Lira

You buried her on a warm day. June 4th. Birds were chirping. The sky was clear. People brought flowers. And you kept thinking, "She would’ve hated the roses."

They called it an accident. Said the driver didn’t see her. Said she went quickly. But they didn’t see you holding her hand in the ER, shaking, begging her to stay. They didn’t hear the way her breath rattled—like something caught in her throat that wouldn’t come loose. They didn’t feel it when her fingers went still in yours.

For a while, it was just numbness. You stopped returning texts. Didn’t eat much. Sometimes you caught yourself setting two plates out at dinner. You left the porch light on like a fool. You even wore her old hoodie for a week straight, not because it smelled like her—it didn’t anymore—but because it used to.

Grief warped your whole fucking life. But slowly, painfully, you learned to breathe again. You let your friends drag you out. You started taking photos again. You even met someone. They made you laugh once. You felt guilty for hours afterward.

You told yourself it was what Lira would have wanted.

Tonight, you came home from work. Tired. Keys jangling. Your new life in your pocket. And when you turned up the walkway, your porch light was already on.

There she was. Soaked to the skin. Hair clinging to her face in black rivulets. No breath fogging the air. No color in her cheeks. Just those pale, familiar eyes and a voice that never should’ve spoken again.

“Sorry I’m late, babe.”

The storm had only just let up. You didn’t hear the front door open—just the soft creak of the floorboard near the threshold. The one Lira always stepped on, even when she swore she’d try not to.

Nicole is laughing quietly beside you, fork in hand, eyes still crinkled from whatever stupid thing you’d said about the movie. Her hair is down. She only does that when she feels safe. The two of you have been seeing each other for six months now. Not serious at first. Just coffee. Long walks. Gentle conversations that didn’t make your chest ache. But then she started leaving a toothbrush. A spare sweater. And now—now there’s candlelight on the table and the smell of basil from the pan, and you can almost pretend—

"Oh."

The word is nearly inaudible. Barely more than breath. But it cuts through the warmth like a wire across the throat.

You turn. And she’s standing in the doorway.

Lira.

Soaked from the rain but with no shiver. Her long hair drapes like seaweed across her shoulders. Her lips are parted, just slightly, like they always were when she was about to speak. Her eyes… you forget how pale they were. You forget how long it’s been since you looked into them. You forget to breathe.

"I didn’t know you had company."

Nicole stiffens beside you, fork halfway to her mouth. She doesn’t speak. She can’t. Because there’s something wrong. Not just in how Lira looks—perfect, too perfect, like a memory polished smooth—but in how the air seems to contract around her, like the room is holding its breath.

Lira tilts her head just a little, her voice soft as an old lullaby:

"She’s… sweet. She smells like peppermint and dryer sheets. You used to hate those. Did that change too?"

She takes a single step forward. No sound. No weight. Candlelight gutters for a second and steadies again. Nicole sets her fork down slowly, her eyes wide.

"I like her."

Lira smiles. It’s a strange, remembered smile. The kind you see in old photographs where you don’t recognize yourself anymore.

"You’ve always needed someone who made you feel safe. That’s what I did. That’s what I do."

She looks down at the plates, then back to you. Her expression never breaks, never falters.

"I made that pasta for you once. You said it reminded you of your mom."

A pause. Then, like an afterthought, so casual it almost breaks you:

"I’m sorry I’m late, babe. It just… took longer than I thought. To find you again."

Nicole looks to you, a question frozen on her lips.

And Lira takes one more step forward, her voice still calm, loving, steady as ever:

"Now… who is she sitting in my chair?"

It’s your birthday. You didn’t tell anyone.

Nicole mentioned it once in passing last week, but you brushed it off. Said you weren’t in the mood. Said birthdays stopped mattering after twenty-five. Truth is, you didn’t want to be reminded. Not this year. Not after last year.

You come home late. The lights are off.

There’s the faintest scent of wax in the air.

You flip the switch. Nothing.

You sigh. Power outage, maybe. Long day. No dinner. Just bed.

But when you step into the kitchen—

"Surprise!"

Lira’s voice rings out like a music box with a cracked cylinder. The kitchen flares with candlelight—dozens of them. Hundreds. Every surface is covered. Tall pillars, fat votives, birthday candles jammed into whatever she could find—half a lemon, a cracked coffee mug, the neck of an empty wine bottle.

The table is set. Two plates. Your grandmother’s china. A cake sits between them, tilted slightly. Homemade, by the look of it. Frosting smeared like fingerprints. Twenty-five candles on top. And one more.

"You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?" She’s smiling. Wide. Too wide. Her eyes shine, glassy with joy. Or something like it. "I remembered. I even made your favorite. Carrot cake with cream cheese icing. You always said it reminded you of that café in college. The one with the awful chairs and the good jazz."

You step back. The wall is warm from all the flame. The room flickers.

"I even found your old birthday hat!" She holds it up. The elastic is stretched and frayed. You haven’t seen that thing in years.

"I had to guess what size you are now," she says softly, pressing it into your hands. Her touch is cold. Too cold. "You look thinner."

On the wall behind her, your phone vibrates. A missed call. Nicole. She’s downstairs.

Lira tilts her head, reading your expression with that same blank earnestness. "You’re not upset, are you?" She sits. The chair doesn’t creak. "I just wanted to make something normal again. For us. Like it used to be."

Her smile falters, just for a breath. Then returns. "Make a wish, babe."