Clara pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, leaving a trail of raindrops across the threshold. The late evening downpour had soaked her to the bone; water dripped from the hem of her coat and darkened the hardwood floor of her apartment entryway. She paused, catching her breath. Behind her, the door clicked shut, muffling the outside storm to a dull patter against the glass panes. In the sudden quiet, she could hear the slow tick of the living room clock and the soft hiss of rain beyond the walls. A warm, golden lamplight spilled out from the living room, beckoning her further in out of the gloom.

  She slipped off her shoes and hung up her damp coat on the nearest hook. The fabric was cold and heavy with rain, and her fingers felt stiff and bloodless as she fumbled with the buttons. A shiver coursed through her as the warmth of the apartment finally reached her skin. It was a modest flat, cluttered but cozy - her sanctuary high above the city streets. Clara inhaled deeply; the familiar scents of home wrapped around her: old paper and vanilla from the candles she'd burned earlier, a trace of dried lavender, and underneath it all the petrichor she'd carried in on her clothes.

  In the living room, the soft light of a single brass floor lamp cast a gentle glow over overflowing bookshelves and the dark green leaves of potted plants. Shadows pooled in the corners, but the golden light made the space feel smaller, safer. Outside the tall windows, the city skyline glittered through the rain. Raindrops streaked the glass, turning the view of distant high-rises into a watercolour of blurred amber and red lights. Clara paused by the window, touching the cold pane with her fingertips. Far below, car headlights coursed along slick roads and the occasional honk or whoosh of tires on wet pavement rose up to her ears. Up here, it felt like another world - hushed, illuminated by a soft glow while the storm raged on the other side of the glass.

  On the coffee table lay an open book facedown next to an empty teacup, evidence of the afternoon she'd spent reading to calm her restless mind. A woolen blanket was draped half on the couch, half on the floor, where she had tossed it aside in a hurry to chase the thoughts that had driven her out into the rain. Now those thoughts had stilled, at least for the moment, and only a gentle ache of melancholy lingered in her chest. Clara absentmindedly ran a hand through her damp hair, pushing back the tangled dark-blonde strands that clung to her cheeks. She noticed a withered brown leaf from one of her walks earlier caught in the ends of her hair, and she carefully plucked it free, setting it on the sill.

  Her gaze drifted to a small glass dome on the shelf near the window – one of her cherished insect displays. Inside, pinned carefully on a velvet backing, was a large swallowtail butterfly she had preserved years ago. Its once-vibrant wings were frozen open, midnight blue and iridescent green marked with crescents of orange. In the lamplight, the insect's delicate form cast a tiny silhouette on the shelf behind it, a perfect stillness amid the gently swaying shadows of the plants. Clara's lips curved in a faint, private smile. Even in death, the butterfly retained its gentle beauty, eternally at rest as though in quiet reverence. That peaceful permanence was something she loved – a life snatched from the maw of decay and preserved, not gone but transformed.

  Cradling that thought, Clara finally turned away and headed for the bathroom, shedding clothes as she went. Her muscles protested the day's tension, and the chill of the rain still nipped at her heels. A hot shower would wash it all away – the cold, the clinging damp, and perhaps the remnants of whatever sorrow had trailed her home.

  Steam billowed around her as the shower's hot water pelted her skin. Clara closed her eyes and tilted her face into the stream, letting the heat unclench her taut muscles. The bathroom light was low and honey-colored, turning the clouds of steam golden. As she lathered away the chill, she tried to empty her mind. The rain had washed some of her heaviness away, but not all. Here in the quiet rush of water, with the pipes humming a steady chorus, she finally allowed herself a moment to feel the day's weight slip from her shoulders.

  When she emerged at last, skin pink from the heat, Clara wrapped herself in a thick towel. She wiped a circle of condensation from the mirror above the sink and met her own gaze in the glass. A pair of hazel eyes flecked with gold stared back at her, the flecks catching the light like embers.

  For an instant, in the wavering candle-like glow of the bathroom, her eyes looked almost strange to her – bright and searching, set beneath the strong arch of dark brows that gave her an air of intensity she didn't always feel. Her high cheekbones were flushed softly from the hot water, accentuating the hollows beneath, and a few freckles stood out on the bridge of her nose. Damp strands of her dark-blonde hair clung to her neck and temples; in this light the ashen tones in it shone cool and silvery against her warmer skin. She tucked a loose lock behind her ear and exhaled slowly. There was a fragility to the woman in the mirror, wrapped in a haze of steam, but also a quiet resilience in the set of her jaw and the steady way those hazel eyes did not look away.

