Location: A rented art studio in downtown New York
Time: Late Autumn, early evening
---
⌊ Alexander ⌉
The studio smelled like dust, cold clay, and freshly brewed coffee. The scent clung to my hoodie and settled in the lines of my palms. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, one of them flickering like it was on its last breath. The studio was the one luxury I allowed myself. The place wasn't fancy. The paint was peeling in places. One of the windows wouldn't open all the way. But the light was good, and the silence was better. I paid for it once a month using leftover scholarship money and shifts worked at a late-night café near campus.
I stood hunched over a block of limestone, the front of my hoodie smudged with white powder, my hair a wild mess of ink-black curls falling into my sea-glass eyes. I held the chisel like a conductor might hold a baton. Every strike was precise and filled with gentle thought and intention.
Tap. Tap.
A sliver of stone fell away, clicking softly as it hit the tarp-covered floor. It was quiet today. No classmates, no professor hovering behind me. Just the subtle rasp of metal over mineral and the slow ache building in my forearms. The piece in front of me was taking shape.
My hands, white with stone dust, hovered just inches from the sculpture. The face of my older sister stared back at me in immortalized silence. Her cheekbones curved like memory. Her lips were parted just slightly, as if she might say something if only I let her.
"Hi, kiddo. You forgot your gloves again."
I blinked and the phantom echo faded.
Rosalind Larson, gone exactly one year this week. I missed her dearly, but was relieved she wasn't suffering from breast cancer anymore.
I had sculpted her from a block of Carrara marble I couldn't afford, but bought anyway. I skipped meals for it. I even sold my game console to my frat boy roommate.
She was the last person who'd ever really seen me. Understood me. She called me art "magic" instead of weird. She used to bring me tea while I carved in the garage back home. Even in her last month in pain, she still found ways to encourage me—slipping art magazines into my bag, pressing her forehead against mine, and whispering, "Keep building beautiful things, Alexander. That's how we stay alive."
I exhaled through my nose. I really missed her. Ten years older than me, Rosalind was more like a mom than a sister. Since our parents died in a plane crash when I was nine, my sister had dropped out of college and took care of me. I owed her so much.
Tap. Tap. Chip.
The chisel bit into the marble again, this time around the base of her neck. I traced the line of the collarbone as if it were sacred scripture. Each movement was careful. My breath matched the rhythm.
The world outside the studio was loud. The sound of car horns, subway groans, and the occasional siren cuts through the afternoon. But in here, it was all stone and shape and memory.
I paused, wiping dust from my brow with the back of my forearm. My reflection caught in the streaked studio mirror: dark hair falling in my face, tired jade eyes, jaw clenched too tight. I looked older than eighteen, like I hadn't really been eighteen in a long time.
I lowered the chisel and just stared. My throat burned, but I didn't cry. I hadn't since the funeral. It was like the grief had been carved into me too, somewhere deep and unmoving.
"Happy birthday, sis," I whispered.
The sunlight dimmed through the skylight, shadows lengthening across the floorboards.
I stretched, brushing marble dust from my jeans, intent on grabbing a coffee from the rusting French press in the corner. My limbs ached from standing too long, and my fingertips felt raw from hours of chisel work. I didn't mind. Pain meant I was still here.
Just as I reached the counter, my phone buzzed, the screen lighting up against the wall beside the outlet.
Jason Calling...
I sighed, already bracing myself.
Jason was my college-assigned roommate. He was loud, careless, and somehow always had that smooth, charismatic attitude most college girls found attractive for only a short time.
With a resigned breath, I wiped my fingers clean on a rag and answered.
"Yeah?"
"Dude, where are you?" Jason's voice came in loud and slightly echoey, probably from the tiled bathroom we shared. "You're gonna miss the party!"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "What party?"
There was a dramatic scoff from the other end.
"The party, bro. Kyle's birthday rager. Half the dance team's already here. I swear Rachel brought, like, three girls who would absolutely climb you like a tree if you just showed your face."
I didn't answer right away. My eyes drifted back to the sculpture, my sister's gaze carved in quiet serenity. It made Jason's words feel even more absurd.
"I'm at the studio."
"Ugh, come on, man. You've been holed up there for, like, a whole day. I wanna see my best friend."
"Four and a half hours. Stop trying to guilt-trip me, it's not going to work."
"Same difference. You're gonna turn into a cryptid. Seriously, Alex. Come. Just for a little. You look like a vampire already, might as well show up and seduce someone with that whole tortured artist thing that's going for you."
