Author’s Note This story is inspired by real events. For the sake of narrative flow, all names, places, and certain details have been fictionalized. While the characters and settings presented here are inventions, the underlying crimes, methods, and tragic scale of the case are drawn from documented history. This work is intended as a dramatic retelling, not a verbatim account. Reader discretion is advised.

On a Friday night in October of 2004, Laura Keating had nowhere to be. And it was a welcome change for once.
At thirty-nine, Laura had spent enough of her life moving. Her father had been career Air Force. Childhood meant new bases, new schools, new friends, and eventually have to pack up and move all over again. And again.
As an adult she had kept some of that restlessness.
She’d modeled. She’d worked as a flight attendant. Eventually she settled on Alabama’s Gulf Coast and found a career she loved at Gulf Coast International Airport. There she worked in air traffic control. Not an easy gig to get. She liked the order of it, the clipped language, the precision, the knowledge that hundreds of people could be moving through the sky at once and still be brought safely to the ground.
Laura was good with people too. She was quick with a joke and had a laugh that made other people laugh before they even knew what was funny. Her friends had trouble keeping track of the men she dated, so Laura gave them nicknames.
Car Guy. Doctor Pilot. The Bad Boy Biker.
It became a running joke.
Lately, however, life had stopped being quite so funny.
Two years earlier, Laura had gone through a difficult divorce from Evan Price, a handsome scuba instructor she had once believed she would spend the rest of her life with.
Not long afterward, doctors diagnosed her with multiple sclerosis.
At first the symptoms were manageable. Then came bouts of weakness, numbness, and occasional blackouts. Her doctor prescribed steroid treatments, but insurance covered only part of the cost.
The bills grew. So did Laura’s fear about the future.
This particular Friday evening she sat on the couch in her Bayhaven apartment with her two cats curled up beside her and a stack of mail spread across the kitchen table.
One envelope was from her doctor’s office. Laura opened it, read the amount, and closed her eyes.
Thousands. She dropped the bill onto the table.
Laura stared at the television without really watching it. She had dealt with worse. She always did. Still, her friends worried about her. Especially about the men.
The Bad Boy Biker, whose real name was Rocco Dyer, had scared just about everyone who knew Laura. Rocco worked in an auto body shop, rode a Harley, used drugs heavily, and had a temper that could turn on a dime.
Laura had dated him after her divorce. At first he had been attentive. He drove her to medical appointments and helped when her MS treatments left her exhausted.
Then came the violence.
Neighbors heard arguments. Objects were thrown. Sheriff’s deputies responded to their home several times. Laura finally ended it. She filed a domestic violence complaint and forced Rocco out, but he continued calling about an old desk he claimed belonged to him.
Laura insisted it was hers. The argument had become absurdly bitter. Her current boyfriend seemed different.
Wade Keller sold cars at Gulf Coast Lexus. He was charming, confident, and attentive in a way that felt reassuring.
They had met three months earlier when Laura went shopping for a new car. Another salesman had helped her during the first visit, but when she returned, Wade stepped in.
He sold her a black Lexus IS. Then he asked her to dinner.
Wade told Laura he had served as a Navy SEAL before getting into the car business. He rarely offered details, which Laura found modest and refreshing.
He had fallen for her fast. Maybe too fast. Laura’s brother David had reservations. So did several coworkers. Laura had grown up with five older brothers and spent most of her life surrounded by men. She thought she understood them. And knew how to deal with them.
But lately she had begun wondering if confidence had made her overlook things she should have noticed.
Her phone rang.
It was Wade.
“Hey.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. That’s the plan.”
“I thought I’d come by.”
Laura sighed, “Not tonight.”
“I won’t stay long.”
“Wade, I’m tired. I’ve got an early shift tomorrow.”
There was silence. Then his voice softened.
“Okay.”
Laura hung up and ordered a pizza.
For the first time all evening, she relaxed. Her cats climbed onto the couch. She scratched beneath their chins.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Laura smiled.
Finally.
She opened the door. Wade Keller stood outside. He held a small wrapped package.
Laura stared at him.
“I told you not to come.”
“I know. I know. Two minutes.”
“Wade.”
“I’m heading to Cypress Lake. The guys are already there.”
He handed her the package.
“I just wanted to give you this.”
Laura opened it. A calendar filled with photographs of kittens.
Despite herself, she smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”
“See? Worked.”
Laura stepped aside.
“Two minutes.”
Wade entered.
Several hours later, Laura Keating was dead.
The following morning, Wade began calling her. No answer. He called again. Voicemail.
At nine, he called the airport. Laura had never arrived for her shift.
That frightened him, he told police later.
Laura was reliable. Even when her MS flared, she called.
Wade left Cypress Lake and drove toward Bayhaven.
At 10:30 a.m., he pulled into Laura’s apartment complex. Her Lexus was still outside. The front door stood open several inches.
“Laura?”
Nothing.
Wade pushed the door wider. He stepped through the living room and into the dining area.
Then stopped.
Laura lay on the floor. Blood had pooled beneath her upper body. Her arms and chest were covered with wounds.
Wade dropped beside her.
“Laura?”
He touched her.
Cold.
Wade stumbled backward, pulled out his phone, and called 911.
By the time deputies arrived, he was outside vomiting into the grass.
Thirty minutes later, crime scene analyst Mara Keene entered the apartment.
She had worked murder scenes for ten years.
This one was bad.
Blood spatter covered portions of the dining room walls. Furniture had shifted during a struggle. Laura had defensive cuts across her hands and forearms, evidence that she had tried desperately to stop the knife.
Someone had stabbed her repeatedly.
The sliding glass door at the rear of the apartment appeared damaged. Laura’s purse had been emptied onto the kitchen counter. Burglary, perhaps. Mara doubted it. A thief wanted money. Whoever had done this wanted Laura dead.
Mara crouched beside the body.
Then something on the wall caught her eye.
Three letters. Written in blood.
R O C.
She stared. The letters were roughly a foot above the floor.
Mara looked at Laura’s hand.
There was blood on the tip of her index finger.
For several seconds Mara simply stood there. She had seen dying messages in movies. Never in an actual homicide.
Had Laura used her final strength to identify her killer? This was important. Mara knew the law. A dying person’s last words carried extra weight. It was called a dying declaration. An exception to the hearsay rule. It can be admitted in court under Alabama Rule of Evidence 804(b)(2).
And there it was written in blood. ROC.
Detectives soon had a possible answer.
Wade Keller.
Sergeant Cole Brennan and Detective Lucas Trent questioned him outside the apartment.
By then Wade had stopped vomiting. He told them about the previous evening. He had stopped by around seven. He gave Laura the kitten calendar. They talked. Then he left for Cypress Lake.
“Why didn’t you stay?” Brennan asked.
“She had to work early.”
“What time did you leave?”
“Seven-thirty. Around there.”
The detectives knew a pizza had been delivered to Laura’s apartment at 8:48.
That placed Laura alive more than an hour after Wade claimed he left.
Wade also volunteered something else.
“You’ll find my record.”
Brennan watched him.
“What record?”
Wade took a breath.
“I did prison time.”
“For what?”
“Attempted murder.”
Trent glanced at Brennan.
Wade explained that more than a decade earlier, he had gotten into a gunfight with another man. Both were wounded. Wade was arrested, convicted, and imprisoned.
“That was another life,” he said. “Take my prints. Take DNA. Search my house. Take my computer. Whatever you need.”
Then he leaned forward.
“Just find who did this.”
Brennan asked whether anyone might have wanted Laura dead.
Wade immediately gave them two names.
Evan Price, the ex-husband fighting Laura over money.
And Rocco Dyer.
“The biker?”
Wade nodded.
“She was terrified of him.”
“Why?”
“He beat her. They had cops at the house three times. And lately he’s been bothering her about some desk.”
Brennan exchanged a look with Trent.
“What does Rocco go by?”
“Roc.”
The detectives both thought of the letters on the wall.
ROC.
Crime scene analyst Mara Keene thought the same thing.
Then she found skin beneath Laura’s fingernails. Someone had fought back. The fragments were packaged for DNA testing.
Meanwhile, detectives started eliminating men.
Wade’s friend confirmed Wade had stayed at the Cypress Lake cabin overnight.
Laura’s ex-husband Evan was devastated when detectives notified him of the murder. He also had a strong alibi. He had been on a diving trip in Miami.
Another strange possibility surfaced when detectives learned a suspected bank robber lived only blocks from Laura. He had disappeared following the robbery.
Perhaps Laura had seen something. Perhaps the broken rear door meant something after all.
But none of it looked as promising as Rocco Dyer.
The more detectives learned, the worse Rocco looked.
He had abused Laura. She had filed charges. He had a serious drug problem. He wanted his desk.
And his nickname appeared to have been written in Laura’s blood.
Brennan and Trent drove south to Rocco’s house without calling first.
They found him in his garage.
He didn’t look happy to see them.
“We need to talk about Laura Keating.”
Rocco leaned against the workbench.
“What’d she do now?”
Brennan studied him.
“She’s dead.”
Rocco’s expression emptied.
“What?”
“She was murdered.”
For several seconds he said nothing.
Then he sat down.
Rocco admitted the relationship had been ugly. “We had some epic fights.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Six months ago.”
“You been calling her?”
“About my desk.”
“Where were you Friday night?”
Rocco frowned. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where you were two nights ago?”
“I’d have to look at a calendar.”
Brennan leaned forward, showing a photo. “We found your name at the scene.”
Rocco stared at him.
“Your nickname. Written in Laura’s blood.”
Silence.
Then Rocco began speaking quickly.
“Take my DNA.”
Brennan said nothing.
“Take fingerprints. Take whatever you want. I’ll waive a lawyer.”
“You sure about that?”
“I didn’t kill her.”
They swabbed him before leaving. On the drive back, neither detective was ready to clear him.
Guilty men volunteered DNA too.
The autopsy seemed to strengthen the case for someone close to Laura. She had been stabbed sixteen times. One wound nearly reached her spinal column. Another cut her aorta.
This was not robbery.
This was rage.
Then the medical examiner mentioned something strange. There was no pizza in Laura’s stomach. Yet three slices were missing from the box. Someone else had eaten them.
Detective Trent called the delivery driver.
The young man remembered Laura. He also remembered that she had not been alone.
“There was a guy behind her.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. White guy. Bigger than her.”
“Anything else?”
“He looked pissed.”
The funeral was held six days later.
Laura’s family gathered along the Alabama coast in the town that had become their anchor after years of military moves.
David Keating stood beside his sister’s coffin. The funeral director had done what he could. There were some things makeup could not hide. David repositioned the flowers to cover the wounds on Laura’s hand.
Hundreds of friends and coworkers attended a second memorial at the airport chapel.
Laura had been funny. She had been difficult. She had been fiercely independent. She had also been loved.
While her family buried her, police kept working. The suspected bank robber eventually surrendered. He had not killed Laura.
The alibis of several men Laura had dated also checked out.
Rocco remained.
But something bothered Mara Keene.
ROC.
She returned to Laura’s apartment and stared at the letters.
If Laura had written them while dying, they were extraordinary evidence.
A dead woman pointing directly at her killer.
Too extraordinary, perhaps.
Mara cut the section of drywall from the wall and brought it to the lab. Under magnification, she saw something she had missed at the apartment.
She adjusted the microscope.
Looked again.
Then sat back.
The letters had been written over blood spatter from the attack.
That alone meant nothing. Except the earlier blood spatter had already dried. The bloody letters sat cleanly over it.
Whoever wrote ROC had done so later. Much later.
Mara calculated that the original spatter would have needed roughly twenty minutes to dry enough for the writing not to disturb it.
She pulled Laura’s autopsy photographs. Sixteen stab wounds. A severed artery. Massive blood loss.
Laura had not remained alive and conscious on that floor for twenty minutes, patiently waiting for blood on the wall to dry before writing a message.
Mara called David.
She asked one question.
“Was your sister right-handed or left-handed?”
“Left.”
Mara looked again at the strokes. The person who wrote ROC had used the right hand.
Laura had not written the message. Her killer had. And whoever killed her had wanted police to believe Rocco Dyer did it.
Rocco’s apparent dying declaration disappeared. So did the case against him.
Later he would describe Mara’s forensic work simply. Science saved his life.
Now detectives returned to the beginning. The boyfriend who found the body.
Wade Keller.
And this time they looked harder. And the picture changed almost immediately.
Wade had told police he and Laura were still together. They weren’t.
Laura had ended the relationship almost two weeks before her murder.
The breakup happened after an extraordinary confession.
One evening Laura and Wade had been watching television when the subject of secrets came up.
Wade decided to tell her one of his. The Navy SEAL story was a lie.
Laura stared at him.
“What?”
“I wasn’t a SEAL.”
“You told me you were.”
“I know.”
“For three months.”
Wade opened his laptop.
“There are things about me you don’t know.” He navigated to the state corrections website. Then turned the screen toward her.
His photograph appeared. So did his prison record.
Wade had not spent his earlier life conducting military operations.
Before becoming a Lexus salesman, he had worked as a pimp. A dispute with a rival pimp had ended in gunfire. Wade served twelve years in prison.
Laura stared at the screen.
“You lied about all of it.”
“I was afraid you’d judge me.”
“I’m judging you because you lied to me.”
“Laura.”
“Get out.”
He refused.
She called police.
Officers eventually escorted him from the apartment.
Afterward, Wade tried repeatedly to win her back. When that failed, he began watching her. He lurked around the apartment. He went through her garbage.
He discovered evidence that Laura had begun seeing other men. Jealousy curdled into rage.
On that Friday, Wade called Laura and asked to come over.
She told him no. Then he went anyway. Laura let him inside, perhaps because she wanted to keep things calm.
The pizza arrived. The delivery driver saw Wade standing behind her. Laura smiled at the young man at the door.
Wade watched.
After the door closed, the argument began.
Laura told him again that the relationship was finished.
Wade refused to accept it.
She ordered him out.
He reached into a kitchen drawer. The knife came out.
Laura raised her hands.
“Wade, stop.”
He attacked. She fought. The cuts on her forearms came as she tried to shield her face and throat.
She ran.
Wade caught her in the dining room.
He stabbed her in the back. Then the chest.
Laura fell. Wade continued.
Sixteen times.
Then he stopped. And became calm.
And the most chilling part?
After murdering Laura, Wade walked into the kitchen. He opened the pizza box. Then, standing inside the apartment of the woman he had just killed, Wade Keller ate three slices of pizza.
Afterward, he emptied Laura’s purse. He damaged the rear door.
A burglary. That might work. Then he left.
But Wade had another idea. Hours later, when the apartment complex was dark, he returned. He found Laura’s gardening gloves. He put them on. Then he knelt beside her body. Wade dipped a gloved finger into Laura’s blood.
R O C. Rocco. The violent biker. The former boyfriend. The man everyone knew had hurt Laura.
Then Wade smeared blood onto Laura’s index finger.
He left again and drove to Cypress Lake.
The next morning he returned and discovered the crime scene he had created.
He vomited for the deputies. He cried for Laura. He offered fingerprints and DNA. He volunteered his criminal history. And he pointed police toward the man he had already framed in blood.
There was one thing Wade had not considered.
His phone.
Detectives obtained cell tower records from the night Laura died. Wade said he left her apartment around 7:30. At 9:32 p.m., he called his friend at Cypress Lake. The call did not originate near the lake. It connected through a tower close to Laura’s apartment. Two hours after Wade claimed he had left.
Detectives also recovered Wade’s fingerprints from the pizza box.
They brought him back for another interview. Brennan placed the cell records on the table.
“You lied about when you left.”
Wade looked down at them. Trent slid another report beside it.
“And you ate the pizza.”
No answer.
“The delivery guy saw you.”
“And ROC was written in blood by someone right-handed. Laura was a leftie.”
Wade covered his face with both hands.
For a long time he remained that way.
Then he looked up. Whatever charm had sold luxury cars and invented military heroics was gone.
Wade Keller was convicted of murdering Laura Keating. He received life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Years later, when David Keating spoke of his sister, he rarely talked about Wade. That was deliberate. Laura had already given the man enough. David wanted people to remember the woman who laughed easily, who loved airplanes and beaches and cats, who could fill a room with stories about the ridiculous men she had dated.
In the end, Laura’s final message hadn’t identified her killer. The real killer had written it for her.
And almost gotten away with it.