  Clara allowed herself a small, bolstering smile – a gesture only her reflection would see. She looked tired, yes, a little haunted around the eyes, but she was alive and here, in the safety of her home. That was something. The worst of the day was behind her.

  Clara had just slipped into a cotton robe and was towel-drying her hair when a faint thump echoed from the living room. She froze, heart leaping into her throat. Had she left a window open? Another muffled sound – a floorboard creaked under a shifted weight. Clara's pulse pounded; she edged toward the hallway, clutching her robe tight.

  Suddenly a dark shape loomed at the end of the corridor. Clara gasped, but then the figure stepped into the lamplight. It was Jack, his tall, broad-shouldered form unmistakable as he moved out of the shadows. He lifted his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, hey, it's just me," he said softly.

  Clara pressed a hand to her chest. "Jack! You scared me," she exhaled, feeling her racing heart begin to slow.

  "Sorry," he replied, not sounding particularly sorry. His blue eyes flicked over her, taking in her damp hair and the wary look on her face. "I let myself in. You didn't answer your phone." He held up his key ring – a copy of her apartment key dangled there, glinting.

  She nodded, swallowing the last of her surprise. "I was in the shower. I didn't hear it. What are you doing here so late?"

  Jack stepped closer, the faint scent of his cologne – cedar and something smoky – mixing with the humidity that still clung to her skin. "It's nearly midnight, Clara. I was worried. You said you were just going on a short walk hours ago, and then you vanish in a storm." There was an undercurrent of reproach beneath his concerned words.

  "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I should have let you know I was okay. I just... needed some air. I lost track of time."

  He studied her for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. A droplet of water fell from the end of one of her wet strands onto the hardwood, catching his attention. "Clearly," he said. "Look at you. You're soaked. You could've caught pneumonia or worse out there."

  "It wasn't that cold," Clara replied, pulling the robe tighter around herself. The sleeve brushed against a side table where a small tray held her tools from an unfinished project – fine pins, tiny forceps, and a magnifying lens. She saw Jack's gaze dart to it and then to the glass dome with the butterfly by the window. He shook his head lightly.

  "You and your little curiosities," he sighed, a tone caught between affectionate and derisive. "Most people pick flowers or take photos on their nature walks. You bring home dead insects."

  Clara felt a prickle of defensiveness but kept her voice even. "You know why I do it. They're beautiful to me, Jack. They deserve to be preserved."

  "If you say so," he muttered. His eyes lingered on the swallowtail under glass. "Beauty is a matter of opinion." There it was – that familiar edge of condescension she had hoped he might temper tonight.

  She lowered her gaze, unwilling to be drawn into this debate yet again. "I am sorry I worried you," she offered quietly.

  Jack ran a hand through his damp hair – he must have come through the rain himself to reach her. "It's fine," he said after a pause. "I just... next time, shoot me a text or something, alright? So I don't sit here wondering if you've been struck by lightning."

  "Alright," Clara agreed softly. She could hear the weariness in his voice, and something else unspoken: he had been afraid for her, and it had soured into irritation.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "I picked up dinner on my way over. It's probably cold by now."

  Only then did Clara notice the takeout bag sitting on the coffee table amidst her books. A pang of guilt and gratitude washed over her. "You didn't have to do that."

  "I wanted to." He shrugged. "But you weren't here."

  "I'm sorry," she said again, stepping forward. She reached out to touch his arm lightly, but he was already turning toward the kitchen.

  "It's fine. Let me warm it up," he said curtly.

  A few minutes later, they sat together on the small loveseat, sharing the reheated soup and bread in subdued silence. The rain tapped against the window as an awkward third presence. Clara sipped her soup, warmth spreading through her, but her stomach was tight. She knew Jack's quietness was not calm but suppressed frustration.

  After dinner, Jack gathered the empty bowls and took them to the sink. Clara trailed after him with the takeout containers. "Thank you for this," she said gently.

  He nodded without looking at her. "Sure." He ran water over the bowls. "I was looking forward to seeing you tonight, you know. You could have called."

