as she hesitated, then stopped, looking at Malik with determination.

“What if I came with you?” she asked, her heart pounding.

Malik’s eyes lit up, his face breaking into a smile. “You’d do that?”

“I’d consider it,” Anaya said softly, though she couldn’t ignore the weight of her own uncertainty. Her art career in San Diego was blossoming, her work gaining recognition in local galleries. She loved Malik, but uprooting her life felt like stepping into the unknown.

***

The distance between them felt vast, even before Malik left. Their nightly phone calls were brief, and Malik’s excitement about his book often eclipsed any talk of her own struggles.

One evening, she texted him after another gallery rejection. Rough day. Can we talk tonight?

His reply came hours later. Hey, busy with edits. Call you tomorrow.

Anaya stared at her phone, the ache of isolation gnawing at her. She understood the demands of his work, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of slipping into the background of his life.

***

A month later, Anaya visited New York, hoping to bridge the gap between them. The city overwhelmed her with its chaotic energy—the constant noise, the glaring lights, the ceaseless motion. Malik met her at the airport with an eager smile, but as the days passed, Anaya noticed his distracted gaze, his preoccupation with emerging deadlines.

On her final night in the city, they sat on the rooftop of his apartment. Below them, the skyline glittered, a stark contrast to the heavy silence between them.

“I love you, Malik,” Anaya said, her voice trembling. “But this... this feels like we’re moving in two different directions.”

Malik sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know,” he admitted. “I love you too, but balancing everything feels impossible. I don’t want to lose you.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she nodded. “Neither do I. But we can’t ignore what’s happening.”

***

When Anaya returned to San Diego, the clarity she’d sought began to take shape. She poured herself into her art, using the emotions swirling within her to create pieces that spoke of love, distance, and longing. Her work caught the attention of a New York gallery, which extended an offer to showcase her collection.

“I’m coming to New York again,” she told Malik on a video call weeks later. “But this time, it’s for both of us.”

His smile returned, wide and genuine. “Anaya, that’s incredible. I’ve missed you so much.”

***

The months that followed were a delicate balancing act. Anaya divided her time between San Diego and New York, working to establish herself in both cities. Malik, in turn, learned to set boundaries with his career to make space for their relationship. They faced setbacks—missed visits, difficult conversations—but each challenge strengthened their commitment.

One evening, as they stood together on a gallery rooftop, Anaya leaned against Malik, her hand in his. The city lights stretched before them, no longer overwhelming but comforting—a reminder of how far they’d come.

“Thank you,” Malik said, his voice soft.

“For what?”

“For not giving up on us.”

Anaya smiled, her heart lighter than it had been in months. “We didn’t give up. We grew.”

They stood in silence, watching the city below—a testament to their love, their dreams, and the miles they’d conquered together.

The Grad Student by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Contemporary

The Grad Student

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,998

The wind sliced through the campus, sharp and bitter, carrying the scent of damp earth and a hint of smoke. Tia tightened her scarf and kept her head down, her boots crunching on the gravel path. She’d stayed in the library too late again, caught in a fruitless loop of editing her thesis. By the time she realized she’d stopped making progress, the clock read past midnight.

The lamplights cast long, flickering shadows, making the campus feel eerie and abandoned. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Another missed call from her mom. She sighed, stuffing it back into her coat. Later, she thought, though she’d said that every night for weeks.

As she passed the old chapel, a faint glow caught her eye. In the courtyard, flames flickered in a fire pit, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Two figures sat near the fire, their outlines blurred by the heat.

She hesitated. It was late, and she wasn’t in the mood for company. But something about the fire drew her in.

“Tia?” Mrs. Rivera’s voice carried through the still air. She was the campus groundskeeper, always pruning hedges or hauling tools in a weathered wheelbarrow. Beside her sat Ana, her teenage daughter, holding a phone in one hand and poking the fire with a stick in the other.

“Hi,” Tia said, stepping closer. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Mrs. Rivera waved her over. “You’re not interrupting. Come warm up—you look frozen.”

Tia hesitated, then took a seat on a cold stone bench. She stretched her hands toward the flames, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.

“Long night?” Mrs. Rivera asked, her voice low and kind.

Tia nodded. “Yeah. Too much work. It’s starting to feel pointless.”

Ana glanced up from her phone. “You’re in grad school, right?”

“History,” Tia said, brushing ash off her coat.

Ana groaned. “That’s worse than my geometry class.”

Mrs. Rivera laughed softly, her voice like dry leaves rustling. “That’s because you don’t know the stories behind it. History isn’t just facts and dates—it’s people. Struggles. Survival.”

Tia stared into the fire, her thoughts swirling. “There’s this guy who went here in the 1800s,” she said suddenly. “A student. He wrote about how walking across campus in winter felt like stepping into the past, like he was connected to everyone who came before him. All their struggles and dreams—it made him feel like he wasn’t alone.”

Ana poked the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. “So, like, everyone’s problems are just copies of old ones?”

“Not copies,” Mrs. Rivera said, her voice thoughtful. “More like pieces of the same story. Like threads in a big, messy tapestry. Even the tangled ones matter.”

Tia stared at the flames, her mind turning over the words. She thought about her research, about how small and insignificant it felt. Yet the stories she was piecing together weren’t really hers—they belonged to a whole web of people, past and present. Maybe that was the point.

Mrs. Rivera spoke again, quieter this time. “When I was your age, I thought I had to prove myself to everyone. I worked three jobs, raised Ana on my own, and still felt like I wasn’t enough. But over time, I realized it wasn’t about proving anything. It was about leaving something behind. Even if it’s small.”

