Page 6 of Ashen Souls

I stood in front of my bedroom mirror for a moment.

Tonight, I didn’t reach for my usual black.

I chose deep red. The fabric skimmed my body without clinging: familiar enough to feel safe, but different enough to mean something.

I slipped into my boots and reached for my coat.

Outside, Vesbridge waited: wet stone and gold light, streets curving like they led somewhere else entirely.

I pulled my coat tighter and stepped into the dark.

The wine bar was everything you’d expect: low ceilings, copper fixtures, and bottles arranged like trophies. The air smelled of oak, citrus peel, and quiet money.

I arrived a minute early and found him waiting at a corner table.

He stood when he saw me. Tall. Trim. Dark hair. A tailored coat that probably cost more than my monthly groceries.

“Aveline,” he said, tasting the name as if deciding if it was expensive enough for his palate. His smile was quick and curated. “Wow.”

I knew that look. The one that said, You look better in person. It was supposed to be flattering, but always made me wonder what kind of tragic catfish he’d been expecting.

“Hi,” I said, offering the polished version of myself reserved for public consumption. “Luca?”

“It’s Lucas,” he corrected.

Ah. “Right. Sorry.”

He waved it off. “It’s fine. Most people shorten it anyway.”

Most people weren’t here, though. Only me.

Trying.

A server materialized. Lucas ordered before I could even settle in, without bothering to ask what I wanted to drink.

“Two Malbecs. And the charcuterie.”

Not a red flag. Just noted.

I opened my mouth. “Oh…”

“You like Malbec, right?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

I hadn’t said that. But it felt too small to correct. The kind of detail you let go because you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. The kind of detail that always ends up mattering.

“Sure,” I said softly.

“Perfect.”

“So,” he began once the server stepped away. “Tell me about you.”

The question should have felt generous. Instead, it exposed how reluctant I was to narrate myself on command.

“I’m in my final year.” I smoothed my napkin, focusing on the rough texture. “Literature major. Art history minor.”

His eyebrows lifted. “So you’re, like… creative.”

The word landed with a dull thud. Creative. Like I was a Pinterest mood board. Like my interior life could be neatly sorted into boxes labeled artsy, quirky, and probably cries at movies.