“People talk about scars like they’re symbols. Like they mean something—strength, survival, pain overcome. But most of mine don’t mean anything. They’re just there. Stamped into skin the way rain etches stone: slowly, quietly, and without asking.

  Some days I forget how I got them. Other days, I remember too clearly.

  The belt. The silence. The careful footsteps. The way the air used to change when the door opened. Those things don’t leave you… they settle in. They make a home out of your bones.

  I used to flinch at every loud voice. I used to think if I stayed small enough, quiet enough, he’d stop. That never worked. And when he finally did stop, it wasn’t because he grew out of it. It was because he was dead.

  I should’ve felt free. I didn’t.

  I’ve learned not to hope. Hope is a soft lie… it reaches out like light through fog, just long enough to make you think you’re safe. But it always fades. The good days slip past, half-formed and vanishing, and what’s left is colder than before. I don’t expect warmth. I don’t expect anyone to care. You learn not to when the silence lasts long enough.

  But life doesn’t care about the systems you build to stay untouched.

  And one day—without warning—it rips them away.”

  The apartment above the laundromat always smelled like detergent and warm metal. I didn’t mind it. It’s clean in the way machines are. Predictable. Better than the places that smelled like people.

  The clock on the wall’s been stuck at 5:12 for months. I honestly don’t know why I bother looking at it.

  “Still broken,” I say.

  Breakfast usually just consists of hot coffee and a smoke while I fumble with the heater. It always flickers repeatedly before giving out.

  “You’re consistent, at least,” I mutter.

  There’s a shelf by the door with paint cans lined in a row. My handwriting on each: Living Room, Unit 4C. Back Hall, Redwood Flats. Not memories. Just surfaces I covered. Places that used to be something else.

  I run my finger across one of the lids, leaving a streak in the dust.

  “Still here,” I say, quieter this time.

  It takes eleven minutes to walk to work. Eight if I don’t stop at the mural I painted not too long ago.

  The blue near the bottom edge started peeling.

  “Looks like I should’ve added that sealer after all.”

  I don’t fix it. I just keep walking.

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  There’s a crack through the center of the eye I painted on that wall. A spiderweb fracture I don’t remember being there.

  The shop smells like pigment and time. Fan decks, samples, old machines that rattle when they wake up. Everything’s where it should be as I once again find myself in the only place filled with color.

  I flip the lights. Tie the apron behind my back. Someone left a sample book open again. I close it without a sound.

  “Every goddamn time,” I mutter.

  Dry pigment dust clings to the counter. I brush it off with the side of my hand.

  Customers drift in.

  A woman holds up two white swatches. “Is this one warmer?”

  I glance at them. “Depends on your taste.”

  She doesn’t say anything else as I slowly walk back to the counter.

  A guy slides a paint chip across the counter. “Flat okay?”

  “For showing every fingerprint you’ve ever made? Sure.”

  He doesn’t laugh. I don’t smile.

  Lunch is half a cigarette behind the shop. Back against the wall. No one joins me. I don’t invite them.

  The day continues on until closing. I’m the only one left in the store, as usual.

  A sigh escapes from my mouth.

  “Same old, same old.”

  The silence that comes when the shop closes isn’t something I’m unfamiliar with.

  In fact, it’s the only comforting thing I look forward to.

  “Wish it was always this quiet during business hours.”

  As soon as the words left my mouth, I froze.

  Something’s off.

  There’s no sound, but not in the usual way. Not just silence—but stillness. Like the air itself forgot how to breathe.

  A flicker. Not from the lights, but from something in my periphery.

  When I turn, she’s already there.

  Standing barefoot in the middle of the store.

  I didn’t hear the door. Didn’t hear footsteps.

  She’s just there.

  Her black dress hangs loose against pale skin, and her arms dangle unnaturally straight at her sides. No shoes. No bag. No expression—except for the smile. A horrible, stretched smile, too wide, like something drawn on.

  “Are you Averic?” she asks, her voice soft but clear.

  My mouth goes dry.

  “…Do I know you?”

  She tilts her head.

  I blink—

  She’s inches from me.

  Close enough to see the blood beneath her fingernails.

  And then I feel it.

  Her hand—piercing into my chest. Not with a weapon. Just her hand. Skin tearing. Ribs splitting. My knees nearly give.

  “Argh!” I scream, grabbing at her wrist, trying to pull her out of me, but she’s solid—immovable.

  Her breath smells like static.

  “Oh, Averic… that’s not something you need to know right now,” she whispers, giggling like a broken clock trying to tick.

  “Just go to sleep for now… my dear hero.”

  That’s the last thing I hear before the world collapses inward.

  (? 2025 joel Cartagena. All rights reserved.

  This chapter is part of the original work titled Aurora’s Never Ending Parabola. Do not copy, repost, or distribute without permission.

  If you see this story anywhere other than Royal Road under my name, it has been stolen.)