I gave a humorless chuckle, turning to pour myself lukewarm coffee. "Not really in the mood to be someone's Halloween accessory, Jase."
There was a pause on the other end. Then, Jason's voice came spoke, softer this time. "Hey… you okay?"
That gave me pause. It was rare for Jason to pick up on anything under the surface. "I'm fine," I said automatically. It was too fast. Not even Jason would believe me this time.
"It's the anniversary, huh?"
My fingers curled around the ceramic mug tighter than I meant to. "Yeah."
"Shit. Sorry, man. I didn't realize—"
"It's fine." I stared into the coffee, but it offered no comfort. "Just needed to be here today."
A beat of silence entered the line.
"Well... if you change your mind, you know where to find me. I'll save you a shot and a bagel."
That made me snort faintly. "Bagels at a frat party?"
"We're high-class degenerates."
I let the silence settle like dust. "Thanks," I said finally. "I'll see you later."
I ended the call, placing the phone back on the stand. Outside, the city buzzed on. Tires on wet asphalt. Horns. The occasional shout. None of it mattered in the stillness of this room.
I took a sip of the bitter, slightly burnt coffee and walked back to the sculpture. Her eyes waited for me. Still and patient. The chisel returned to my hand like instinct. I planned to carve until the sun disappeared completely.
---
An hour later.
The air outside was crisp with that unmistakable smell of wet concrete and fading leaves. A drizzle had come and gone while I was sculpting, leaving puddles glistening under the amber streetlamps. My boots struck the pavement with dull rhythm, a quiet beat against the murmuring city.
I was going to the party. Not because I particularly wanted to. Or because Jason had guilt-tripped me. But because the alternative was going home, sitting in silence, and remembering the past.
I needed noise. Motion. Something to dull the edges of today.
My hoodie was dust-stained and smelled faintly of marble and metal. I kept my hands in my pockets as I weaved past crowds and late-night dog walkers, the canvas messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Inside was my sketchbook, a few charcoal sticks, and the same pencil my sister had bought me from the MET gift shop five years ago. I carried it like a relic.
"I'm sure it'll be fine," I muttered to the sky, barely a whisper. A cool breeze ruffled my dark hair as if in reply. Or maybe I just wanted it to be.
My apartment wasn't far. A third-floor unit in a rundown brownstone, shared with two roommates and a kitchen that hated being useful. The walk was only ten minutes, but tonight, it stretched longer.
The world felt still. Oddly so.
A streetlight flickered above me as I passed under. I glanced up. Another one buzzed. Then stabilized. I shook my head. "Weird."
Jason was gone by the time I made it home. The place smelled like cheap cologne and something fried that should not have been. Probably cucumbers. I remember Jason watching a TikTok video of someone saying fried cucumbers could increase vitality. Stupid.
I dropped my bag by the front door, heading straight to the bathroom. Peeling off my dusty clothes, I stepped into the cramped shower and let the water run hotter than necessary.
Steam clung to the cracked mirror as I stared at my own reflection. I have been told all my life that I was an attractive guy, but I always found my features to be a little too feminine. I have been mistaken as a girl a couple of times. My green eyes, after my sister's death, have become hollow. Like I haven't slept enough.
"Okay," I muttered, wiping condensation from the mirror. "You're alive. You're eighteen. You're going to a stupid party with idiots who can't even spell 'Beethoven.' And it's fine. You are going to have fun and forget about the fact that you longer have any family left."
I dressed in a plain black button-up, rolled the sleeves up past my forearms, and left the top two buttons open. No need to try too hard. My shoulder-length hair was still damp when I ran my fingers through it, letting it fall in loose waves across my brow.
Grabbing my black leather jacket, I paused by the front door. Looked back once, toward the little hand-carved wooden figurine sitting on my shelf. It was my sister's favorite. It was of a cat curled in sleep. I'd sculpted it when I was thirteen. She had said cats symbolized good luck, protection, magic, and—
I shut the door behind me. "Independence, huh? I guess it's something I need to figure out now."
The city hummed around me, low and alive. Taxis honked. Someone shouted about hot dogs. Music drifted from apartment windows above. Life was loud, and for once, I welcomed it.
I pulled out my phone, tapping out a quick text to Jason.
"On my way. Don't let Kyle vomit on me this time. Send me the address."
Three laughing emojis came back immediately.
I smirked, shaking my head at his stupidity.
Jason texted the address. It was a brownstone just off 47th, already pulsing with noise and cheap LED lighting spilling out of its windows like a rave-colored fever. The lawn was packed with students. Someone had duct-taped a strobe light to a broomstick and jammed it into the porch.