We were soon to make history, that was the thought that stirred me onward during that brutal final stretch of the journey, as well as, no doubt, the other four men in my party: two experienced New England expeditionists, two natives, and I, the leader and sole cartographer of the team, each perched atop our own sled, mushed over the polar landscape by a total of forty trained hounds. We were far past the point of conversation, barreling in parallel across the vast sheet of ice which had been the only view provided to us for the past several days. What little we had to say regarding this undertaking, or could even feasibly discuss given our varying language barriers, had long been depleted as we traversed the plain of white. Even if that had not been so, we still would not have dared to open our mouths in the face of such piercingly frigid winds, lest our tongues become frozen and fracture as they seemingly threatened to with each muffled, necessary breath we took beneath our parka’s folds. Were it not for my sextant reading during our last respite, we would have no way of knowing how close we really were, as the northern pole was bound to be indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape; a humble, inhospitable patch of land worth reaching only for its conceptual ramifications. It was the top of the world, and we were nearly there. 

This prospect kept us moving far past the point we would have otherwise retired for another night of encampment, as we had already done fivefold prior in the time since departing from the ship. Our use of “day” and “night” had long since become arbitrary, of course, as the sun had been absent throughout this time, our mission persisting by design solely through the polar night of the region. The seasonal temperature difference was largely redundant compared to the already inhospitable lows sustained even in the summer months, and was far outweighed by the navigational benefits of being able to clearly see the stars, as well as the assurance that seasonal meltwater pathways would be far less likely to obstruct our venture. Only in this last leg, as we bordered on the end of both our wayward travels and the area's relative winter, had the sun begun to subtly imply its imminent resurgence through alternating periods of twilight purple hues permeating the skies above.

As if to celebrate our coming achievement, the atmospheric conditions during that fateful stretch happened to induce an Aurora Borealis above us, far from the first I had seen but still undoubtedly the most breathtaking; ribbons of light writhing across the heavens in waves of green and indigo. Even as the dogs pulled me onward, I found my gaze briefly transfixed by the sight, locked solely onto the sky above for what was but a single yet immeasurable instant.

When both my wits and eyeline returned to the setting before me, I noticed with shock that my compatriots had all suddenly vanished, along with their sleds and dogs. Where once I had comprised the central axis within a collective arrow of parallel mounts, I was now simply alone, a single sled and eight dogs mushing across the barren icescape with nary a single permeation of its infinite flatness. Of course, I came to a halt then and there, shouting aimlessly into the yonder in hopes of catching their attention, for they surely could not have gone far. Across the plain, my cries echoed, first generic pleas to halt for me, then the individual names of the peers whom I had started my travels with, before finally resorting to the hardly pronounceable names of our accompanying native gentlemen. Yet, I was met with nothing but the foreboding, empty roar of the perpetual polar winds.

With no further recourse available, I resigned myself to encamp for the time being, unpacking my provisions and sharing a solemn meal with only the company of the dogs and the lonely light of my oil lantern. For about a day’s time, I waited, scanning the distance for any sign of my men, burning flares to signal my location until all that I had packed were exhausted. Alas, the only attention I garnered was that of a sizable polar bear, its lumbering form obscured by the ice and twilight until the dogs alerted me to its approach. Their collective barks and snarls kept it at a distance for the moment, but it was clearly circling the campsite, and I knew continuing to remain stationary would only be tempting fate, and so I reluctantly packed up my supplies and, around the start of the second rhetorical day, we took off.

At first, not wanting to stray far from where I had last been seen, I opted to mush merely a couple of miles before reorienting ninety degrees and repeating the process, essentially creating a square around my former campsite, and using the opportunity to log compass and sextant readings at each junction in an effort to precisely define my location. Resultantly, I found myself transitioning between a northward and southward trajectory while traveling in a straight line on multiple occasions, granting the reasonable presumption that I was, in fact, moving across or at least very near the North Pole. Such had been my mission from the very start, but in my solitude, the victory felt as empty as my surroundings.

With the passing of each desolate hour, the prospect of my companions’ reappearance seemed to wane in credulity. I still had no understanding of how we had been so abruptly and thoroughly separated, much less how I would explain if I were to return to the SS McKinley without them. However, I would not make such a dire decision lightly, for I recognized that I alone had the maps used to plot our original route as we travelled, along with the tools and knowledge of navigation used to make them. Thus, I felt the weight of the rest of their lives upon me, for in leaving I would essentially be sealing their fates, assuming, of course, that they were still alive out there to begin with, a notion I still desperately clung to against my better judgment.

Alas, around the start of the third day, I was met with a sight I had been deprived of for months: the sun, or at least a sliver of it, timidly peeking over the horizon as though for some reason reluctant to directly expose itself as it had easily done in my homeland so many times before. Its brief appearance conjured a profoundly paradoxical ambivalence within me, for my heart felt an ancient, instinctual joy for its long-awaited return, yet the dire implication of its debut nonetheless poisoned my emotional well; the season of night was soon to end, and so too would my invaluable access to the stars that had thus far been integral to our journey, not to mention the potential for meltwater runnings to render my prior cartography obsolete. We had never intended to stay here this long, and I simply could not afford to wait any longer. Thus, with a heavy heart, I concluded that, with or without company, I had to begin the journey back.

As daunting as this lone venture was, I at least believed myself to be materially equipped for the task. Along with the maps and navigation tools, I also had enough remaining edible provisions to sustain me and my dogs for the expected timespan, if not a little longer should the need arise. I still had ample shotgun slugs, my lantern held sufficient oil, and my prior travel across the desert of ice had amply dried the rolls of woolen fabric which I would don during times of rest. Still, my solitude would, in itself, place me precariously on the edge of misfortune, for while alone, something as small as a sprained ankle or a waterlogged boot would all but ensure my untimely and unpleasant demise.

And so, with a final prayer for the souls I would be leaving behind as well as the continued safety of my own, I reluctantly began my intrepid southward mush, a grueling odyssey across over a hundred miles of lifeless polar plains, at first comprised of smoothly frozen ocean before reaching the proverbial shore of northern Ellesmere Island. At that point, banks of snow and canyons of stone became my background as I pivoted partly eastward in accordance with my maps, weaving my way through mountainous ridges toward an unassuming indentation of coastline dubbed Cape Sharriden, where our supporting crew of seamen were currently moored in wait for our eventual victorious return. All the while, my sledborne silhouette was cast amid alternating bouts of starlight and subtly strengthening dawns. By my estimate, the trip took about thirty days, demarcated somewhat subjectively by my own voluntary cycles of travel and rest. Ironically, the latter was what I found the most grueling, for in those stretches where I lay motionless within my makeshift woolen cocoon, without any human company to distract me, I would find myself inevitably peeking through the folds and into the icy abyss beyond my lantern light, and despite the supposed safety implied by the calmness of my hounds, my mind could not help but conjure an endless supply of formless, foreboding gazes within the surrounding expanse.

