She stood at the intersection where two streets met: one led home, the other to the bar.
It was colder now. Wind sliding through the gaps in her sleeves. Her fingertips were numb, but her mind was louder than the chill—arguing with itself, looping through the same old reasons to turn back.
You need rest.
You need sense.
You need food in your fridge that isn't a single half-rotten apple and a packet of instant noodles.
But instead of turning toward home, Ariadne just… stood.
The bar wasn't far—three blocks and a left past the mural of the woman with flaming eyes. It had become a ritual now. A strange sort of pilgrimage. She'd tell herself she was just passing by, just looking. But she always went in. And each time, she left with the same ache twisting tighter in her chest.
She wasn't even sure what she expected to find anymore. Just that face. That presence. The one that had haunted her nights for so long it had begun to bleed into her days.
She pressed her hands deep into her hoodie pockets, clenching the crumpled few bills left from her tips. A drink she didn't need. Another look from the bartender that said "Her again?" Another hour staring at the door like it held the secrets of the universe.
Her chest tightened. Maybe it really was just a dream. Maybe that man didn't exist. Maybe her brain—starved of rest and full of longing,had stitched him together from nothing. A beautiful lie to make the days less empty.
She turned toward home.
Took three steps.
Stopped.
Closed her eyes.
The memory of his eyes rose up unbidden,soft and intense, like he saw straight through her in that half-second before he disappeared.
A tremor passed through her.
Then, with the kind of sigh that came from somewhere deep and worn and stubborn, Ariadne turned back around.
Three blocks. Left at the mural.
Just one more time.