Ana leaned into her mother, the glow of her phone dimmed now. “Like what?”

“Like showing you how to stand tall,” Mrs. Rivera said simply, ruffling her daughter’s hair.

Tia felt her chest tighten, a strange mix of warmth and ache. She thought of her own mom, of the calls she’d ignored, the stories she hadn’t shared.

She stood up, brushing ash from her jeans. “Thank you,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. “I needed this.”

Mrs. Rivera smiled, her face serene in the firelight. “You’ll figure it out, Tia. Just don’t forget—you’re not walking alone.”

***

Back in her apartment, Tia paused at the kitchen table, where her roommates were hunched over laptops and empty mugs.

“Hey,” one of them said, surprised to see her. “You’re back early.”

“Yeah,” she said, slipping off her coat. “I thought I’d hang out for a bit.”

They made space for her, and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t retreat to her room. They talked about classes, TikTok trends, and weekend plans, their voices overlapping in a pleasant hum. Tia didn’t have much to say, but she didn’t need to. Just being there felt like enough.

Later, in her room, she opened her laptop. The blank page of her thesis stared back at her, the cursor blinking like a dare.

Instead of hesitating, she started typing. She wrote about the student from the 1800s, about Mrs. Rivera’s fire and her quiet strength, about the way connection crept up on you when you weren’t looking.

The words came slowly at first, then poured out in a steady rhythm, weaving together the past and the present, her doubts and her hope.

When the sun broke over the horizon, filling her room with golden light, she sat back and read what she’d written.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers. And that was enough.

As the morning sun stretched across her desk, Tia leaned back in her chair, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She stared at the last sentence of her draft, a faint smile playing on her lips. It wasn’t just a thesis anymore; it felt like a thread of something larger, connecting her to those who had walked this campus long before her.

Her phone buzzed again, breaking the silence. It was her mom. This time, Tia didn’t hesitate.

“Hey,” she said, her voice warm.

“Tia! I didn’t expect you to call back so soon.”

Tia chuckled softly. “Yeah, I’ve been… distracted. But I’ve been thinking about you. About us. I’m sorry for being so distant lately.”

Her mom’s voice softened. “It’s okay, sweetie. I know grad school’s a lot. But you don’t have to do it all alone, you know.”

“I know,” Tia said, her voice steady now. “I’m starting to realize that.”

They talked for a while, the conversation flowing easily. Her mom shared updates about the family, little anecdotes that made Tia laugh, and Tia told her about the fire and Mrs. Rivera’s words. For the first time in a long while, the distance between them felt smaller.

After hanging up, Tia stretched and pulled on her coat. She had an idea—a small one, but it felt right.

***

By midday, she was back at the chapel courtyard. The fire pit was empty, its ashes scattered by the wind. She knelt beside it, brushing away debris with her gloved hands, and placed a small bundle in the center—a notebook she had filled with handwritten reflections about the campus, the people she’d met, and the stories she’d uncovered.

It wasn’t much, but it was her way of leaving something behind. A piece of herself, woven into the tapestry Mrs. Rivera had spoken of.

As she stood, she noticed Ana watching her from the caretaker’s cottage window. A moment later, the teenager emerged, bundled in a thick hoodie.

“What’s that?” Ana asked, pointing to the notebook.

“Just something I wanted to leave here,” Tia said. “For someone else to find.”

Ana tilted her head. “Like a time capsule?”

“Sort of,” Tia replied. “But more like… a reminder. That we’re all connected.”

Ana gave her a curious look but didn’t press further. Instead, she crouched beside the fire pit, poking at the ashes with a stick. “You know, my mom says I should be paying more attention to stuff like this. History and whatever.”

“She’s right,” Tia said, smiling faintly. “It’s more interesting than you think.”

Ana smirked. “Maybe.” She glanced at Tia. “You coming back tonight? For the fire?”

“Maybe,” Tia said.

As she walked away, she felt lighter. The wind didn’t bite as sharply, and the cold didn’t seem as deep.

That evening, as the first stars blinked into the sky, Tia found herself back at the courtyard. The fire pit was ablaze, surrounded by a small group of students and staff. Mrs. Rivera nodded at her from across the flames, a quiet acknowledgment.

Tia took a seat, letting the warmth seep into her skin. The voices around her blended into a comforting hum, and for the first time, she felt not just part of the campus, but part of the story it was still writing.

The fire crackled as the group’s laughter and conversations filled the chilly air. Tia sat quietly at first, listening. There was something soothing about the way the words overlapped—the easy rhythm of people sharing their thoughts without trying too hard.

Mrs. Rivera caught her eye from across the fire. “So, Tia,” she said, her voice cutting through the chatter but kind, “what’s a grad student like you doing out here with us regular folks?”

The group chuckled, and Tia smiled. “I think I’m realizing I need this,” she said. “A little connection. A reminder that I’m not just living in my head.”

Mrs. Rivera nodded approvingly. “Took me years to figure that out. Glad you’re catching on earlier.”

One of the students, a guy with a knit cap pulled low over his ears, leaned forward. “What are you studying?”

“History,” Tia replied, adjusting her scarf.

He whistled. “That’s deep. Like what kind of history?”

Tia hesitated, the usual weight of her research pressing against her chest. But then she thought of the fire, the threads of connection she was beginning to understand. “I’m studying the personal writings of students who went here in the 1800s. Letters, diaries… that kind of thing.”