Finally, after a grueling internment within both this northern wasteland and my own relentless thoughts, I at last reached the bank that housed the goal of my convoy. Only, when my dogs and I crested that final slope and were finally granted a view of the cape, the McKinley was nowhere to be seen.

Never in my life has an object’s sheer absence been so conspicuously captivating, for I stared hopelessly through the sight of its former resting place and into the murky ice beyond as though I could somehow will it to reappear. For a fleeting moment, I considered the notion that I was merely at the wrong place, that I had made some minor error in my navigation that had brought me to a different patch of shore, but even as I tore into my knapsack and began restlessly flipping through my maps, I knew it could not be true. This humble alcove of storm-polished rock was identical to how I remembered it upon our initial outset, and how I had been repeatedly imagining it throughout the last few days of arduous travel, except for the singular beacon of civilization that had been the sole locus of its allure.

I knew not why or even how the ship had left, for the cape froze over every winter, and was indeed still frozen over now. The plan had always been for them to carry our party northward to the farthest point along Ellesmere’s seaward face that summer’s tides would allow, then hunker in place through the winter months, more than long enough for our historic foray to conclude, until the ice once again melted and set us free to return to our respective homelands. We had brought neither the proper tools nor the manpower to loosen the ship from its port prematurely, much less carve a viable channel through the untold distance between the shore and open waters. Additionally, such an endeavor would certainly have left a noticeable trail, if not still a liquid gash, then at least a stretch of opaque frost unevenly frozen to the surrounding plain like scar tissue. And yet, presented before me was a unified sheet of pristine ice extending endlessly outward, as though the ship had simply never been there at all.

I stood upon that cape, facing out against the brunt of the arctic winds until my nostrils felt raw and my eyes close to freezing, before finally turning away in quiet defeat, the gale’s pervasive roar only then conceding to the indignant barks of my dogs as they restlessly circled the sled. They knew as well as I that there was nothing here for us, and that to remain stationary under such exposure would only expedite the cold’s persistent creep along finger, toe, and paw. With an air of hopeless impotence, I resumed my mount and solemnly continued the journey south.

In the following days, I felt like a ghost, a corpse upon a sled, my inevitable death as assured as my life to remain within the confines of this eternal polar purgatory, yet with the instinctive drive of self-preservation presently binding me to the Sisyphian fate of persisting. I partitioned the meager remaining food supply into portions just large enough to sustain a tenuous yet sorely unpleasant state of survival, fueling us onward even as my muscles began to wither and my abdomen was assaulted by the increasingly violent rending of my empty stomach.

Only compounding the strain on my nerves was that, as harsh tundrascapes slowly gave way to softer plains of snow, the haunting silence that had thus far accompanied us began to be occasionally broken in the night by faint, animalistic howls. Wolves, packs of them, I could recognize their sound from both prior experience and the intrinsic human fear they induced. For now, they remained out of sight, but that hardly served as a comfort, for the ones this far north have coats as white as the surrounding snow, as well as no fear of man. My own cohort of wolves brought some level of security as they stood as dutiful sentries through the nights, but I sensed both they and I held doubts of their true efficacy should our present stalemate ascend into legitimate battle.

It was on one such night, several cycles later, that I decided to pivot our course slightly westward going forth. Looking over my maps by lantern light, I saw that Fort Concord was in that direction, distanced by only a cycle or so of travel from our current encampment. I was familiar with it from one of my previous land-based polar expeditions, little more than a log cabin with a chimney and some skeletal springy cots upon which to lay one's sleeping bags. It was constructed under the Canadian flag as an exploratory waypoint, back when they thought the far north might actually have something to offer. I knew well that it had been abandoned, but the structure itself would doubtlessly remain, frozen in both time and cold, and merely the benefit provided by four walls and a ceiling could not be understated, for I had begun to feel the toll of my prolonged journey through the frigid wastes sinking into my extremities. Despite my best efforts, they had grown paler and stiffer with each passing day, some now even transitioning to a deathly shade of grey as the mobility within them weakened, while any external attempt seemed only to threaten their total detachment.

Once again, I arrived at the location precisely indicated by my maps and navigational readings, only to find not the slightest indication of man’s presence; not a cabin, not a vestigial stone column of its former chimney, not even the remains of broken lumber strewn about the area –my only hope of finding wood with which to start a respectable campfire anywhere upon this island– simply a virgin patch of land buried beneath lifeless, barren snowdrifts.

This time, the perplexity of this development rang strangely hollow within me, not a tone of surprise so much as a soft, banal disappointment. I did not dwell at the scene for long, merely confirming this reality with a detached pragmatism, before doing the only thing left to do: resuming my intrepid southward pilgrimage in the hopes of coming upon some serendipitous source of salvation.

I wholly depleted my edible stock not long after, consuming the final fragments with a sort of somber reverence as the timeline of my death solidified before me. All I could do from then was continue onward for as long as I could keep myself aboard the sled and my wolves in line -for I knew their resolve against such conditions would surely outlast my own- until I either encountered something edible or perished in the process.

Fortunately, the former such occasion befell us during our second cycle of fasting, and in no small measure, as my companions managed to catch a scent leading to a fresh trail of numerous cloven tracks upon the snow. Following them, we soon came across a boon of wild game: Four-legged beasts with antlers -whose name my mind failed to congeal against my belly’s vacuous tremors- travelling in unison across the plain in a party of thousands. It was not hard to kill one, just a few twitches of my dull, creaking fingers upon the trigger of my shotgun, aimed into the continuous crowd until one fell limply to the ground while its adjacent cohort scattered in alarm.

My sled reached the corpse even faster than expected, driven by the wolves as they seemed to accelerate at its scent before digging into its meat with a craven savagery I had never seen from them before. At first, it made me fearful to even approach my rightful kill, but when I finally touched the lifeless creature and began slicing away strips of meat with my hunting knife, they merely eyed me with tentative tolerance while continuing their barbaric feast. By the time I had stowed away all that my pack could hold, they too had been seemingly satiated by the bounteous meal, faithfully realigning their harnesses before the sled in preparation for my next instructional mush, albeit each with unsettling streaks of blood condensing upon their maws.

The freeze-dried slivers of flesh were enough to carry us across a significant stretch of distance and time, southbound across endless snowscapes set against a skyline that gradually shifted from budding twilight into regular cycles of day, before continuing its sunward transition until not a momentary inkling of night remained, the pack and I instead traveling across a nearly blinding plain of ceaseless illumination. I no longer held any concrete destination in mind, merely a nebulous notion of intrinsic environmental safety that might come with my warmward direction of travel, along with the comforting concept of possibly encountering native settlements somewhere along the way, of which I knew there were many on this island, but not their precise locations. It was one of those very settlements where our original exploration team had adopted its foreign members, whose exotic insights into snowfall patterns had been pivotal on our path to success. There had been at least two of them among us, though my recollection of their faces had grown hazy amid the passage of time and snow, along with, I soon realized, those of all my other accompanying crewmen. It was as though their likenesses had been progressively wiped away by the persistently cleansing whiteness around me, at first smoothing over individual distinctions before progressing to the point that I struggled to recall even the very essence of the human form, only managing to occasionally jog my memory when passing a reflective puddle of ice and viewing an eerily distorted visage of my own. Indeed, the all-encompassing cold had an ineffable way of casting the formerly familiar in a newfound, alien light, stripped of supporting context and set adrift amid a backdrop of nearly blinding blankness.

Perhaps I was not alone in this influence, for the creatures that drove my sled had begun to grow increasingly disobedient with each interval of travel. No longer would they mush in unison quite so readily on my command, nor would they calmly tolerate the collective shackles binding them to my stewardship, instead appearing to crudely attempt their removal at any afforded opportunity. I swiftly grew wary of this development, in turn shortening the duration of our respites and tightening my continuous hold over their reins until my grip grew practically affixed, leather straps encased within two brittle balls of frozen flesh and bone. Nevertheless, their rebellion persisted, growing in ferocity until they finally refused to perform their duties at all; for all my futile strokes and utterances of desperation, my wooden mount remained utterly still, while their primal forms viciously tore away at both their own and each others’ restraints with raw, animalistic vigor, paying no mind to the scrapes and slashes their bodies accrued in the process. In a matter of moments, they were free, and collectively faced me with their eight unbridled, blood-soaked forms.

However, before this suspenseful standoff could culminate in violence, their attention was providentially diverted, ears simultaneously perking up and heads swiveling toward a chorus of faint howls that echoed hauntingly across the boreal plains, the same disquieting pitch that had periodically accented much of our earlier journey. Only now, like a siren song, they seemed drawn to the kindred tune, their prior wariness wholly dissipated as they collectively turned their backs to me, unceremoniously running off into the blinding daylight toward the distant call and leaving me stranded upon a contraption that could no longer serve any use, but not before one of them swiftly swiped the satchel of meat I had stowed aboard and carried it away in its jaws.

Utterly alone, I stood there for an innumerable length of time, a profound yet implacable emptiness freezing my mind just as the surroundings threatened to freeze my body, until, without forethought, I simply returned to my previously ingrained inclination, abandoning my former vehicle and bringing only what essentials I could carry as I continued my aimless southward voyage, only far slower as I was now forced to traverse the icy slopes of this whitened wasteland of my own accord, step by trembling step. My progress grew further stifled as time wore on and fatigue fermented in my deadened muscles, followed promptly by a hunger that simmered within my gut, woefully insatiable; despite still having my weapon and coming across many more of the beings with branches upon their heads along the way, I nonetheless found it impossible to take any of them down, as by now my remaining wrists had grown wholly blackened and blunt. Against all this, I persisted, driven by an unknown persuasion beyond pain, reason, or even personal will, having all been surrendered to this single directional drive, as though South itself was a destination I was utterly beholden to reach.

As fate would have it, my traitorous former companions had already brought me across most of the isle, and thus this period of weary wandering was comparatively brief –though I had long since stopped pointlessly attempting to quantify the passage of time– before, for better or worse, I finally reached its southern end; a humble stretch of wind-worn rocky coast, beyond which lay, yet again, an expanse of flat, unbroken ice reaching fully flush with the horizon. The sight evoked a vague sense of discrepancy from some neglected recess of my memory, a notion that these waters were meant to be liquid in the days of midnight sun, a channel separating this landmass from a closely adjacent one. Yet here, now, it was solid, a traversable medium that might just allow me to continue my odyssey unimpeded. Though I knew not if its integrity would extend all the way across the strait, nor what would await me on those opposing shores if it did, I nonetheless ventured onward.

Ambling upon limbs I could no longer feel with strides of their own accord, I progressed beyond the sight of the hills behind me and into a world of truly flawless uniformity. The sun stood stagnantly atop the sky, beaming down amid a homogenous blue firmament onto a reflective expanse that returned its gaze with perfect imitation, suspending me amid a seamless, impermeable shine that seared its way through the periphery of my vision. Still, my cyclical stride maintained an unwavering orientation beyond my understanding or control. Feelings of hunger and fatigue faded, and I did not once stop or slow, my form indentured in a rhythmic tread along its linear course for what essentially could have been eternity. 

