Heian didn't ask where she had gone in her mind.
But he knew. Her silence that morning wasn't soft. It was coated—in memory, in ghosts.
She wore one of his old button-down shirts, sleeves rolled, nothing underneath. The hem teased the tops of her thighs as she stood in front of his newest painting—her body, still incomplete.
He watched her from behind the easel.
"You ever think about the ones before me?" she asked, back turned.
"I try not to," he answered.
"I do," she said. "I think about the one before you. A lot."
She ran her finger down the paint's wet edge. A red stroke. Not blood. Not yet.
"She carved into me," Liora whispered. "With more than her hands."
Heian put the brush down.
"What did she do?"
Liora turned. No makeup. No mask. Just that quiet defiance that made her look more alive than anyone in his memory.
"She made me believe pain was affection. That love needed to be earned through silence and obedience. I thought the bruises meant she noticed me. I thought her hands around my throat meant she was afraid to lose me."
"And now?" he asked.
"Now I know better," she said. "Pain doesn't mean love. But it makes me feel real."
She walked over, stood inches away from him.
"So don't fall in love with me, Heian. Don't hold me after. Don't kiss me like I'm breakable. I don't need you to fix me."
"Then what do you need?"
She took his hand, placed it flat against her chest, over the beat of her heart.
"Break me worse than she ever did. But this time… make it beautiful."
His jaw tightened.
And in that moment, Heian knew:
She wasn't a muse.
She was co-author of the violence.
——