A girl with bright blue hair leaned closer. “What’s the coolest thing you’ve found?”

Tia’s smile widened. “There’s this one journal entry from a student who walked through this very courtyard on a winter night. He wrote about how the wind felt like a whisper from the past, and how he imagined all the people who had stood here before him. It made him feel less alone.”

The group fell quiet for a moment, the fire casting long shadows on their faces.

“That’s beautiful,” Ana said softly, surprising Tia with her sincerity.

The guy in the knit cap nodded. “It’s crazy to think about, isn’t it? Like, we’re part of something bigger than ourselves. Even if we don’t realize it.”

Tia felt a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the fire. “Yeah,” she said. “Exactly.”

***

Hours passed, and the group began to drift away, one by one, until only Tia and Mrs. Rivera remained. The fire had burned low, the embers glowing softly.

Mrs. Rivera broke the silence. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of students come and go over the years. Most of them are in too much of a rush to notice what’s around them. But you… you’re starting to see it, aren’t you?”

Tia nodded slowly. “I think I am. It’s not just about what I’m studying. It’s about… being part of it. Leaving something behind.”

Mrs. Rivera smiled, her face lined with warmth and wisdom. “That’s the secret, Tia. We all leave threads behind. It’s up to us to decide what kind of threads they’ll be.”

Tia stayed until the fire went out, the cold creeping back into the air. As she walked back to her apartment, the campus felt different. It wasn’t just a collection of buildings and paths anymore. It was alive, humming with stories—old and new, hers and others’.

When she reached her room, she opened her laptop again, the cursor blinking patiently. This time, the words came easily.

She wrote not just about the past, but about the present. About fires and connections and the quiet, powerful realization that she wasn’t walking alone. And as the first light of dawn touched her window, she knew she was ready for whatever came next.

The Weight of Sorry by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction

The Weight of Sorry

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 615

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice quiet but steady, the words settling between us like the rain pooling on the sidewalk outside. His hands trembled as they wrapped around a chipped coffee cup, his knuckles raw, the skin scabbed over like a battlefield barely healed.

The apology felt too small for the years it was meant to cover, too fragile to bear the weight of what he'd left behind. I leaned back in the booth, the vinyl sticky against my jacket, and watched him try to meet my eyes. He couldn’t.

“For what?” I asked, keeping my tone calm, though it carried an edge sharp enough to cut.

His shoulders sagged, his body folding into itself. “For leaving. For not being there when you needed me.” His voice cracked, the words spilling out like an old wound finally reopened.

I leaned forward, elbows digging into the table. The smell of stale coffee and fried eggs hung heavy in the air. “You thought we didn’t need you? That we’d be better off without a father?”

“I thought you’d be stronger,” he said, barely audible. “I thought I’d just make it worse if I stayed.”

My laugh was sharp, hollow. “Stronger? You think I’m stronger because I learned how to lie to the neighbors about where my father was? Or because I had to sit with Mom in the hospital, holding her hand, trying to pretend everything was fine while you were—”

The words caught in my throat, the memory rushing back too fast. I turned my gaze to the window, tracing shapes in the condensation with my finger. Outside, the rain was falling softer now, but it still blurred everything.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice breaking. I glanced at him, finally really looking. His jacket hung loose on his frame, his face lined with years that hadn’t been kind. His hands trembled against the cup, the faint shake of someone carrying more than they could hold.

A memory rose uninvited—his hands guiding mine as I struggled to tie my shoes when I was six. “Loop it once more,” he’d said, his voice low and steady. I’d beamed when I finally got it, and he’d laughed, ruffling my hair and kissing my forehead. For a moment, he’d seemed invincible.

The image dissolved, leaving behind an ache I couldn’t name. I swallowed hard, grounding myself in the hum of the diner, the clatter of dishes somewhere behind me.

“You’re late,” I said, my voice quieter now but no less firm. “Too late, maybe.”

“I know,” he said, his hands still shaking as he set the coffee cup down. “But I’m here now.”

The waitress appeared with the coffee pot, refilling his cup without a word. He nodded his thanks, but his eyes stayed on me, searching for something I didn’t know if I could give.

“I don’t forgive you,” I said after a moment. The words didn’t feel as sharp as before, more like the edges of a stone worn smooth by time. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

His nod was slow, deliberate, his expression unreadable. He didn’t try to argue, didn’t try to plead. He just sat there, his hands finally still against the table.

The rain outside had softened to a gentle rhythm, the kind you don’t notice until it stops. I watched the water trail down the window in uneven lines, blurring the view but not obscuring it completely.

We sat there in silence, not knowing what to say but not ready to leave either. For the first time in years, the anger in my chest didn’t feel so suffocating.

Sometimes, healing doesn’t begin with forgiveness. Sometimes, it begins with staying.

The Stillness Between Storms by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance

The Stillness Between Storms

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,050

Samantha sat by the window, watching the snow fall in heavy sheets, each flake a small, silent confession. The world outside was swallowed by a blanket of white, but inside, the storm between her and Ethan raged just as fiercely. Tonight, she knew it was time to stop hiding.

***

The wind beat against the cabin’s walls, its howl a constant reminder of the chaos outside. Inside, the air felt thick with the tension between them. The fire crackled, casting fleeting shadows on the walls, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in the space between Samantha and Ethan.

She curled deeper into the armchair, wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames. Her thoughts scattered, refusing to stay in one place long enough to make sense of them. Everything had changed. They had stopped talking—really talking—weeks ago. Their words had turned into casual exchanges, their touch something automatic.