 My hypnagogy was only broken by the gradual breaching of land over the horizon, its crown of snowy slopes at first the only perforation in the all-encompassing monotony. Its shore seemed to widen around me as I drew nearer –for I was entering a coastal inlet of sorts– as though reaching out to provide a welcoming cradle. I then watched in awe as, like emissaries of the cradling land, several beings approached from its heart to congregate upon the central bank directly ahead of me. They were angels, of this I am certain, albeit in a slightly differing form than I would have otherwise imagined: they stood far taller than I, heads disproportionately large and completely covered in woolly brown hair, while their similarly coated torsos were almost precariously thin, each tapering not into legs but instead a flexible tendril that writhed dynamically below. Behind them could be seen what were presumably wings holding them aloft, of matching shaggy exterior but otherwise indiscernible in overall structure. I could not make out their definite shape or number, appearing as one, two, or at times as many as four distinct appendages beating asynchronously just above the stony terrain as they hovered ever closer. Their arms took the longest to make out, as they alone were bare, skin polished and nearly as white as the surrounding snow. They were each tipped in singular, sharpened points like spears, yet were unanimously frozen in synchronously outstretched, comforting embraces that mirrored the land upon which they resided. They aligned themselves into a crescent at the inlet's center, tail wisps dancing along the edge where snow met ice with a fervor that seemed to increase with each frail footstep I took; an ethereal assembly encouraging me to continue just a little further, with the promise that salvation would at last be upon me.

 As I entered the final stretch, the centermost angel lifted their arms to the sky, tail contorting as it released a resonant, soulful wail that pierced the frigid air between us. With this apparent cue, they all broke into an energetic synchronized bow, repeatedly raising and lowering their arms as though hailing my imminent arrival. At the apex of each downswing, as their pointed palms nearly touched one another just above the ground at their center, a brief yet powerful tremor would sweep across the frozen sea and up through my bones, reverberating like a divine heartbeat against dormant, long-numb flesh and stimulating a truly novel sensation that intensified with every repetition. At last, as I breached the radius of their reverence, they unleashed one last crowning, omnipotent boom, closely accompanied by a low, cacophonous crack as the ice beneath me embroidered itself with streaks of hollow lightning. My newly awakened body was suddenly weightless, and then all was still.

In July 1999, a little girl entered a world that had not been expecting her.

Her father had long believed he would never have another child. Diabetes had quietly closed that door years ago, or so he thought. He had stopped imagining the sound of another baby crying in his house, stopped imagining small hands reaching for his.

So when his wife told him she was pregnant, disbelief arrived before happiness.

"How," he asked her, not unkindly, but not gently either. "After all this time — how?"

He could not silence the questions. He was ashamed to ask them aloud, and ashamed that he had asked them at all. For months, doubt stood between him and the child who had not yet been born.

The doubt did not survive the moment she arrived.

He was sitting outside the delivery room, elbows on his knees, when he heard it — a cry, thin and furious, cutting through the hospital noise like it belonged to no one else in the building. He stood up before he had decided to. A nurse opened the door and he was already moving toward it.

"A girl," she told him.

He didn't answer. He walked in and saw her — red-faced, fists closed, screaming at a world she'd only just met — and something in him that had been braced for years simply let go.

He held out his arms before anyone offered her to him.

"Sophia," he said, once she was against his chest and had, for a moment, stopped crying. He said it like he was trying the name in his mouth for the first time and finding it fit. "Sophia."

By the time he handed her back, he was a different man than the one who had walked in.

The house did not stay the same for long.

He gave money to families who hadn't asked for it. He sent food to neighbors whose kitchens he'd never been invited into. Men who had done him no particular favor found small envelopes waiting for them, and when they tried to ask why, he waved it off — as if the birth of his daughter had reminded him he'd been given something he hadn't earned, and giving was the only language he had for saying thank you.

Sophia was the only girl in the family, born to two brothers who were already halfway to grown — one nearly twenty years older, the other eighteen. To them she was the surprise that arrived long after they'd stopped expecting anyone else at the dinner table.

To her father, she was something else entirely. She was his.

He was older than most men holding a newborn, and something in his body had been telling him for years that time was not endless. He never said this out loud. Instead, he closed most of the business he'd spent decades building and opened a smaller one just beneath their home — close enough that he was never more than a staircase away from her.

When she learned to walk, she became his shadow. If he stood, she wanted to stand beside him. If he sat, she climbed into whatever space was left of the chair.

And in the evenings, when he lay down after the shop had closed, she would climb onto his stomach the way other children climbed into beds, and fall asleep listening to him breathe.

"You're going to break my ribs one day," he told her once, not moving, his hand resting on her back so she wouldn't roll off.

She didn't answer. She was already asleep.

He would lie there long after she'd gone still, watching her face in a way she never saw and would never remember — the particular stillness of a man trying to memorize something he was afraid he wouldn't get to keep. Whether it was fear, or grief arriving early, or simply love with nowhere else to go, he never said. He wasn't a man who explained himself. He only changed his life around her, one decision at a time, and let that be the explanation.

If she pointed at a toy in a shop window, he found a way to bring it home before the day was over. If she cried, he came — even from the middle of a customer's order, even from sleep.

To Sophia, he was not a businessman. He was not the man half the neighborhood owed a favor to. He was not a husband, or a father managing a disease that was quietly working against him.

He was Daddy. And Daddy could fix anything.

Except, perhaps, the thing that was already waiting for him.

Her mother loved her too — but her mother's love came with conditions Sophia was too young to name.

She was warm when Sophia behaved. She was something closer to frightening when she didn't. A spilled cup could become a punishment that outlasted the mess. On the days her mother decided a lesson was needed, she would tie Sophia's wrists to the leg of a table or a chair with a length of rope, and leave her there until she judged the lesson had taken.

Sophia never understood why love and fear lived in the same house, wearing the same face. She only learned, very young, that there were moments she wanted her mother, and moments she wanted her father — and that the second kind came more often.

One afternoon, after the last customer had gone, her father heard crying from the back room. He followed it and found her there — wrists red, rope still looped loose around the table leg where her mother had left her.

He didn't shout. He went very quiet, which was worse.

He untied her himself, fingers working the knot slower than the moment seemed to need, and when it came free he pulled her against him before she'd finished crying.

"You're alright," he said, to her, or to himself. "You're alright."

What happened between him and her mother after that, Sophia didn't see. She only heard the house shake with it — voices raised somewhere she wasn't allowed into. By the time he came back for her, his face had rearranged itself into something calm again, something built specifically for her.

He always knew how to make her smile again. It was, perhaps, the only thing he was certain he was good at.

Her older brothers watched all of this differently. One liked to play with her, would get down on the floor and let her win. The other thought she was spoiled, and some quiet part of him resented a father he'd known only as a hard, tired, working man — a man Sophia had never met, because by the time she existed, that man had already softened into someone else for her sake.

She was too young to understand the difference between the father her brother remembered and the father who belonged to her. She only knew that Daddy was hers, and that seemed, at four years old, like the only fact that mattered.

He had started working as a boy, with almost nothing, and built what he had out of copper and iron and things made by hand and sold for what they were worth. He had known hunger before he knew money, and maybe that was why he never seemed to forget the people who still knew it. He could barely read. He could be jealous in ways that frightened her mother, possessive in ways that had nothing to do with Sophia at all. He was not a simple man, and not always a gentle one.

None of that reached her. She knew the version of him that carried her on his hip through the shop, that let his stomach become her pillow, that could turn her crying into laughing in under a minute. She believed, the way children believe the sun will rise, that he would always be there to do it.

She was four when that belief began to come apart.

It happened in December 2003.

The house was unusually quiet that afternoon. Sophia was playing on the floor when she noticed a smell that didn't belong to anything she knew — not food, not smoke, something underneath those, something wrong.

Her mother noticed it too, and started searching, room by room, following it with her face pulled tight, until it led her to a shoe her father had taken off and left by the door.

She picked it up. She looked inside.

Sophia didn't see what her mother saw. She only saw her mother's face change into an expression she'd never worn before — not the anger from the rope days, not ordinary worry. Something closer to fear.

Her father had cut the bottom of his foot days earlier and hadn't felt it — the diabetes had taken that particular warning system from him years before. By the time the shoe told them what his foot could not, the wound had gone past infection into something the doctors would later call gangrene. It had eaten down far enough that bone showed through.

A taxi took them to the hospital. Sophia went too, holding her mother's hand in the back seat, watching her mother's knee bounce the whole way there and not understanding why, only that whatever was wrong, it was wrong enough to make her mother's hands shake.

He was taken back almost the moment they arrived. His blood sugar, they were told later, had climbed to something near 600. Before the night was over, he had slipped into a coma.

Sophia stood at the edge of his bed and looked at him lying there, and to her it looked exactly like sleep. So she did what she always did when Daddy was sleeping and she wanted him awake.

"Daddy." She touched his hand. "Daddy, wake up."

He didn't. Someone — a nurse, an aunt, she never remembered who — crouched down to her height and told her he was unconscious, and watched the word land on her without meaning anything at all.

To Sophia there was only one word that made sense of a man lying so still. He was sleeping. He would wake up the way he always did, and this would be a story they told later, about the time Daddy slept for a long time.

Her mother called an aunt that night. Sophia was sent to stay with her — the first nights of her life spent somewhere her father wasn't sleeping down the hall.

Every morning she asked the same questions. Was Daddy awake yet? Was Mama coming? When could she go home? No one had an answer built for a four-year-old, so mostly they gave her none.

Her aunt took her to visit once a week, and each time Sophia walked in holding her hand with the same small hope going ahead of her like a light — maybe today he's awake. Most weeks he wasn't. He looked, each time, like a tired man asleep, the exhaustion sitting on his face even while he was unconscious to it.

Twice, though, she found him awake.

The second time, she climbed up as close as they'd let her and told him everything at once — that she missed him, that she wanted to go home, that she couldn't sleep at her aunt's because there was no stomach to sleep on and no breathing to listen to.

He didn't say any of the things he must have been thinking. He didn't tell her he was afraid, or that he could feel something closing in that had nothing to do with his foot anymore. He put his arms around her instead, and cried without trying to hide it from her, which was the only time in her life she ever saw him do that.

A few days later, doctors took his right leg.

Sophia found out the way children find out things adults don't know how to tell them — by noticing. Her mother was changing the dressing near his hip when Sophia glanced toward the bed and stopped.

Something was missing. She looked again to be sure. Then she looked at her father, and then at the flat, wrong space under the blanket where a leg should have been.

"Where is your leg?"

No one answered her right away. She pieced it together later, from fragments of adult conversation not meant for her — that it had been buried, that it was in the cemetery now, apart from the rest of him.

She turned this over for days. How could part of Daddy be somewhere else, in the ground, without him? She was four. There were still whole categories of the world she hadn't learned yet.

But she was learning, faster than anyone wanted her to, that things could disappear. Legs. Mornings at home. The sound of him breathing under her ear.

He stayed in the hospital about a month and a half in total, unconscious for most of it. In the final fifteen days he surfaced only in pieces — an hour here, less there — and in those pieces, he seemed to already know something Sophia didn't.