  Clara bit her lip. "I know. I'm sorry." It was all she seemed able to say.

  Jack dried his hands and finally met her eyes. His own were cool, shadowed by both the dim light and whatever emotions he held in check. Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing just below her eye. The gesture was tender, but something in his touch felt off-balance – a mix of care and quiet reprimand.

  "You know I worry because I care, right?" he said softly. "I just want you safe."

  "I know," she whispered, leaning into his hand despite the faint chill of his skin.

  He gave a small, tight smile. "Alright. Let's not dwell on it anymore. It's late. You must be exhausted."

  Relief mingled with lingering unease in Clara's chest. She nodded and managed a faint smile in return. "Yes. It's been a long day."

  They turned off the lights one by one, until the apartment was lit only by the occasional flash of lightning filtering through the curtains. In the bedroom, Clara changed into a clean nightshirt and slid under the covers. Jack was already in bed, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. When she settled beside him, he turned onto his side away from her, muttering a quiet "Good night."

  "Good night," she replied to his back. She stared at his silhouette in the dark for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of his breathing as it slowed into the rhythm of sleep. He fell asleep so easily, she thought. As for her, rest did not come right away. Her mind kept cycling through the events of the evening – the solitary walk through the rain, the moment of peace with her butterfly collection, the flash of hurt when Jack dismissed her passion yet again. In the silence, she could admit only to herself how lonely she felt lying next to him.

  Clara listened to the rain and Jack's breathing until both sounds blurred into a low, indistinguishable lullaby. Eventually, her eyes grew heavy. She drifted off, the darkness of the room folding gently over her, carrying her into uneasy dreams.

  She did not remember slipping fully into sleep, but suddenly she was there, in the midst of a dream that felt disturbingly real. Clara found herself lying on a cold, hard surface in a dark room. Overhead, an old surgical lamp hung from the ceiling, its round glass eyes flickering to life one by one with a harsh electric hum. Light flooded down, blinding her. She squinted and tried to raise a hand to shield her face, but discovered she couldn't move – her arms were strapped, or pinned, to the table beneath her.

  Panic surged as she rolled her head to the side. The room beyond the circle of light was shrouded in shadows. White tiles lined the walls, stained and cracked with age. The air smelled of bleach and something metallic, like old blood. In the peripheral darkness she sensed a shape, the outline of someone – or something – standing just beyond the reach of the light, watching.

  Clara's breaths came quick and shallow. She struggled against the invisible bonds holding her down. Her skin prickled with terror. Somehow, in the illogic of the nightmare, she knew this place. It felt like a laboratory turned tomb, a place where living things were stilled and preserved. On a metal tray beside her lay objects that gleamed under the unforgiving light: a row of delicate steel instruments, scissors and forceps like the ones on her workbench – only these were human-sized, meant for surgery.

  She tried to speak, to call out to the figure in the shadows, but her voice wouldn't come. A thick, suffocating silence pressed on her chest. When she managed to part her lips, a moth fluttered out and flew upward toward the light – a great black moth with a skull-like pattern on its back. Clara watched in horror as its wings beat frantically against the burning bulb.

  In that moment of distraction, she felt a sharp, sudden pain pinning her right hand. She jerked her gaze down and saw a long entomology pin spearing straight through her palm, fixing it to the table. Warm blood oozed around the pin's shaft, trickling onto the metal surface. Heart pounding wildly, she tried to scream but only a choked gasp emerged. Another pin appeared, as if placed by unseen hands, driving through the flesh of her left hand. She was pinned like one of her specimens, splayed out and voiceless.

  Above her, the moth continued to circle the light in a frenzy. With each rotation, its fluttering wings cast fleeting shadows across Clara's face. The figure in the corner stepped closer, finally entering the edge of the light. It was a man in a surgeon's coat splattered with ink-dark stains. His face was obscured by a surgical mask – except for his eyes. They were blue and coldly familiar.

  "Jack?" Clara tried to say, but no sound passed her lips. The man tilted his head as though considering her, then reached for a scalpel on the tray. The overhead lamp reflected off the blade, sending a lance of white light into her eyes.