Ethan sat on the couch, his posture rigid, his eyes not quite meeting hers. He fiddled with the edge of the book on the coffee table—a well-worn copy of the Kama Sutra. It was his last attempt to fix things, and she could feel it hanging between them, heavy and awkward.

“I don’t think this is the answer, Ethan,” she said quietly, the bitterness in her voice catching her off guard. Her eyes stayed on the fire, afraid if she looked at him, the anger would come rushing out.

He didn’t respond at first, his fingers tracing the edges of the book. He never looked at her when he spoke. "I thought... maybe it would help. Maybe we could find something in here that would bring us back to what we had. A way to reconnect."

Samantha’s chest tightened. The book seemed so insignificant in the face of everything they’d ignored. The thing that had kept them distant wasn’t a lack of physical intimacy—it was a lack of real connection. And this... this wasn’t going to fix it.

“Is that really what you think we need? A book?” she asked, her voice small but sharp. “You think this will fix everything?”

He finally met her eyes, the apology already written on his face, though his lips remained sealed. He looked exhausted, as if the weight of his own thoughts were too much to carry.

“I’m not sure what else to do, Sam,” he said quietly, his voice thick with frustration. “I don’t know how to fix us. I don’t know how to make things right.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, and for a moment, Samantha felt the crack of something inside her—something she hadn’t let herself feel in months. She could see his vulnerability, but the anger still churned in her stomach. She had been waiting for him to see her. To see her hurt, to see her need, to stop hiding behind ideas and fixes.

“You don’t see me, Ethan,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You haven’t seen me in so long. This... this isn’t just about sex, or some trick to make it better. It’s about us not being together anymore. I don’t know who we are anymore.”

Ethan flinched, and for a heartbeat, the space between them felt like an entire universe. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The silence was enough.

Samantha could feel her heart pounding, her frustration threatening to spill over. She wanted to scream. She wanted to demand answers. But instead, she closed her eyes, willing herself to find some calm.

“I’ve been hiding, too,” she said, her voice softer now. “I’ve been so scared, Ethan. Scared to ask for what I needed. Scared of... us.”

Her breath caught, and she let the tears fall before she could stop them. “I’ve been hiding from the things I don’t even know how to say. I’ve been pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. And now... I don’t even know how to make it right.”

Ethan reached out, his hand tentative, but his fingers brushed hers gently. The gesture was enough to make her look at him. She saw it now—the way his eyes weren’t just filled with regret, but with something else, something deeper: an understanding that they had both been running from the same truth.

“I’ve been running, too,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Running from facing it. From facing you—and from facing myself. I thought if I could just get us back to... the way it was—back to the spark—I’d fix it. But I see now, it wasn’t just the spark I needed. It was all of you, Sam. All of this.”

Samantha’s heart fluttered, but there was still a weight in her chest. He had been running, and so had she. They were both afraid—afraid of the vulnerability, of the messy parts of themselves they hadn’t shared. And it was in that space—the vulnerability, the rawness—that they had lost each other.

“What now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He shifted closer, the distance between them shortening. “I don’t have all the answers, Sam. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I’m here. And I want to try. I want to stop running from you. From us.”

She nodded, a wave of emotion crashing over her. It wasn’t perfect. Nothing was. But the truth hung between them now, raw and unspoken, and somehow that felt like enough.

“I don’t need perfection, Ethan,” she said softly. “I just need us to try. I need to know that you’re here, with me, for real.”

The fire crackled louder, the wind outside still raging, but inside the cabin, everything felt quieter. The storm was not over, but it had softened. And for the first time in a long while, they sat together, not just physically, but emotionally, knowing that the hardest part was over. They had finally stopped running.

As the storm outside began to ease, Samantha realized something: their fight had never been about physical closeness, but emotional distance. The storm wasn’t just the weather—it was the gap they had allowed to grow between them, a gap they had now begun to bridge with the hardest thing of all: honesty.

Lavender and Loneliness, The Ghost in Apartment 3B by Olivia Salter/ Flash Fiction / Supernatural

 

Lavender and Loneliness, The Ghost in Apartment 3B

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 898

The apartment building on Maple Street had its quirks, but Lena had learned to live with them. The ancient pipes clanged like a drumline at 3 a.m., the elevator creaked like it had a death wish, and Mrs. Dempsey on the first floor always burned toast at the exact moment Lena left for work.

But Apartment 3B? That was a whole different kind of weird.

The first time Lena noticed it, she was brushing her teeth. A faint scent crept into the bathroom, curling around her like an unwelcome hug: lavender, mothballs, and something sharper—burnt toast, maybe? It tickled the back of her throat, and she gagged, spitting toothpaste into the sink.

“Great,” she muttered, fanning the air. “Haunted by Glade plug-ins.”

She shrugged it off, but the smell didn’t. It came back every night, drifting through the vents like clockwork. And then there were the other things: her fridge door swinging open on its own, the microwave beeping in the middle of the night, and the lights flickering in a rhythm that almost felt deliberate.

One night, after her TV shut off mid-binge, Lena grabbed her phone and texted her best friend.

Lena: My apartment is haunted.

Callie: Congrats, you’ve finally hit rom-com protagonist status. Is he hot?

Lena: It smells like burnt toast and mothballs. Does that sound hot to you?

Callie: Everyone’s got their type.

***

The next day, Lena cornered Mr. Samuels, the building’s landlord, in the lobby.