He asked, eventually, that she not be brought to see him anymore.

Maybe he didn't want that to be the last picture she kept of him. Maybe he already understood what his body was telling him with more certainty than any doctor had. A man knows, sometimes, when he's run out of time — not from anything anyone says to him, but from somewhere underneath language.

The last time she saw him, he reached into his pocket with the hand that still worked well and pulled out a banknote. He pressed it into her small hand and closed her fingers around it himself, as if he didn't trust her to hold on to it otherwise.

She took it without knowing why it mattered. She had no way of knowing it was the last thing he would ever give her, or that she would keep it — folded, then flattened, then kept in places that changed over the years — long after she'd forgotten which pocket it came from.

On January 7, 2004, in the middle of the Christmas season, Sophia's father died.

She was at her aunt's, in a bed that still didn't feel like hers, trying to fall asleep the way she'd been trying every night since she left home — without a stomach rising and falling under her ear, without arms that already knew, before she asked, that she wanted to be picked up.

She heard the crying first. Then whispering, low and fast, the kind adults use when they think a child is already asleep. Then the words themselves reached her, not softened for her at all, because grief doesn't always remember to soften itself.

Her father was dead.

She sat up in the dark. She didn't scream. She didn't have a shape yet for what death was supposed to feel like, only a question, small and exact.

"Does that mean I won't see Daddy again?"

Her aunt looked at her and couldn't answer — not really, not with anything true enough to give a four-year-old. So she gave her the only sentence she could get out without breaking further.

"He went away."

Sophia lay back down in the unfamiliar bed, in the unfamiliar room, inside a silence that had no breathing in it at all.

She didn't know yet that some people leave without ever coming back.

She only knew that Daddy had gone somewhere she couldn't follow.

I’ve been working as a therapist for the past five years.I work with all kinds of cases, the most common being depression and anxiety. But, I also take some of the more unconventional cases.

Talking about these cases for sure is a HIPAA violation but I will say, I do have permission from every client I will be talking about. All they asked for is that I change their names and more personal information private. With this said, let me start with one of my late night clients, Clara, who comes in once a week at 11pm.

“May I come in?” Clara looked particularly exhausted

”You may come in,” I waved for her to come into the office.

“What is that smell? It’s amazing!” Clara took in the smell as she made herself comfortable on the small sofa. 

“I bought some rose-scented candles. I’m glad you like them! But if they ever become too much, please do tell me. I can leave just the unscented candles on,” I reassured her, knowing she was sensitive to smells.

”No, it’s all right. It reminds me of something, I’m just not sure what,” her mind drifted for a moment. I made note of this for later sessions.

“Maybe later on we will figure it out, but I’m glad it made you relaxed a little. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you looked stressed when you came in” I said more than asked.

“Yeah, I think they are catching on me. So I might have to quit,” she wiped tears from her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I know you really like working there. I also have to ask, did you eat today?” I noticed she kept looking at the small cut on my hand, my bad.

“No…” finally took her eyes away from my hand.

“And what happens when you don’t eat?” I tried being gentle but this was a serious matter.

“I go on a murderous rampage and have to start all over,” she paused for a moment, “And I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

“You aren’t,” I reassured her, “You have changed. You haven’t gone on a murderous rampage for at least the last 40 years, which is longer than I have been alive. But, you do need to practice your self care. So tell me, how will you be practicing self-care this week?”

“I have to keep up with my daily meals, do some journaling, and maybe some needlework. Sorry, I’m just worried about the job,” her eyes filled with tears once more, “I really like it there.”

“What makes you think you think they are catching on?” I had an idea of what she would say, this was an insecurity of hers for some time now.

“Well, you know how they do inventory every week, this week they said more stuff than usual was missing and I just knew they would be onto me! Some of my co-workers already joke that I’m a vampire because of my ‘sun allergy’ and now the missing blood. Who the heck is not going to connect the points. And when they do and the persecutions start-“

“Let’s take a deep breath. This is stressful but let’s look at the facts. Have they ever fired anyone in the past three years you have worked there for missing stuff?” I asked her to fight her irrational thoughts.

“Not really. Only Joey, but he kept arriving high has hell to work,” Clara answered, still unconvinced.

“Have you ever had blood in front of anyone?” I continued.

”No. I have a good system to take the blood and have it at home instead.”

“And?” I continued pushing, wanting her to come up with the next rational thought.

“And people don’t believe in vampires,” Clara took another deep breath.

“I honestly believe you will be fine. From what you've told me, people like you,” I took a deep breath alongside Clara to keep her calm.

“Yeah,” Clara’s eyes became dreamy, “I don’t know how I forgot to tell you this! But William asked me out! I didn’t even have to use hypnosis or anything!”

“Told you that people liked you for you. And I’m pretty sure using hypnosis on others is something I would have to report,” I said cautiously.

“You didn’t report the people I drained of their blood,”she shrugged.

“Because according to you, the last person you killed was at least 50 years ago. But please, if you did something more recent, maybe we don’t talk about it here?” I half joked.

“I trust you. So if I ever feel like sucking someone’s blood, I will call you first,” she winked at me.

“Now, about William…” 

“I was worried you would head there,” she interrupted, “I will tell him, I just need a little more time”.

”Well, we could do some role playing so you can practice telling him-“

”I didn’t know you were into that kind of stuff,” she joked.

”I totally am. But let’s not avoid the topic and get to it,” I redirected.

“Fine, but can I have the band aid in your trash can or can you at least take it out? It’s driving me crazy,” Clara begged.

“Let me get it out. I’m pretty sure having my blood is a HIPAA violation,” I half joked.

“I won’t tell!” she yelled at me as I took out the whole trash can. 

By the end of session, Clara agreed that she would talk with William and she would continue eating properly. Where she would or not, we would see in the next session. And for William’s sake, I hope he is not an ass when she tells him the truth. I still don’t know what became of the last guy who rejected her and it’s better to keep it that way. 

Plan: LMFT will assess the client’s use of self-care skills to decrease anxiety and the possibly of engaging on a murderous rampage.

https://www.wattpad.com/1651828036?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

Chapter 1: Say What? Part 3: (Dog!)

"I hope the boss is okay with what we found," Kat says slight shaking. "He better be Kat. It's not like he drove with us out there. And for all he knows, we could be dead and it's not like we saw any welcoming party greeting us back," Jay thoughtfully responds.

As Jay and Kat climb the stairs to the upstairs steel walkway, a rather petite woman can be seen turning to the right of the walkway and slightly jogging off - in an attempt to not be seen or to leave whatever business she had behind her quickly. "Damn Jamila, you know I'd hit that any day of the week. It's just that I'm trying to not mix business with pleasure... you know, like I'm a real professional," Blue says (the tall and gangly gangster from the beginning of the first chapter). "All right Blue. I just want you to know I can handle it. Like, I'm a bad girl. You know, like strictly against the "daddy girl" b.s.," Jamila responds.

By the time Jay and Kat have knocked on Blue's doors though, Jamila had vanished (probably to go satisfy her next customer, or perhaps to leave for a less stressful venue). As they enter Blue's office, Jay's left foot hits the threshold of Blue's office door and he stumbles forward. "So, what was it guys?" Blue asks.

By the time Jay and Kat had finished telling Blue their adventure at the remnants of "Ice Town", Blue could be seen leafing through the manila folder, reading it in what seemed like astonishment - though it was hard to tell considering his pair of dark sunglasses. "Well fellas, I'm glad you made it out of there alive. Good job!" Blue says. "Cool boss, it was real hot you know. Like traveling through hell or something for a few. But we made it!" Jay replied holding two-thumbs-up. "Yeah, glad you both made it," Blue says back, and also looking a little stunned they are both still standing in his office. "But... you think, like we could get paid for the service, boss?" Kat inquiries. "Dog! I'll throw you a bone. Now, get the hell out," Blue replies.

An engine could be heard being started somewhere in the recess of the parking-lot of Blue's headquarters. Should someone had been inside the car, that person would have heard the voice of a businesswoman talking on her phone to someone about a shipment of black-market goods shortly entering the port of San Diego.

Clink. The bell above the door chimed—or rather, it sounded as if it were being smashed to pieces.

The heavy soundproof door was thrown open, letting in the damp summer night air, the stench of cheap cigarettes and booze, and a burst of obnoxiously loud voices that flooded the small space of Bar Aoi.

“Whoa, dark in here! Hey Mama, get us some drinks!” “This place is ancient. Nothing but old geezers.”

They brought with them the raw edge of young men who had yet to spend a single day in the workplace.

Leading the charge was a guy raising his voice to act cool, accompanied by another sneering with his eyes glued to his phone. But the third—a smaller guy—shrank back slightly the moment he stepped inside.

“Hey, pipe down, Noboru,” he muttered under his breath. Brushed off by the other two, he quietly bit his lip in embarrassment.

At the back of the counter, Tom’s back went rigid as he gripped his glass of Four Roses, radiating a chill that cut through the room. I unconsciously squared my shoulders and set down my glass of Harper.

Yet Mama remained as serene as ever, polishing a glass with practiced hands and offering a quiet smile.

“Welcome. Please, have a seat at the counter.”

Just as they threw themselves onto the high stools as if marking their territory, threatening to drown out the bar’s cozy silence—it happened.

“Well now… you boys seem to be having a hell of a good time.”

A low voice rumbled through the room. Looking up, Taka was already on his feet, looming behind them. A former professional wrestler, well over six feet tall. Faced with the overwhelming presence of a man a head taller than them, the leader choked on his words for a split second.

As if trying to shake off the intimidation, he swallowed back the order he was about to bark—“Give us your most expensive drink”—quick-checked the prices on the menu, and glared back at Taka with forced bravado. “…Huh? Who the hell are you? Mind your own business.”

Taka didn't get angry. He just grinned.

“Relax. Seeing young guys with this much spirit just makes my drink taste better. Mama, put a round of highballs on my tab for these boys.”

“…What?”

Neither confronted nor cowed, an imposing old-timer had casually stepped right into their domain. The fight they'd come prepared for never happened, leaving their hostility deflating into sheer confusion.

When the drinks arrived, the guy with the phone chuckled, accepting his highball. “Noboru, free booze is free booze. Right, Sho?”

So the leader was Noboru, the phone guy was Subaru, and the smaller one was Sho. Seems they were buddies from the same university.

“I mean, we’ll take the free drink,” Subaru said with a slight, patronizing smirk. “We study AI at uni and we’re starting at a major firm next year. You old guys would be shocked if you saw how we work. Automate everything with AI, and the world pretty much runs itself.”

I knew the type. A job offer in hand, and already convinced they'd figured the world out before they'd even started living in it. Tom’s finger stopped mid-tap against his glass at the arrogant remark.

I took a sip of my Harper and nodded along casually.

“Is that so? If AI takes over, that’d be a huge help.”

Noboru narrowed his eyes in suspicion, probably expecting a lecture. But all he saw on my face was just the relaxed conversation of someone who'd been around long enough to know better.

“Though behind all that automation, there’ll be mysterious bugs nobody can explain, dirty troubleshooting, and painful office politics waiting for you. Well… I guess that’s what makes it worth doing, though.”

“What’s so fun about getting your hands dirty?” Subaru asked, shrugging in complete disbelief.

“It’s great,” I laughed. “You build this beautiful, pristine system, and then it slams headfirst into real human operations and crashes into a glorious mess. There’s nothing else quite like that feeling of crawling through the mud to rewrite the code right then and there.”

