“I don’t want it to hurt,” he said. “You’ll scar.”
“Good.”
The brush moved across her ribs, iodine blooming into a bruise she hadn’t earned. Steam rose from the basin, smelling of salt and old metal.
In the mirror, her reflection lagged behind, still watching, a half-beat slow, mouth delayed, gaze unclaimed.
The woman watching him paint wasn’t the one he touched.
“It won’t fade,” he murmured, rinsing the brush.
She leaned forward, studying the reflection that refused to catch up.
“Keep going,” she whispered.
He did, steadying his hand, though she felt farther than the figure in the glass
About the Creator
Fatal Serendipity
Fatal Serendipity writes flash, micro, speculative and literary fiction, and poetry. Their work explores memory, impermanence, and the quiet fractures between grief, silence, connection and change. They linger in liminal spaces and moments.
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