“Hey, Mr. Samuels,” she began, trying to sound casual. “What’s the deal with 3B? It’s been empty since I moved in.”

Mr. Samuels frowned, adjusting his suspenders like they were choking him. “3B? No one’s lived there in years. Why do you ask?”

Lena hesitated. “Just... curious. You know, weird noises, strange smells.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s probably just the old plumbing. Nothing to worry about.”

His tone said, Don’t ask more questions.

***

That night, Lena’s curiosity got the better of her. Armed with a flashlight and a lock-picking video she’d watched twice, she slipped into the hallway. The door to 3B was unlocked, which was somehow more unsettling than if it had been bolted shut.

The apartment was eerily untouched, like someone had just stepped out for groceries a decade ago and never returned. A layer of dust coated the furniture, but the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air.

A knitting basket sat by the armchair, a half-finished scarf spilling out like a frozen moment in time. Lena reached out, brushing her fingers over the yarn. It was soft, surprisingly so.

The sound of a floorboard creaking behind her made her whirl around, flashlight trembling.

“Okay,” she said to the empty room. “If you’re here, now’s your chance. Say something—or, you know, don’t.”

The room didn’t reply, but her flashlight flickered once, twice. She swallowed hard. “Cool. Love that for me.”

She left in a hurry, locking the door behind her.

***

By the time Callie came over for wine and moral support, Lena was unraveling.

“I Googled it,” Lena said, pacing the living room. “The last tenant in 3B was this old woman named Mary Harper. She died in her sleep ten years ago.”

Callie swirled her wine. “So, what, she’s mad you’re not keeping up the rent payments on her behalf?”

Lena stopped pacing. “She’s not angry. She’s... lonely.”

Callie raised an eyebrow. “And you figured this out how? Did she slide you a Post-it from the afterlife?”

“No, it’s just... the way she does things. The smells, the little pranks—they’re not scary, just... attention-seeking.”

“Attention-seeking or ghost-level clingy?”

“Callie.”

“Fine, fine.” Callie set her glass down. “So what are you going to do? Perform a séance? Light some candles and ask her to share her feelings?”

Lena bit her lip. “Actually... yeah.”

***

At 11:37 that night, Lena sat cross-legged on her living room floor, a single candle flickering in front of her.

“Mary,” she said softly, feeling more ridiculous with every word. “If you’re here, I want to help. I know you’re lonely, but this is my home too. Can we... figure something out?”

The air shifted. It wasn’t cold like the ghost stories described; it was warm, almost comforting, like the moment before falling asleep.

The candle flickered wildly, and the faint smell of lavender wrapped around her like a hug.

Then, faintly, a whisper: “Thank you.”

Lena’s breath caught. “For what?”

The whisper didn’t answer, but the feeling lingered—a sense of quiet gratitude.

***

Over the next few weeks, Mary’s antics mellowed. The fridge stayed closed, the lights stopped flickering, and the microwave remained silent. But the lavender scent lingered, soft and comforting, like a houseplant that needed just the right amount of attention.

Lena found herself talking to Mary more, even if she didn’t always get a response. “You’d like Callie,” she said one evening, stirring a pot of soup. “She’s sarcastic, but she means well.”

The vent above her head hummed gently, and Lena smiled.

And one night, as she curled up on the couch with a book, she noticed something new: the scarf from 3B’s knitting basket, now draped over the back of her chair. It was finished.

Lena ran her fingers over the stitches, a lump forming in her throat. “Thanks, Mary,” she whispered.

The candle on her coffee table flickered once, as if to say, You’re welcome.

Ghosts of a City Christmas by Olivia Salter | Supernatural | Short Story

  

Ghosts of a City Christmas

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,478

Darnell Price liked to be the last one out of the office. In his world, that was how you showed who was winning—who stayed the latest, who gave the most of themselves, who understood that rest was something for people who didn’t matter. And as CEO of Price Consulting, Darnell knew he mattered more than anyone else.

It was Christmas Eve, but to him, it was just another night. He checked his watch as he shut down his laptop, the lights of New York City glittering far beneath the high-rise window. Eleven forty-five. He pulled on his coat, savoring the thick wool and polished leather, and walked out into the freezing December air. The wind bit at his cheeks, but he barely noticed. Christmas was a distraction—a week of pretending to care, in his eyes, and a good excuse to tighten the company’s budget before year’s end.

As he cut through the empty streets, his phone buzzed with a message from Tanya, his assistant. Holiday donations pending, it read. Darnell barely managed not to roll his eyes. She was softhearted like that—always organizing toy drives and sending cards around. Charity felt irresponsible to him. He’d clawed his way out of a poor neighborhood without handouts. Why shouldn’t everyone else?

He quickened his pace, already thinking about the glass of scotch waiting in his penthouse. But then he was interrupted—a loud voice called out from across the street, the sound cutting through the quiet.

“Fresh chestnuts! Half price for the holidays!”

A street vendor was packing up his cart, his face worn from a long day’s work. The smell of warm chestnuts drifted toward Darnell, mingling with the crisp winter air, and he caught a flash of children tugging their mother toward the cart, eyes wide with excitement. As they leaned in to see the chestnuts roasting, their laughter rang out, bright and carefree.

Darnell shook his head, annoyed. Time wasted, he thought. What kind of example was that mother setting for her kids?

The revolving door to his building hissed open, and he stepped into the empty lobby. His penthouse apartment was pristine, cold—no decorations, no lights, just dark leather furniture and polished chrome. A bottle of twelve-year-old scotch stood on the marble countertop, and he poured himself a glass, feeling the warmth burn down his throat as he sank into his leather armchair. He closed his eyes, letting the quiet settle around him.