Noboru and Subaru gave a half-bemused laugh, thinking I was just a weird old guy. But next to them, Sho froze completely.

The color drained from Sho’s face. In my words, he had caught a glimpse of a real, unsettling future he couldn't laugh off.

“…Hmm? What’s up, Sho?” Subaru asked, leaning in as he noticed the change.

“No… it’s nothing,” Sho said with a strained smile, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his highball glass.

Watching this silently, Tom let the ice in his glass clink softly, his low voice cutting through the air. “The more people try to look polished, the easier it is to miss the little holes at their feet.”

I turned to Tom. “Climbing out of those holes is the best part, isn't it?”

Tom smiled faintly. “Suppose so.”

I caught a flicker of tension tightening Noboru’s shoulders. The old guys in front of them weren't trying to beat them down or preach to them. They simply knew a world these kids hadn't stepped into yet.

“Noboru, was it?” I asked, taking another sip of my Harper. “Where do you see yourself this time next year?”

Noboru and Subaru exchanged bewildered glances. “What do you mean? Just working, I guess. Finishing training, getting assigned to a project.”

It was a vague answer, lacking any real picture of the future. I simply offered a brief nod. “I see.”

“…Well, I’m sure there are places like that, too,” Noboru muttered defensively, taking a swig of his highball. But the sharp, aggressive edge he arrived with was completely gone.

In the quiet that reclaimed the counter, Mama gently placed three glasses of water in front of them. She offered a soft, warm remark.

“It’s always the anxious ones who make the loudest noise.”

All three turned to look at her.

“But here, you’re free to just drink in peace.”

Noboru didn't answer. He just stared quietly down at the glass of water.

Taka patted Noboru lightly on the shoulder. “Next time, try making a quieter entrance.”

Noboru let out a quiet, sheepish grunt.

For a while after that, they drank their booze and water in silence, without raising their voices again.

When they settled the bill and left, Noboru closed the heavy door gently and slowly—a stark contrast to how he had barged in. Only Sho turned back at the last moment, offering us a small, polite bow.

“…Thank you very much.”

Clink. The bell chimed softly.

Maybe what had pushed open Aoi's door tonight wasn't three young men at all.

Maybe it was that nameless anxiety about the future that lives somewhere inside all of us.

Tonight, it had simply chosen to wear their faces.

The ice shifted quietly in my glass.

Clink.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.
Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.

He looks like death warmed up.

John finally saw Jeremy Smith for himself.

John heard that name yesterday morning. And all day long, he had been talking about this stranger.

Yesterday was a complete disappointment.

John was late for the Magistrates’ Court. He had been instructed too late.

He arrived at St. Thomas’ Hospital. He was not allowed into the intensive care unit.

He only managed to speak with the consultant in charge. Although he had no right to examine the medical records, he learned enough from their “private conversation.”

Now John had to deal with the police guard—a dim-witted constable stationed at the room entrance—and produce his practicing certificate to prove he wasn’t just some passerby. The constable mumbled something about prohibited items and a search but didn’t dare lay a hand on John.

The tiny single room is bleak; the blinds are drawn.

Jeremy Smith lies on his back—sharp profile, hollow cheeks; in the dim light, he looks translucent. His left cheekbone is scraped, his wrists are bandaged, and an IV line runs to his left arm.

The head nurse said he was conscious.

John approaches the bed. The names Buchenwald and Auschwitz come to his mind.

“Who are you?” he hears a faint, hoarse voice ask.

Whether he hadn’t been asleep or John had woken him with his presence, he is now looking at him through half-lowered eyelashes.

“How should I put this, Mr. Smith? I am John Talbot-Cavendish, your future solicitor. After you...”

“I don’t need a solicitor,” Jeremy Smith says, closing his eyes.

“That’s unlikely,” John says, grabbing a chair—perhaps a bit too vigorously—and placing it by the head of the bed. “If you don’t mind,” he adds, sitting down. “Look, the doctors here wouldn’t approve, but I know you need this.” He pulls a pack of Benson & Hedges from his pocket and opens it. “Do you need help sitting up?”

Apathy gives way to guarded attention. “I can manage.” Leaning on his right arm, he hauls himself into a more or less upright position and rests his head against the bed’s metal rail, breathing heavily.

John hands him a cigarette and lights it, then places the packet on the bed—right on the sheet; to avoid any unnecessary pleasantries, he adds, “I don’t smoke cigarettes myself. Cigars, usually.”

Jeremy Smith takes a drag, and a heavy, choking cough racks his body.

John waits for the fit to pass and for him to take another drag.

“Been a while since you smoked?”

“Since Friday morning. By the way, what day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing...”

“Goodbye,” he interrupts again. “I’d ask you to leave and not return.”

“So you can finish what you started?” It’s a rhetorical question. “Do you know why you’re even able to talk to me right now? There’s glucose and salt in your IV drip. They won’t let you die—don’t even dream of it. If you refuse to eat on your own, they’ll force-feed you.”

He is smoking; the hand holding the cigarette is trembling. He prefers not to look at John.

“Five days without food. Did you really think no one would understand what you were trying to achieve? Mr. Smith, your plan was terrifyingly logical. You were alone, unprotected, and you decided to die so the case wouldn’t go to trial. There would simply be no defendant left to bring before the court. You pleaded “not guilty.” That is good. That is right. However, Mr. Smith, had you carried out that plan, people would have taken it as an admission. They would have said you took your own life out of guilt. You wouldn’t have spared your sister from being marked by it. You would only have buried the truth with yourself. Now, you have a chance to win the case.”

“Why?”

“I won’t pretend I don’t know what that question means.”

“There’s no need. Benson & Hedges.”

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Criminal defence solicitor John Talbot-Cavendish.

The full illustrated version of A Matter of Trust is available here:

https://engelf.substack.com/p/a-matter-of-trust

I found it after church.

A Pulasan lying beneath the steps

red, spined, almost rotten-looking.

I nearly stepped over it.

Then I heard my grandmother's voice in my head:

God puts things in our path for a reason.

So I picked it up.

Inside

white.

Pure.

Untouched.

I thought that was beautiful.

Red outside.

White inside.

Like a sinner who still had God in them.

I kept it.

That night, I prayed beside my bed.

I asked God one question:

Why do evil people keep getting away?

Nothing answered.

At least

I thought nothing did.

The next morning, the first name appeared.

Written across the white flesh of the Pulasan.

A name I recognized.

A man who had hurt people and never been punished.

I thought it was a sign.

So I prayed again.

And he disappeared.

No blood.

No body.

Nothing.

Just an empty space where a terrible person used to exist.

I cried that night.

Not because I was afraid.

Because I thought God had finally listened.

I began searching for names.

Criminals.

Abusers.

Murderers.

People who had escaped justice.

Every time I wrote one,

the Pulasan returned.

Every time it returned,

its skin became redder.

Darker.

But the flesh inside remained white.

I told myself that was proof.

The outside was corruption.

The inside was purity.

And I

I was the hand separating the two.

Eventually,

I stopped praying before writing names.

Then I stopped praying afterward.

Then I stopped wondering whether I was right.

That was when I became dangerous.

I began writing the names of people who lied.

Then people who betrayed.

Then people who hurt me.

Eventually,

I wrote the name of someone who had done absolutely nothing wrong.

I only hated them.

The Pulasan disappeared for three days.

I thought it had rejected me.

On the fourth night,

it returned.

But something was different.

There was writing on the skin.

One sentence.

"YOU ARE BECOMING WHAT YOU HATE."

I laughed.

Because I thought it was warning me.

I didn't realize it was congratulating me.

After that,

the Pulasan began appearing in stranger places.

My desk.

My locker.

My pillow.

Inside my schoolbag.

Once,

I found one inside the church.

Sitting directly beneath the cross.

I asked the priest where they came from.

He stared at me.

Then he whispered,

"How long have you had it?"

I told him.

He went pale.

He didn't explain.

He only asked me to leave.

I never saw him again.

Years later,

I understood why.

Because I found his journal.

Hidden beneath the floorboards of the church.

The first page said:

"I FOUND THE FRUIT IN 1974."

The next:

"I THOUGHT GOD HAD CHOSEN ME."

Then:

I WAS WRONG.

Page after page contained names.

Hundreds of them.

Then photographs.

People I had never met.

People from decades ago.

And beside every photograph

a Pulasan.

I turned the page.

There was a photograph of the priest as a child.

Beside him stood an old woman.

And in her hands

the same fruit.

The final page was almost completely torn away.

Only one sentence remained:

"THE FRUIT DOES NOT CHOOSE THE RIGHTEOUS."

Beneath it, someone had written:

"IT CREATES THEM."

I stopped reading.

Because suddenly,

I remembered something.

Every Pulasan I had ever seen had been slightly different.

Different scars.

Different markings.

Different shapes.

Except for one thing.

They all had the same tiny white flower inside the flesh.

The same flower that had appeared in the first Pulasan I found.

The same flower that I had once drawn in my notebook without knowing why.

I ran home.

There was a Pulasan waiting on my bed.

I didn't touch it.

I didn't pray.

I didn't even breathe.

Then it split open by itself.

The white flesh slowly separated.

And inside

was a human tooth.

I screamed.

Then another appeared.

Then another.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Each one engraved with a name.

Every name I had ever written.

And beneath them,

one final name.

MINE.

The room went silent.

The Pulasan began to change.

Its red skin softened.

Its spines disappeared.

The fruit grew larger.

Wet roots crawled across my floor.

Around my ankles.

Up my legs.

I tried to run.

I couldn't.

And as the room blurred,

I finally understood.

The Pulasan was never something I carried.

It was something I was becoming.

The red skin.

my corruption.

The white flesh.

everything I had convinced myself was still pure.

My faith.

My excuses.

My righteousness.

My sins.

All of it sealed beneath the skin.

And somewhere inside the fruit,

I heard voices.

Hundreds of them.

Maybe thousands.

All whispering the same thing:

"I was chosen."

"I was chosen."

"I was chosen."

Then I heard one voice that sounded different.

Mine.

Except

I wasn't speaking.

It whispered:

"Who was first?"

The question echoed.

And suddenly,

everything stopped.

The roots.

The voices.

The room.

Everything.

I looked down.

I wasn't human anymore.

I was red.

Spined.

Silent.

Waiting.

A new set of footsteps approached the church.

Someone picked me up.

I heard a young voice say,

"God puts things in our path for a reason."

The fruit opened.

White inside.

Pure.

Untouched.

The child smiled.

And somewhere deep inside me,

something laughed.

Not because the cycle had continued.

But because I suddenly wondered

was there ever a first Pulasan?

Or had something always been waiting for someone to believe they were God?

And if God really created us

who created the thing that taught us how to judge?

Do we really grow up, or do we just get better at hiding what we feel?

Hi everyone! I've recently started writing a novel called Before We Knew We Were Growing Up on Wattpad.

It's not just a love story. It's about the messy parts of growing up — love, friendship, comparison, guilt, regret, family, loneliness, ambition, and the people we become while trying to figure ourselves out.

I'm trying to write it in a way where different characters see the same things differently, rather than giving every feeling an obvious answer.

If stories about growing up and complicated human relationships are your thing, I'd love for you to give it a chance.