  Clara's chest constricted; she thrashed against the pins, pain jolting up her arms. The man leaned over her, bringing the scalpel to the hollow of her throat with clinical calm. Tears of panic leaked from her eyes, hot and silent. Above, the moth suddenly dive-bombed the light, hitting it with a tiny thud. The bulb burst in a shower of sparks and glass.

  Darkness swallowed the room.

  Clara fell into that darkness, finally finding her voice in a raw, visceral scream-

  -and she woke with a lurch, the scream still echoing in her mind.

  She shot upright in bed, gasping for air as though she'd been drowning. Her heart was hammering so violently she thought it might crack her ribs. It took a disoriented second for her to remember where she was. The faint outline of the dresser, the window, the sleeping form next to her – all emerged from the night's haze. Home. She was home, in her own bed.

  Beside her, Jack stirred. He made a low groan of groggy annoyance and lifted his head. "Clara? What the-are you okay?" His voice was thick with sleep and edged with irritation.

  Clara pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the sob that threatened to escape along with her breath. She couldn't speak yet. The terror clung to her, a cold sweat on her skin.

  Jack reached out and placed a heavy hand on her back. The gesture was meant to be soothing, perhaps, but it felt perfunctory. "Another nightmare?" he mumbled, already sounding half-asleep again.

  She managed to whisper, "Yes... I'm sorry I woke you."

  He was silent for a beat. Then he exhaled and lay back down. "It's okay. Just try to get some rest." His hand lingered a moment on her back, then patted it awkwardly and withdrew. In seconds he had rolled over, pulling the duvet up and distancing himself from the damp chill of her sweat-soaked skin.

  Clara drew her knees up to her chest and ran her hands over her face and arms, as if to assure herself she was whole. No pins. No blood. Just a dream, she reminded herself firmly. It was just a dream. Her palms still stung with the phantom pain where, in the dream, they had been impaled. She flexed her fingers, swallowing back a wave of nausea.

  There was no chance of slipping right back into sleep now. Her mind was too bright, too raw. Gently, she pushed aside the covers and rose from the bed. Jack's breathing had already evened out, soft snores replacing any fleeting concern he might have had. Clara didn't begrudge him the return to sleep; in truth, she was relieved not to have to explain further or relive the nightmare aloud.

  The apartment was ink-dark and silent beyond the bedroom. Clara padded barefoot into the living room. The rain had stopped at last. Through the window, the city was a quieter reflection of its daytime self – damp streets gleaming under streetlights, the sky a deep charcoal smudged with the last remnants of cloud. She stood by the window and rested her forehead against the cool glass. The chill felt grounding, real.

  In the dimness, shapes of familiar things emerged: the outline of the couch, the tall bookshelves, the trailing ivy and fern hanging in the corner. Her eyes adjusted, and there on the shelf she could make out the pale shape of the butterfly under its glass dome, faintly illuminated by the city's glow. Clara stepped over to it. For a moment she simply stood, one arm wrapped around herself, the other reaching out to touch the cool glass. The swallowtail was as she'd left it – wings open in eternal flight, serene and unchanging. Her fingertips left small foggy prints on the dome's surface.

  "I'm alright," she whispered to the butterfly, to herself. Her breath misted the glass. The specimen naturally made no response; it simply existed in its perfected stillness. In that silence, Clara found comfort. The nightmare's horrors began to ebb from her mind, receding like a dark tide.

  To preserve something was to save it from the ruin of time, to hold it in a gentle embrace of forever. That was what she did for these creatures. Perhaps, in a way, it was what she longed for herself: a sense of peace, a way to transcend fear and sorrow. Clara closed her eyes and let the thought settle. She felt the solidity of the floor beneath her feet, the steadiness of her own heartbeat slowing to a calmer rhythm. The quiet of her apartment enfolded her like a familiar cloak. She was alone here in this midnight moment – and she was safe.

  After a while, Clara returned to the bedroom. She slipped under the blankets as soundlessly as she could. Jack didn't stir. Lying on her back, she stared at the faint pattern of shadows on the ceiling cast by the city lights filtering through the curtains. The worst of the night had passed. She would endure, as she always did.

  Clara turned onto her side, away from Jack's sleeping form, and closed her eyes. In her mind, she held the image of the swallowtail's gentle ivory wings, remembering how they had glowed in the lamplight like bits of stained glass. That memory settled over her, quiet and soft. It carried her into a dreamless sleep at last.