But then, a faint ticking echoed through the room. Darnell frowned, opening his eyes. The sound was distant but steady, like the tick of a clock he hadn’t heard in years. And then he saw it—an old, familiar kitchen around him, with dim yellow lighting and peeling wallpaper. He was back in his childhood home.

He was seated at the kitchen table, watching a younger version of himself—eleven or twelve, hunched over a small tin box, counting coins with a determined frown.

“You saved every dollar you could,” said a voice behind him. Darnell whirled, and found himself face-to-face with a man wrapped in mist, his face both familiar and unplaceable.

“What is this?” Darnell asked sharply, his pulse quickening.

The man, wreathed in fog, smiled gently. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” he said. “Your past, Darnell. Do you remember this kitchen? You and your mother?”

Darnell nodded stiffly. “We didn’t have much. I did what I had to do to get out of here,” he replied, defensive.

The spirit shook his head and pointed to young Darnell, who was smiling up at his mother as she ruffled his hair. Her face was weary but lit with joy, a warmth that seemed to fill the tiny kitchen as they counted his earnings together.

“What did you really want back then?” the spirit asked. “Do you remember?”

“I wanted to be successful,” Darnell answered, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. “I wanted to give her a better life.”

The spirit gave him a long, searching look. “And what did success look like to you?”

Darnell’s gaze softened as he watched his younger self beam up at his mother. “I wanted...to take care of her, I guess. To make her proud. To get us out of here.”

The spirit’s expression softened, almost sad. “You wanted to be loved, Darnell,” he murmured. “But you forgot that along the way.”

The spirit’s words lingered in the air, and Darnell felt his stomach twist as he watched his younger self and his mother, their laughter filling the cramped kitchen. And then, just as suddenly, the room dissolved, fading into darkness.

***

Darnell blinked, finding himself back in his chair, the whiskey glass cold in his hand. He shook his head, telling himself it was just a dream. But the clock struck midnight, and the room dimmed once more. A woman stood by the window, her silhouette framed in soft, shimmering light. She was dressed in a coat dusted with snow, bright red mittens covering her hands.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” she said, smiling as she held out her hand. “Come with me, Darnell.”

Before he could react, she swept him into a warm, bustling room. He recognized it—it was Tanya’s apartment, modest and well-kept, with a little plastic tree in the corner. Tanya was kneeling on the floor, carefully wrapping presents, while her two kids watched, their eyes wide with excitement.

Darnell felt a pang of irritation, wondering why she hadn’t used the time to wrap up a few more reports. But the spirit nudged him, drawing his attention to the little details he hadn’t noticed before—the patched-up windows, the thin coats the kids wore, the half-empty refrigerator in the corner. Tanya’s smile was bright, but there were shadows under her eyes, the kind that came from too many sleepless nights worrying about money.

“She barely makes enough for rent,” the ghost murmured, her voice soft but clear.

Darnell looked away, uncomfortable. “She has a job,” he muttered. “I give her work.”

The ghost’s eyes bore into him, sharp and unyielding. “And what kind of work are you giving her, Darnell? You demand long hours, keep wages low, and cut benefits whenever it suits you. Have you ever thought about what that costs her?”

The scene shifted, and they were standing in Ronnie’s cramped apartment, where his intern was hastily gathering cans for recycling, his hands shaking as he counted out the coins. Darnell saw the weariness in the young man’s eyes, the thin, tense line of his mouth as he glanced at the clock, worry etched into his face.

“He’s your intern,” the ghost said quietly. “Barely scraping by, juggling two jobs to cover rent and college. And you keep him there, telling yourself it builds character.”

Darnell’s jaw tightened, feeling a faint unease prickling at him. “I was tough on him because he’s got potential. Just like I did.”

The ghost’s expression softened, but her eyes were sad. “Potential? Or is he just convenient? You were given a chance to lift him up, Darnell. Instead, you kept him under your thumb.”

Darnell clenched his fists, wanting to look away from the tired lines in Ronnie’s face. But the scene around him swirled, blurring, until he was back in his empty apartment, and the ghost was gone.

***

A bone-deep chill settled over him, and before he could catch his breath, he sensed a presence in the room—darker, heavier. The final spirit had arrived. Cloaked in black, the figure’s face was obscured, only its hand visible, thin and bony as it pointed toward the window.

Darnell followed the gesture, feeling a strange sense of dread as the room shifted once more. He was in his office, but everything was cold and dim, as if life had drained from it. At his desk sat an old man, hunched and hollow, his face lean and haggard, skin like stiff, flat, thin paper. Darnell’s breath caught as he realized he was looking at himself.

“Is this... my future?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

The figure nodded slowly, gesturing toward the empty office around him. The walls were bare, and the building felt abandoned, as if forgotten by time itself. Dust coated the furniture, and the air was thick with silence.

“No one comes,” the spirit whispered. “No family. No friends. Not a single soul to mourn you.”

Darnell stumbled back, his heart pounding. “But... I did this to succeed. To be respected.”

The spirit’s voice echoed, cold and unfeeling. “You wanted success at any cost. And this is the price.”

Darnell’s gaze fell to his future self, alone, a broken man whose wealth had bought him nothing but emptiness. And for the first time in years, a deep, aching loneliness welled up inside him.

***

He gasped, waking with a start to the sharp light of dawn streaming through his windows. His heart was still racing, his breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. He was alive—here, now. And for the first time in years, he felt something he hadn’t let himself feel: hope.