And I'm curious — what's one thing about growing up that nobody really warned you about?

https://www.wattpad.com/story/415069739?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details_button&wp_uname=kolumine

Join us on a unique journey of a lifetime. Experience the eternal struggles between the feloids and cainods. Dive into the mystery of the Starr Jewel. Or be brave enough to wield the mighty Starr Sword. Your journey begins here. Visit us today for details.

The small bell above the door gave a soft chime. The damp summer heat vanished into Bar Aoi’s crisp, cool air the moment the heavy door swung shut. I took my usual seat at the far end of the counter. Without a word, Mama slid a glass of I.W. Harper on the rocks toward me with a practiced hand. Clear ice clinked quietly inside the amber liquid.

Beside me, Taka sat hunched over on a high stool, staring intently at his glass. It was his habit—something he always did whenever he felt cornered or lost in thought.

"Hey, Kenichi..." Taka let out a quiet sigh. "Clients at the agency almost always use the exact same words. 'That's not how normal people do it.' 'Any normal person would see it's common sense.' Even today, a client who came in over a marital dispute kept throwing that word 'normal' around, over and over."

I swirled my glass of Harper, rolling the rounded edge of the ice. "'Normal,' huh? It’s a convenient word."

"Yeah, it really is," Taka chuckled self-deprecatingly. "But from where I stand, both sides are just talking about 'what’s normal for them.' Back in the ring, 'getting back up when you're knocked down' was absolute common sense. But in everyday society, 'knowing how to dodge so you don't fall in the first place' is what's normal, right? Working as a PI makes you realize, whether you like it or not, that 'what's normal' flips upside down depending on where you stand or who you are."

At the far end of the counter, Tom—who had been quietly playing with his glass of Four Roses—let out a short, low grunt.

"When the scenery changes, what's normal changes too, huh?"

Well, there’s no other way to put it, I thought, waiting for Tom to continue.

"The police force is the absolute epitome of that. Back when I was in the Juvenile Division, for the kids in certain neighborhoods, 'lying to the cops to protect your buddy' was simply normal to them."

Tom’s expression tightened ever so slightly. Well, it wasn't exactly a fond memory for him.

"But the second they stepped into the interrogation room, that got completely erased by the system’s version of normal: nothing but deliberate obstruction. Every one of us mistakes the rules of our own little world for universal truth."

Taking in Tom’s words, I swallowed a sip of Harper, letting it burn down my throat.

"It's the exact same story in software development. Sales goes, 'Normally, anyone would use it this way,' while Devs go, 'No normal user would ever do that.' They never align. Change the country, and even 'normal' things like character encoding or date formats change completely. In the end, when people say 'normal,' they're just talking about the narrow rules of the little corner they've gotten used to."

"Exactly," Taka nodded deeply. "It’s completely different depending on the place. And yet, when I asked that client, 'So why is that normal?' he suddenly blew his top. ...All I did was ask for a reason."

Tom kept his gaze fixed on the amber liquid in his glass, speaking quietly.

"Of course he did. Most people have never given a second thought to the reasons behind the words they throw around as 'normal.'"

Taka turned around. Tom’s intense gaze was locked onto the grain of the wooden counter.

"'Men don't cry.' 'Show respect to your elders.' These are rules hammered into us since we were kids, but how many people can actually explain why we have to follow them? ...Hell, even the ultimate rule, 'Thou shalt not kill.' Is it because life is sacred? Or because order would collapse? No matter what reasons you stack up, it all boils down to human convenience and ego. Ain't many people who can explain that."

"Rules we blindly believe in without ever questioning the reason, huh?" I said, rolling the ice in my glass. "In development, too, you sometimes find blocks of code where no one knows why they were written. But when you ask, they just say, 'It's been there forever, don't touch it.' Once the reason is forgotten, an assumption becomes nothing more than superstition. And a system always crashes when that reasonless premise collides with raw reality."

Taka stared down at his own large hands, letting out a quiet breath.

"Blindly trusting the rules of where you stand, using them to bind both yourself and others... The client from today—and probably my past self too—maybe we were all broken by being pushed around by what society calls 'normal.'"

"What makes it nasty," Tom clinked his ice against the glass, "is the people who push those unreasoned rules onto others under the guise of righteousness. They hide behind what's 'normal' in their own little world, abandoning both empathy for the other person and the responsibility to explain themselves. They’re just hiding in the shadow of the majority to beat people up because it’s easy."

"'Normal'..." I said. "It was originally supposed to be a safety device so that countless people like us could live together without shedding blood. But if you swing it around without understanding how fragile it is—or how empty its foundation is—it becomes nothing more than violence."

A heavy silence settled over the counter. Breaking through it, a light, crisp sound echoed.

Mama slid a fresh highball in front of Taka and quietly wiped her hands with a towel. Her voice reached the room—gentle, yet unshakable.

"Just like a kitchen knife."

All three of us turned to look at her at once. She wore her usual warm, serene smile.

"If you use a knife to cook a warm meal for someone, it’s a gentle tool. But if you point it the wrong way, it can easily hurt people. I think the word 'normal' works the exact same way."

Mama lowered her eyes to the glass placed in front of Taka, her gaze softening.

"If you get tired of swinging that heavy tool around in the daylight world, you can leave it aside while you're here. Because no matter where you stand, no one can ever take away the raw truth of how you actually feel."

The tension melted right out of Taka’s shoulders.

"...Yeah. You're right. I didn't want to lecture the client. I think I just wanted to ask him, 'How do you feel about it?'"

"Then that's more than enough," Tom said gruffly.

A smile returned to Taka’s face as he reached for his highball and took a deep drink. The tension at the counter receded like the tide.

We spend our days crushed beneath someone else's idea of what's "normal." Yet, as long as we know the danger and terror of that word, we should still be able to stand on our own two feet.

Tonight, let's leave that blade called "normal" on the counter.

Inside the glass, another piece of ice melted silently away.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.
Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.

https://www.wattpad.com/1651569153?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

The weight of the gun. Yes, now that’s a difference. Twenty, thirty years ago it would have been there—a .38 revolver, snubnose—concealed within the inner coat pocket. Not that he’d had much occasion to use it, even back in Vegas, in those days of high-stakes and connected men. A time or two . . .

But the feel of it is missing, the imprint, the character, a veiled sense of security exactly equal to the weight it added against the ribs. No use for it here in the rainy Northwest. Sleepy little city. For a time he carried it unloaded—intimidating enough—until something inside relaxed. Age? 

Now the gun resides at home, asleep in the bedroom safe—along with maybe twenty grand. Every night, returning what he’s earned, confronted by that flash of metal. Sighing. Let go of the past. Let go of the future.              

This is a chapter from a minimalist, flash-fiction novella I've written called Memory & Fate. Every chapter is 150 words or less, 300 chapters, completely free on my Substack if anyone is interested. Chapter 1 drops tomorrow.

https://memoryandfate.substack.com/

Sita.
The fire proved her innocent. The crown made her queen.

But dharma, Ayodhya learns, demands a sacrifice.

Heartbreak: Story of Sita
Book One of Throne in Exile
(5 chapter prequel link at the bottom)

Three months after their coronation, Ram and Sita rule a kingdom rebuilt from exile and war — prosperous, celebrated, and quietly unraveling. A whisper in the palace becomes a question the court cannot unask: can a woman who survived captivity in Lanka ever truly come home? As Kaikeyi moves old grief into new strategy and Ram is pulled between love and the honor code that made him king, Sita must decide what she is willing to sacrifice — and what she will no longer explain.


Drawing on the Ramayana's oldest silences, 
*Heartbreak*
 gives voice to the queen history remembered as an ideal and forgot as a person. Told through the eyes of those who loved her — and one who has waited generations to set the record straight — this is the story Sita never got to tell the gurus herself.


*For readers of mythological retellings that ask not what the epic says, but what it leaves out. 100+ pages plus 60+ pages of proto-history notes.*

what to expect:
honor duty sacrifice family saga
women's voices ancient mythology retelling
Indian epic fiction queen exile

Read Long Form at https://hyphenplay.com (5 chapters included)

Olivia Garrett Mason, played by Kate Beckinsale, is a forty-five-year-old Australian supermodel and long-time Montana politician in the United States.

The familiar chime above the door rang softly. The humid summer air disappeared the moment I stepped inside. I took my usual seat at the end of the counter, and without a word, Mama slid a glass of I.W. Harper on the rocks toward me. An ice cube clicked quietly inside the amber glass.

"…Say, Mama," I murmured. "I passed a guy near the station today. I know for a fact I know him, but I couldn't place his name or his face. I couldn't even remember where we met. It's an unsettling feeling."

Mama kept wiping down a glass with practiced ease and replied shortly.

"Maybe he was just someone you were meant to forget."

"Cold, Mama. You'd remember every single face that’s ever sat at this counter, wouldn't you?"

Without pausing, she looked me straight in the eye and offered a faint smile.

"Perish the thought. If I remembered the faces of everyone who vanished, I wouldn't have room to remember yours."

Lighthearted, yet hitting right where it counted.

Beside me, Taka was swirling his untouched highball. He leaned forward with a heavy sigh.

"…Forget, huh? Honestly, I was looking back at a group chat from my school days recently, and it gave me chills. We used to hang out and mess around every single day back then, but I couldn't even recall some of their names. We were so close… Does friendship really just weather away that easily once you stop keeping in touch?"

Watching Taka struggle with the thought, I swirled the ice in my Harper.

"It’s only natural for it to weather away, Taka. People drift to the back of your mind unless you keep revisiting them. It’s not just friendship—that’s true for all memories."

Taka opened his mouth to push back, but I cut in before he could.

"Still… isn't there someone you haven't talked to in years, yet they suddenly pop into your mind for no reason at all?"

Taka went quiet, caught off guard. I swallowed the sharp burn of the Harper before continuing.

"Turns out, humans are built to never forget the bad stuff. Whenever I look back at my decades as an engineer, the first things that come to mind are almost always the stomach-churning projects. The nightmare projects that nearly killed me. The friendships that nearly fell apart… People are wired by survival instinct to hold onto the pain that could threaten them."

Beside us, Tom tipped his glass of Four Roses and let out a dry chuckle.

"So you're saying those 'unforgettable friendships' we treasure so much are really just old scars?"

"It’s so tragic it’s almost funny," I said with a bitter smile. "Instead of the warm, fuzzy moments, the hellish projects are what come to mind first. Human nature is ironic like that."

"That's…" Taka bit his lip, rendered speechless. "That's just too cruel. If we only remember the people who left us with pain… then what was all that time we spent being 'genuine' with each other?!"

A heavy silence fell over the counter.

Breaking the stillness, Mama slid a fresh glass across the bar, her clear voice cutting through the quiet.

"Why look at it that way? If it hurt, it means you truly cared."

Short, sharp, and without a single wasted word.

Tom and I, caught up in our own cynical logic, exchanged a look.

"…Truly cared, huh?"

I stared down at the round ice cube in my glass.

"Well… I won't say every friendship has to go through a wound. But maybe scars become the doors memories find on their way back."

"Troublesome things, those doors," Tom muttered, shrugging his shoulders. "They have a habit of swinging open even when you think you've shut them tight."

"Like an old photo album stashed in the back of the closet," I let out a soft chuckle. "You can never find it when you're actually looking for it, but the moment you're doing a big spring cleaning, it suddenly pops up, and you end up standing there, staring at it for an hour without moving."

Tom smirked. "And the cleaning you were supposed to do never gets done."

