The room smelled of incense and faint sandalwood. The glow of a salt lamp painted everything in hues of red and amber, illuminating shadows in the corners like secrets that refused to stay hidden. Lyssa adjusted the strap of her bikini—a daring assembly of crimson and black patterns that clung to her with an audacity matching her own. The material wasn’t loud, but it had its own voice. Much like Lyssa herself.
The soft chords of a lo-fi song hummed from the speaker by the window. It was past midnight, and the city outside was an orchestra of muffled honking, bursts of laughter, and the occasional distant siren. But none of that noise reached the cocoon of her bedroom. Tonight was hers, though she hadn’t anticipated company. Not like this.
A knock rapped on the door, steady but unsure. Lyssa glanced down at herself, smirking. Who knocks nowadays? She padded to the door barefoot, her curls bouncing freely with each step. Before opening it, she hesitated, her fingers brushing the brass doorknob. Cleo always said her hesitation would kill her one day. Cleo, whose tattoo was the one thing Lyssa had swiped for herself—a pair of minimalist wings etched on Lyssa’s thigh, feather-light and permanent.
When she finally opened the door, her smirk froze. It wasn’t Cleo waiting on the other side, but Kieran. And Kieran didn’t knock unless something was wrong.
“We Need to Talk”
“What are you doing here?” Lyssa’s voice steadied itself, though her pulse sprinted miles ahead.
Kieran stepped inside without an invitation, tall and wiry, his usual bravado muted by whatever storm he’d brought in with him. He glanced around the room, his eyes dipping to her tattoos before finding safe harbor on the patterns of the bikini. She crossed her arms, though it did little to cover anything.
“You didn’t answer my message,” he said, his voice edged. Not angry exactly, but close.
“And you can’t take a hint that I don’t want to get involved.” She walked past him, grabbing a silk robe from the chair by her desk. There was something about Kieran that worked its way under her skin and stayed there, unresolved and buzzing like a second heartbeat.
“It’s Cleo.” The words froze her midway through tying her robe. Lyssa turned to him, her expression leveling out like the ocean before a storm.
Shadows from the Past
“What about Cleo?” Lyssa whispered. Her lips suddenly felt dry; she licked them without thinking, memories flooding in unbidden. Cleo’s laughter, like a bell in the wind. Cleo’s hands tracing lines down her back in a whirlwind of stolen nights. Cleo’s lies, like poison wrapped in velvet promises.
“She’s back,” Kieran said. Two words, cold steel that sliced through the warmth of the room. His blue eyes, sharp as broken glass, watched her for a reaction. Lyssa didn’t give him one, not right away.
“Good for her,” she said after a beat, brushing her curls behind her shoulder. “But that has nothing to do with me. Cleo’s ghosts aren’t mine to mess with anymore. If that’s all you came to say, then—”
“She asked about you,” he interrupted. “And her asking about you usually comes with… consequences.”
The Scar and the Ink
The tattoo on her thigh seemed to burn. Cleo’s voice echoed in her head: “Someday, I’ll be the wings that pull you out of the fire.” The irony wasn’t lost on Lyssa that Cleo had been the fire all along. That didn’t stop her from wanting to leap in anyway.
“Why now?” Lyssa asked, her voice barely audible. She clenched her fists at her sides, nails pressing crescents into her palms. “She walked away. She left, Kieran. She made her choice.”
“She’s different now,” Kieran said, though his tone betrayed the confidence of his words. “Look, I came to warn you because…” He trailed off, staring at the salt lamp’s glow like it might keep him from saying too much. “She said things would be different this time.”
Lyssa snorted, a sharp sound laced with bitterness. She stepped so close to Kieran that she could see her reflection in his eyes. “Different doesn’t erase the blood, Kieran. Or the lies. Or…” Her voice cracked, but she swallowed hard, refusing to let it show. “You can leave now. Tell her I said good luck.”
A Voice from the Darkness
Kieran didn’t argue. He left as suddenly as he came, closing the door behind him with a strange sort of finality. Lyssa stood there for a long moment before letting her legs give out beneath her. She sank to the floor, her back pressed to the cold surface of the door.
When the first tear slipped down her cheek, she laughed bitterly, flipping the switch on the salt lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Her phone buzzed beside her. She grabbed it without enthusiasm, scrolling through two missed texts from Kieran.
But it was the third message—from an unknown number—that unraveled her completely. A photo. A pair of wings tattooed on someone’s back. Smaller than hers. Intimate. Familiar.
Below the photo, five words. No context. No signature.
“I told you I’d return.”
The source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: The Ultimate Red Glow-Up: Contemporary Chic Meets Bold Confidence
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