He picked up his glass of scotch, but paused, staring into its amber depths as the morning sun caught on its surface. He set it down and reached instead for his phone, his fingers hovering over the screen, then finally tapping out a message to Tanya: Take the day off. Family first. Also, expect a little bonus in your paycheck. Happy holidays. He hesitated, then added, Thank you for everything you do.

He exhaled, feeling a strange sense of relief settle over him. It was small—maybe a start. Darnell checked the time. It was barely seven in the morning, and New York was just waking up, the streets below beginning to fill with movement. Impulsively, he threw on his coat and headed out, drawn to the city in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

As he walked, he took in the city with new eyes, noticing the details he’d long ignored—the shopkeepers arranging holiday displays, a couple huddling close in the cold, children running down the sidewalk with mittened hands stretched toward snowflakes. He felt a faint smile tugging at his lips, a sensation unfamiliar yet welcome.

He passed a small community center and paused, drawn by a handmade banner reading, Holiday Feast for All. Inside, volunteers were bustling about, setting up tables and hanging garlands. The aroma of roasting turkey and fresh bread whirled from the kitchen. He felt a twinge, recalling how he and his mother had often depended on such meals when he was young.

One of the volunteers, a woman with a welcoming smile and flour dusting her apron, waved him over. “Need a hand, sir?”

He blinked, almost saying no, but something stopped him. “Sure. I... guess I could help with whatever you need.”

The woman handed him a stack of tablecloths. “Can you help set the tables? We’ve got a big crowd coming in, and we can use all the hands we can get.”

As he unfolded the tablecloths, carefully smoothing them over the tables, Darnell felt a quiet sense of purpose in the simple act. Around him, other volunteers were laughing, sharing stories as they worked. A man beside him—a retired teacher named Carl—told him about his years in the classroom, the students who’d stayed in touch. Another volunteer, a teenager named Jake, was helping out to earn service hours for school, but he talked with such energy about the impact the event had on the neighborhood.

Darnell found himself listening, laughing, even sharing a few stories of his own. When he mentioned his business, Carl looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, it’s good to make a living. But it’s better to live a life worth remembering.”

Darnell nodded slowly, the words resonating deeply. He thought of his future self, alone in that empty office, and a shiver ran down his spine.

The hours slipped by as he worked alongside the volunteers, serving hot meals, pouring coffee, and handing out plates. He caught glimpses of families enjoying the warmth and food, kids’ faces lighting up as they received small gifts handed out by the volunteers. The center was filled with laughter, chatter, the kind of warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time.

As the event wound down, Darnell helped clean up, feeling a strange sense of peace settling over him. Outside, dusk had fallen, the city lights twinkling against the darkening sky. The woman who’d greeted him at the start approached him, handing him a small, wrapped package.

“It’s just a thank-you,” she said, smiling warmly. “For helping out today. You’re welcome here anytime.”

Darnell accepted the gift, nodding. As he walked back through the city, the weight of the package in his hands felt almost like a promise—a small reminder of the warmth he’d found here, of the people he’d met, of the connection he’d been missing.

When he reached his penthouse, the place didn’t feel as cold or empty. He unwrapped the package carefully, finding a small, handmade ornament—a simple glass star with flecks of gold, shimmering faintly in the dim light. He held it for a long moment, the warmth of the community center still lingering in his memory.

The next morning, he returned to his office, but something was different. He called Tanya into his office, her eyes widening with surprise as he handed her a new contract, one that included a raise and a more flexible schedule. “You’ve been putting up with a lot,” he said, a touch of sincerity in his voice. “It’s time we recognized that.”

Tanya blinked, her eyes welling up. “Thank you, Mr. Price. This... it means a lot.”

A weight seemed to lift from his shoulders as she left the office, and he realized he wanted to keep going. He reached out to Ronnie, offering him a paid position with a path for advancement. And for the first time, Darnell looked around his company, wondering how he could make it a place people were proud to work at—a place that made a difference.

Christmas came and went, and with it, the harshness of winter began to thaw. But Darnell’s life had shifted. He kept volunteering, often at the community center where he’d spent that Christmas Eve. He built connections, began funding programs for people trying to make their way out of poverty, like he once had.

And as the years went on, Darnell was no longer alone. He became a familiar face in the community, a friend to many, and someone who was remembered not for his wealth but for the kindness he’d shared.

In the end, Darnell Price found that he had given himself the gift he’d forgotten he wanted: a life that truly mattered, one he could finally be proud of.

The Ruins of Us by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance

The Ruins of Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,244

The roar of bulldozers echoed through the humid jungle outside Villahermosa, Mexico, as Natalia Vega stood on the sidelines, her boots sinking into the damp soil. She hated construction sites—the chaos, the noise, the constant smell of diesel. Yet here she was, overseeing her father’s latest project: a new highway slicing through the dense rainforest.

“Ms. Vega!” a foreman called, his voice barely audible over the machines. “We’ve hit something!”

Natalia sighed, pushing her hair out of her face as she made her way to the pit. Her heart dropped when she saw it: a jagged, black surface peeking out of the earth, slick as oil under the setting sun. She crouched down, brushing aside the soil with trembling fingers. The surface was carved with intricate hieroglyphic, spiraling inward like vines ensnaring prey.

“This isn’t natural,” she whispered, her stomach knotting.

“What do you want us to do?” the foreman asked, clearly uneasy.

