The dream always began with the smell of smoke, acrid and thick, clinging to the back of her throat like a physical entity. It was a scent memory so potent it could drag Elara from the deepest recesses of sleep, leaving her gasping in the cool, sterile air of her loft, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
Tonight, it was worse. The smoke was a living thing, coiling around her, its tendrils tightening, and then came the heat – a searing, unbearable wave that licked at her skin even through the layers of her duvet. She thrashed, a silent scream trapped in her chest, her hands flailing for purchase on something, anything, that wasn't fire.
And then, the face.
It swam into view through the orange-black haze, indistinct at first, like a watercolour left out in the rain. Features blurred, shifting, but the eyes… the eyes were always the same. Wide, filled with a terror that mirrored her own, and something else – a desperate, urgent plea. Whose face was it? A man? A woman? A child? The dream never offered clarity, only that fleeting, haunting image before the flames roared higher, consuming everything, even the ghost of that forgotten gaze.
Elara woke with a choked sob, kicking free of the tangled sheets. Her loathing for the expensive Frette linens, usually a small comfort, was acute in these moments; they felt like a silken shroud. She sat bolt upright, her breath coming in ragged spurts, one hand instinctively flying to the left side of her face, tracing the familiar, unwelcome terrain of the scar that snaked from her temple, across her cheekbone, to the delicate curve of her jaw. It was cool to the touch now, a stark contrast to the phantom heat that still radiated through her. Phantom pain, the doctors had called it years ago. There was nothing phantom about the memories it dredged up.
The digital clock on her bedside table glowed a mocking 3:17 AM. Too early to rise, too late to hope for any real peace if she tried to sleep again. The dream, or rather, the nightmare, had been her unwelcome companion for as long as she could remember, a shadowy echo of the night that had cleaved her life in two. The night of the fire. The night that had given her this permanent, unwelcome brand and stolen… something. Or someone. The details remained stubbornly out of reach, locked away in a vault of trauma her mind refused to open.
With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years, Elara swung her legs over the side of the bed. The polished concrete floor of her sprawling SoHo loft was cold beneath her bare feet, a welcome shock that helped ground her in the present. This was her sanctuary, her self-imposed exile from a world that had, in her youth, prized unblemished surfaces above all else. Here, surrounded by towering walls of exposed brick and the silent, waiting forms of her creations, she could almost forget. Almost.
Her studio occupied the far end of the loft, a vast space bathed in the pre-dawn glow of the city filtering through enormous arched windows. It was her true home, more so than the spartan bedroom or the minimalist living area. Here, amidst the scent of damp clay, metallic tang of welding tools, and the faint, sweet smell of curing resin, Elara was not the scarred recluse, but 'Anya' – the enigmatic sculptor whose works commanded astronomical prices and graced museums and private collections across the globe. Anya, whose true identity was a fiercely guarded secret, known only to her dealer and a handful of trusted assistants who prepped her materials and crated her finished pieces.
The anonymity was a shield, a necessity. It allowed her art to speak for itself, unburdened by the story etched onto her face. It allowed her control.
Tonight, the clay called to her. She didn't bother with the lights, navigating the familiar landscape of her studio by the ambient city glow. Her hands, strong and sure, found a fresh block of terracotta, its coolness a balm. She didn't have a specific form in mind, rarely did when the nightmares were fresh. Instead, she let the lingering emotions guide her fingers – the fear, the confusion, the phantom pain.
The clay yielded, shifted, took on shapes that were both abstract and achingly familiar. A twisted line here, reminiscent of a scream. A hollowed-out space there, echoing the void in her memory. And then, almost without conscious thought, her thumbs began to press and shape two indentations, deep and searching. Eyes.
The eyes from the dream.
She worked for hours, the city outside slowly stirring to life, its distant hum a counterpoint to the rhythmic slap and scrape of her tools against the clay. As the first true rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of bruised purple and soft rose, Elara stepped back.
The bust on the stand was rough, visceral. It wasn't a portrait, not in the traditional sense. It was an embodiment of terror, of a plea unheard. The features were still indistinct, a maelstrom of anguish, but the eyes… the eyes stared back at her, accusing, questioning.
A shiver traced its way down her spine, unrelated to the morning chill. Sometimes, she felt like an archaeologist of her own mind, digging through layers of forgotten earth, unearthing fragments of a shattered past. And sometimes, like now, she feared what she might eventually find.
A sharp, insistent buzz from the intercom shattered the quiet. Elara started, her hand jerking, nearly sending a delicate sculpting tool clattering to the floor. No one ever came to her loft unannounced. No one.
The phantom pain in her scar throbbed, a dull, insistent ache. An omen, perhaps, that the carefully constructed walls of her seclusion were about to be breached.