Page 125 of The Devil's Canvas

I push off the couch, unsteady from too many nights of nothing. Suddenly, I see it.

A flicker. Smoke curling at the edges of the room. A shift in the air, like something remembered how to burn again.

And suddenly, she’s there. Not an angel. Not a savior. A wound in the shape of a woman.

Ophelia. But not the one I remember. This isn’t the woman I danced with in darkness and firelight. She looks like something death forgot to finish.

Her eyes are sunken, ringed in exhaustion. Her hair hangs limp, tangled and dull. Her skin is pale, bruised in places, stretched too tight across bones that barely hold her together. She’s so thin it hurts to look at her.

Her arms are wrapped in haphazard bandages, but not enough to hide the damage. Deep cuts. Jagged scars. Burns. I catch a glimpse of her ribs—something carved there in desperation, in rage or sorrow or both. Above her heart, the mark. Mine. Still glowing faintly, barely clinging to her skin. The flesh around it is red and raw. Like she tried to rip it out.

She doesn’t speak, just stands there, shaking, more ghost than girl. And for the first time in months, the silence doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It feels like hers.

I get up and go straight to her.

I don’t even think. My body moves before my mind can catch up—like she’s gravity and I’ve been drifting too long without an anchor.

But when I stop in front of her, it hits me. The bruises. The scars. The way she’s barely holding herself up. The mark on her chest that still glows, flickering like a dying star.

And I realize—I don’t know what this is. A dream. A punishment. A reckoning.

She's here, but I don’t know how. This isn't how this happens. The mark flares to life and I see her. More importantly, I feel her. I feel power flood within in me. I know what this is. My abilities are back. And there is only one way that could happen.

"What did you do?" I ask in complete disbelief.

She doesn't say anything, but she does raise a brow. Like I should know. Like I should have an idea. The worst part is I do know. Maybe too well. She made a deal.

"What were the terms?"

"A fair trade. My soul for yours," she responds. Finally I get her to say something, but it's not what I want to hear.

The silence that follows is brutal. I feel it crush down on my chest like stone.

“I gave my soul so you could live,” I breathe, stepping forward. My hands are shaking now, fists clenched to keep from falling apart. “So you could breathe again. So you could stay.”

She laughs—sharp and wrecked. The kind of sound that doesn’t belong in her mouth.

“I couldn’t breathe, Julian,” she spits. “I couldn’t fucking breathe without you.”

Her hands fly to her chest, tearing at the fabric like she wants to rip the pain out physically. Her sleeves fall, and I see the damage. Deep, brutal, intentional. Not cries for help. Not hesitation. These were meant to end her.

My stomach twists.

“You call that living?” I ask, voice rising. “You call this surviving?”

“It was hell,” she screams. “Every day. Every second. Waking up and not knowing how to keep going. Talking to the walls, Julian. Whispering your name into the dark like it was a prayer no one ever planned to answer.”

She staggers back a step, like the weight of it all is finally too much. Her knees buckle, but she doesn’t fall. She’s trembling, breath ragged, eyes too wild. “You saved me,” she snarls. “And I died anyway. Just slower.”

She rips the bandage off her forearm—where the skin still bleeds—and holds it out like proof. “This is what I became without you. A ghost. A fucking corpse that kept waking up.”

“You were supposed to live,” I whisper, the words tearing out of me. “You were supposed to forget me. Move on. Heal.”

“I don’t want to heal!” she shrieks. “I want you. I wanted us. And if I couldn’t have that, I didn’t want anything.”

Her chest heaves. Her mouth opens, but no words come. Just that broken, strangled sound of someone who’s finally run out of grief to scream.

“You gave up your soul to save me,” she breathes, her eyes burning like she’s daring me to flinch from the truth. “And I gave up mine to bring you back.”

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