“Shut it down,” Natalia said, standing abruptly.

“But the deadline—”

“I said, shut it down!” Her voice cracked, drawing stares from the crew. The foreman hesitated, then waved at the machines. The rumble of engines died, leaving an unnatural silence in its wake.

Natalia stared at the exposed stone, her chest tightening. She’d spent years as an archaeologist, but something about this site felt... wrong.

***

Natalia had always been drawn to the past. She once believed uncovering ancient worlds would bring her closer to understanding herself. But the career she’d built unraveled after her ex, Diego, a fellow archaeologist, betrayed her in ways she hadn’t seen coming.

Diego had been her partner—in work and in life. His charisma and brilliance drew her in, but it masked a darker side: his need to dominate, his knack for twisting truths until she questioned her own. Their breakup wasn’t just messy; it was catastrophic. Diego took credit for her discoveries, spread rumors, and left her reputation in pieces.

When her father asked her to help manage his construction business back home, she agreed, hoping the change of scenery would help her rebuild. She hadn’t anticipated finding something like this—a relic older than any she’d encountered, buried beneath her feet like a secret waiting to be exposed.

***

The excavation revealed more of the pyramid, its black stone surface dotted with carvings. The glyphs depicted figures intertwined—lovers locked in embraces that seemed more like battles. Their faces were contorted, mouths open in silent screams.

“What do you make of it?” one of the workers asked, his voice low.

Natalia didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers traced one of the carvings, the stone cool and smooth under her touch. “It looks like a binding ritual,” she said finally. “Maybe even sacrifices. Love turned into obsession.”

The worker crossed himself and muttered something in Spanish about curses.

That night, Natalia stayed late, flashlight in hand, as she descended into the pyramid’s shadowy depths. The deeper she went, the more oppressive the air became, thick and humid like a living thing. At the end of a narrow corridor, she found it: a massive obsidian mirror framed by jagged glyphs.

The mirror’s surface was impossibly smooth, rippling faintly as if it were liquid. Natalia stepped closer, her reflection staring back at her. But it wasn’t quite her. The image in the glass looked hollow-eyed, weary, and broken.

“What are you trying to show me?” she whispered.

***

The next morning, Natalia’s heart sank when she spotted a familiar figure stepping out of a dusty SUV.

Diego.

“Surprised to see me?” he called out, striding toward her with the same infuriating confidence that had once drawn her in.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Natalia said, folding her arms.

“Your father did,” Diego replied, grinning. “He thought you might need someone with experience. And let’s face it—you’ve always needed me.”

Natalia clenched her fists, willing herself not to react. “Stay out of my way.”

But Diego had never been good at staying in his place. As the days passed, he insinuated himself into every aspect of the dig, questioning her decisions, undermining her authority. And yet, there were moments when he seemed almost vulnerable—when he ran his fingers over the carvings with something like reverence, or when he stared at the mirror for just a little too long.

“This is incredible,” he said one evening, standing beside her in the dim light of the chamber. “These rituals... they weren’t just about love. They were about control. Possession.”

“Sounds familiar,” Natalia muttered under her breath.

Diego glanced at her, his expression darkening. “Don’t start.”

***

The site grew stranger with each passing day. Tools broke inexplicably. Workers reported hearing whispers in the tunnels. The air seemed heavier, the shadows darker.

One night, a foreman burst into Natalia’s tent, his face pale. “Something moved down there,” he stammered. “In the chamber with the mirror. I swear I saw it.”

Natalia dismissed him, but unease gnawed at her. That evening, she returned to the chamber alone.

The mirror greeted her with its unnatural stillness. She stepped closer, her reflection shifting in the rippling surface. This time, she saw flashes of her past: Diego’s anger, his cutting words, the way he’d smiled as he took credit for her work.

“I hate you,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

A shadow stirred in the glass, and for a moment, she thought she saw Diego’s face staring back at her.

***

Diego found her in the chamber the next morning.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said, his tone softer than usual.

Natalia turned to face him, her expression guarded. “Why do you care?”

“I—” Diego hesitated, for once at a loss for words. His gaze shifted to the mirror, and something in his face changed. He stepped closer, drawn to the glass like a moth to flame.

“Don’t,” Natalia warned, but he ignored her.

When his fingers touched the surface, the mirror pulsed, the glyphs around its frame glowing bright. Images erupted in the glass: moments from their relationship, each one sharper and more painful than the last. Diego yelling. Natalia crying. The silence that had grown between them like a black hole.

“This isn’t real,” Diego said, his voice shaking.

“It is,” Natalia said. “This is us.”

The mirror rippled violently, and shadows spilled from its surface, wrapping around Diego like tendrils. He screamed, clawing at the air as the darkness pulled him closer.

“Natalia!” he cried. “Help me!”

Her breath hitched. For a moment, she hesitated, torn between the memories of the man she’d loved and the reality of who he was.

“No,” she said finally, stepping back. “I won’t save you.”

The shadows dragged him into the mirror, his screams fading into silence.

***

By dawn, the pyramid was sealed. Officials deemed it too dangerous to excavate further, leaving it buried beneath layers of earth.

Natalia stood on the edge of the clearing, watching the workers pack up. In her pocket, she fingered a shard of obsidian she’d taken from the mirror, its surface smooth and cool.

For the first time in years, the weight on her chest felt lighter. Diego was gone, but so was the part of her that had clung to him—the part that had believed she needed him to be whole.

She turned away from the site, the jungle closing in behind her. The ruins were a part of her past now, and she had no intention of looking back.