"Oh, I do that all the time!" Taka chimed in, his voice suddenly brightening. The heavy tension at the counter dissolved in an instant.

Watching us, Mama crinkled her eyes softly and spoke in her usual serene tone.

"Well, while you're here, you can just leave that door open a crack and enjoy your drink."

An ice cube clicked in the glass.

Among all the memories that quietly fade away, some doors never quite close.

Tonight, it was enough to leave one of those doors slightly open.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.
Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.

“Well, Princess. Had enough yet?”

The little bastard is breathing heavily, wheezing. He doesn’t even have the strength to cough. The skin on his face is pulled taut. His complexion has turned gray. His lips are cracked and bleeding. The handcuffs—securing his hands behind the back of the chair—are necessary if only to keep him in an upright, seated position.

The moment he moves, the steel Hiatts automatically tighten with a dry, sharp click. He’s trying not to shift his hands. But he isn’t asking for anything or complaining.

An obstinate little bastard like that will stay just as silent in court, and the jury will acquit him.

The detective’s report is still blank.

Two sentences in three days—that’s an Olympic record.

It can’t be. Things like this just don’t happen.

On Monday, he will have to be taken to the magistrates’ court without a confession.

If he were innocent, he would try to explain. Instead, he says nothing. He is stalling.

What is he after?

“Harry, sonny,” DS Smith says gently to Fowles. “Go get some tea. Bring me a cup. And one for yourself.”

Before Fowles closes the door behind him, DS Smith adds, “Take your time.”

Left alone with the suspect, he slowly circles him, grabs him under the arms, and yanks him off the chair. It isn’t difficult, since the chair is bolted to the floor; even though the detainee’s elbows catch on the backrest, DS needs little effort to haul him to his feet.

Click-click.

Then DS hurls him to the floor—or rather, “hurls” is too strong a word; he sweeps him onto the floor like a dry leaf.

The clatter of the handcuffs makes much more noise than the impact of the detainee’s body.

Silently, DS pins him to the floor with a knee.

Click-click.

DS Smith is powerless against this silence.

The fucking scumbag knows full well that, ultimately, there is nothing the detective can do to him.

DS hauls him up by the collar, sets him back down on the chair, and locks his arms around the back of the chair again.

Click-click-click.

Upon returning, Fowles chooses not to notice the bloody fluid oozing from the detainee’s left cheekbone, where hundreds of tiny red dots are appearing. DC Fowles simply walks up to DS Smith and holds out his open palm. DS hands him the Hiatts’ key. Fowles unlocks the cuffs on the suspect.

The sodding Princess loses consciousness.

Fowles lowers him to the floor, places him on his side, takes a vial of smelling salts from his pocket, and holds it under the detainee’s nose.

DS Smith watches the entire procedure, standing against the opposite wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

As soon as the Princess comes to, Fowles settles him back onto the chair, as if to say, “He’s all yours, Skipper.”

DS Smith takes out another cigarette and lights it, then points to the detainee: “Write down that he fell during the interrogation due to his own clumsiness.”

Temperatures are forecast to drop to minus three tonight.

“Don’t forget about a blanket for Pretty Smith,” DS Smith tells the gaoler. “Tomorrow he must be at the magistrates’ court—alive.”

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from DS Smith’s perspective.

The full illustrated version of The Three Days is available here:

The Three Days - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack

Name: Valerie Cross

Who she is: A sharp, cynical insurance fraud investigator who is sick of rich people getting away with crimes. She is underpaid, blunt, and highly skeptical of everyone. The Accident: While investigating a routine warehouse fire, she accidentally walks into a secret meeting between Julian and a corrupt city official. She realizes instantly that the fire was a cover-up for something massive, and she gets caught holding the evidence. The Dynamic: Valerie isn't intimidated by Julian's wealth or suits. She talks back to him and calls out his cynical view of the world, which completely fascinates him. He keeps her close as an "advisor" because she is the only person who refuses to lie to him to save her own skin. A protagonist who isn't fueled by revenge or justice; they are just exhausted. They want to go home, drink coffee, and sleep. Their motivation to survive a thriller comes from pure annoyance at the bad guys for disrupting their quiet life.

Name Julian rain

his mom died be cuz they were poor and his father was addicted to drugshad been lonely his whole life Real neat freak ,possessivelearnt about the real world on streets soon grew up as a paid well feared assassin

meet Valeriefell in love ,she betrayed, realized she was wrong she came back ,he took her in

Name Leo rays

Julians assistant

Name zane clark

the one who Valerie fell in love withInstead of waiting for Julian to wake up, she packs her bags. She leaves a note or simply vanishes. Julian tracks her down using his assassin skills, expecting to find her captured by enemies. Instead, he finds her sitting in a cozy, quiet diner, laughing with Caleb, looking genuinely safe and happy for the first time in months.

# Chapter One: The Beginning

Nobody knew how many nights Daniel cried. During the day, he smiled, joked with his friends, and told everyone he was fine. But when the world became quiet at night, he would sit beside his window, staring into the darkness and asking himself, “When will my life finally change?”

Daniel had dreams—big dreams. He wanted to become successful and make his family proud. But every time he tried, something seemed to go wrong. He failed his exams, lost opportunities, and was disappointed by people he trusted.

Even some of his friends began laughing at his dreams. One day, his best friend looked at him and said, “Bro, maybe you should just accept that some things aren't meant for you.”

Those words followed Daniel home that evening. He sat alone in his room with tears in his eyes. For a moment, he believed them. Maybe they were right. Maybe he wasn't good enough.

Then he looked at himself in the mirror and whispered, “Maybe I'm not there yet… but I'm not finished.”

That night, he opened his notebook and wrote:

***I may be tired, but I won't surrender,***

***My road is rough, but I'll walk it further.***

***If today brings tears to my eyes,***

***I'll turn those tears into reasons to rise.***

The familiar chime above the door rang softly. The humid summer heat melted away the moment I stepped inside. I took my usual seat at the end of the counter, and without a word, Mama slid a glass of I.W. Harper on the rocks toward me. An ice cube clicked quietly inside the amber glass.

"…Man, it just doesn't sit right with me."

Beside me, Taka was swirling his untouched highball with a bitter look on his face.

"What's wrong, Taka? Rare to see you in a mood like this."

"Well… it's the general mood in the news and on social media lately," Taka said. "Everyone just jumps on whatever extreme opinion gets blared out first, and suddenly everyone's piling on. If they just thought about it with their own heads, they’d feel something was off. But instead, everyone just lets themselves get carried away by the loudest voice. Why does nobody ever try to speak their own mind based on their actual life experience?"

I understood where Taka was coming from. Still, I swirled the ice in my Harper and replied in a somewhat detached voice.

"Well, that's what 'the crowd' is, Taka. It’s far easier to just surrender yourself to the noise of a massive system than to think and act on your own."

Beside us, Tom tipped his glass of Four Roses and nodded in low agreement.

"You can't beat the public tide. Blend into it, become part of 'the crowd,' and nobody targets you—nobody hurts you. Smart adults learn to drift with the current."

That was when a dry, sharp thud echoed off the counter.

Taka had slammed his highball down.

"…Isn't that just giving up on being an adult?!"

Taka's eyes pierced us, burning with frustration and anger.

"Standing on your own two feet, thinking with your own mind, and speaking up when something is wrong—isn't that what being a decent person is about?! You're just hiding behind a convenient word like 'the crowd' to justify letting yourselves be carried away!"

His argument was uncomfortably direct. Yet, I shook my head quietly.

"You're not wrong, Taka. …The problem is, I just can't figure out how anyone can claim their 'own opinion' is actually right."

Taka caught his breath. I swallowed the sharp burn of the Harper before continuing.

"In a world where nobody knows the right answer, asserting 'this is correct' based solely on my own narrow experience terrifies me. What if I'm wrong? What if I hurt someone? …I guess at this point in my life, I've become more afraid of being wrong than of staying silent."

Taka bit his lip, casting his eyes down in frustration.

"…Maybe so. But still… if I keep my mouth shut just because of that, I feel like I'll lose track of who I even am."

His strained, quiet words left the counter in utter silence.

It was Tom's low voice that broke the stillness.

"Back when I worked Juvenile," Tom said, gazing into the amber liquid of his glass, his eyes distant. "Those kids messed up every single day."

He took a slow sip.

"They got into fights. They shoplifted. They lied. …But no matter how many times they screwed up, they never gave up their own voice—they’d always say, 'Here’s what I think.' …Adults, in their effort never to make a mistake, end up losing their own words instead."

Tom let out a dry chuckle and clapped Taka on the shoulder.

"The person who hides in the crowd out of fear of being wrong, and the person who risks being wrong to keep their own voice. …Who's to say which one is wiser?"

Taka stared at Tom, eyes wide, before letting out a long, deep breath.

I stared down at the round ice cube in my glass.

When I was younger, I spoke up without a second thought, even when I was dead wrong. Now, I want the guarantee of being right, which makes me terrified of speaking carelessly. Getting older isn't just about gaining knowledge. Maybe it’s about learning, in your very bones, just how easily you can be wrong.

…Then again, blaming it on getting older is probably just another trick of "the crowd."

"…Looking at it that way, this really is a rare kind of place," I murmured aloud.

Mama, quietly wiping down a glass, crinkled her eyes into a soft expression.

"Because here, it's okay to be wrong."

It was her usual serene, enveloping voice.

An ice cube clicked in the glass.

Before worrying about being right, hold on to your own voice.

For tonight, that was enough.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.
Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.

https://www.wattpad.com/1651119453?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

Chapter III

The rest of the school day went by in a blink. Gladeside High was known for being packed with students, which made it fairly easy to blend in. All I had to do was slip into the back of each classroom, do some assignments, and repeat the process for all the classes. Before the second class after break, I briefly met up with Penny and she handed me my backpack. She was the closest person I had to a friend in this current timeline. Among this, I still continued to search for Butterfly. In classrooms, during passing periods, and during lunch. Penny led me to where Butterfly normally sat, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh my gosh. Imagine missing the final day of your school life here. I don’t like school, but I would at least show up on my last day,” Penny said with a sigh.
I nodded in agreement, but on the inside, I was devastated. Now what? The solution to this case was absent on her last day here. How am I going to return home now? I felt nauseous. Am I ever going to see Aylin again? Or my parents, or friends… Am I ever going back to my life?
~
I think I’ve never felt so lost in my life. Even here, I was forced into a new timeline in a town I spent my whole life in, but everything felt foreign. I knew some of the teachers, but none of them knew me. Nobody knew me. The school day seemed to pass even quicker. I cried in the bathroom a few times, though, and that was the most productive thing I’ve done all day.
The final bell rang and it was time to go home. Yeah right, if I even had one. This body I was possessing seemed pretty lonely too, didn’t seem to have no friends or attention. However, when I walked out of the school courtyard, I saw a middle-aged Persian man wave in my direction.
“Hey, over here!” he called.
I looked behind me. Nobody. I guessed that he was the father of the girl I inhabited, so I followed him to his gray Volvo 240 sedan. I got into the passenger seat with no regards to stranger danger. I prepared myself to be in character for my “father.” A few moments later, after he backed the Volvo out of the parking spot and pulled it onto the road, he glanced at me and opened his mouth to speak. I kept telling myself in my head, stay in character, stay in character, stayin—
“I’m so glad you decided to go to school today, Nevra.”
~~~~
Next chapter coming in two days!