"Subtle," I muttered, ducking past a guy wearing a toga and two girls arguing about kombucha.
Inside, the place smelled like cinnamon whiskey, body spray, and overcooked pizza. Music thumped through the floorboards, a base-heavy beat that rattled the soles of my boots. The air was too warm, humid with bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder.
I almost turned back.
Then I spotted Jason near the makeshift bar, red solo cup in one hand and wearing sunglasses indoors again, and waving like he was landing a plane.
"ALEXXXXXXXXXX!"
I winced. "Please never say my name like that again."
Jason grinned, teeth bright in the glow of string lights. "Look who crawled out of his marble crypt! Come on, drink something that'll either change your life or kill you. Fifty-fifty."
"Pass," I said, taking a solo cup anyway. "What is this?"
Jason shrugged. "Mystery Punch. It's purple. That's all I know."
I sipped it. It tasted horrible. Like someone had melted a grape Jolly Rancher in vodka and regret.
"God, why did I come here," I muttered.
"Because your favorite roommate in the world guilt-tripped you. By the way…" Jason pointed across the room. "That girl's been eyeing you since you walked in. I think she has a thing for tortured artists."
I followed the gesture. A girl with short red hair and a constellation of glitter under her eyes was laughing with a friend, but she was looking my way.
She gave me a little curious smile.
I looked away, nonplussed. Not interested.
Jason laughed. "Smooth, bro. Real subtle."
"I'm not here for that," I muttered. College girls usually only wanted one thing at parties like these. I wasn't interested in a 'night of fun.'
Jason's grin faded, just a little. He nudged my shoulder. "Hey. I know today's hard. I really do. But you're here. That's something. Don't punish yourself for being alive, okay?"
I looked down into the purple slosh in my cup. "Do you really think this will help get my mind off things?"
Jason didn't seem to have an answer for that. Just stood silently beside me for a second.
"Come on," Jason finally said. "Let's do something stupid before I start crying like a drunk aunt at a wedding."
I smirked faintly. "What'd you have in mind?"
"Beer pong, dance floor, or rooftop sketching session where I throw grapes at you while you pretend to be brooding."
That got a soft laugh out of me. "You're a menace."
"I'm your menace, crypt goblin."
We wandered deeper into the party together, through music, laughter, terrible drinks, and half-lit conversations. I let it all blur around me, just for a while.
For a few brief, borrowed hours, I forgot about my sister's death.
I laughed when someone fell trying to twerk on a table. I let someone paint a glittery heart on my cheek. I even danced. Just a little.
When the clock hit 1:12 A.M, I was ready to go.
The party was still alive behind me. The bass thumping through brick walls, laughter bouncing off stairwells, someone shouting something about Taco Bell and heartbreak.
But I had enough.
My jacket smelled like smoke and cheap cologne, the faded glitter on my cheek now just a smudge. My breath rose in faint clouds as I stepped into the night air, cool and crisp.
"I'll see you tomorrow!" Jason had called from the porch, two cups in hand, sunglasses still on.
I just waved, too tired to reply.
My phone buzzed once with a text from Jason.
"That red-headed chick was wondering about where you went. I think she fell for that broody charm of yours 💀🖤"
I chuckled and shoved the phone back into my pocket.
The city had mostly quieted. The midnight rush had faded. Now it was just traffic lights cycling for empty streets, the distant wail of a siren, and the occasional splash of tires over puddles. I took my usual shortcut past the jazz club on Lexington, through the alley with the crooked lamp post, and out toward the school's campus.
I walked slowly, hands in my pockets, gaze half-lidded. My head was pleasantly foggy from exhaustion and maybe a little from the awful punch.
Above me, the stars barely peeked through the city haze.
My thoughts started to wander. It was still the weekend and my art assignment for Professor Rowan wasn't due till Wednesday. So I could take my sweet time with it. Professor Rowan asked his students to craft a mythical figure that symbolized what they held dear to them. I chose to sculpt the goddess Hestia in my sister's image. Hestia was the goddess of the home and family after all. I thought it was only fitting.
I was crossing the street when headlights blinded me. I turned my head, eyes widened in shock. There was no screeching of tires. No shouted warning. Just a brutal, jarring clarity in the final second as a black sedan swerved into the intersection, tires wet from rain, spinning out on the slick asphalt.
The impact was almost instantaneous. I didn't feel the pain, only a great pressure. A horrible, ripping silence. My body lifted and the world spun. Colors smeared into streaks. Something wet hit the pavement.
For a moment, I heard Rosalind's voice. Then there was nothing but darkness.