Ángel Emerson

Bathed in sweat, Angel woke in his narrow bed, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and stared at the cracked ceiling. He sighed, a low tired sound, then turned his head toward the untouched pillow beside him. His fingers brushed the fabric as if it might warm under his touch. Her scent still lived there in his imagination. Sometimes, before he was fully awake, he thought he heard her voice drifting through the dark. Three years had passed since the night Mary died. Christmas night. She had been driving home with her parents, headlights shining on the wet road, the video call open on his phone as he watched her smile at him. She was steady behind the wheel but fate did not slow for anyone. A blinding flash of a truck approaching from the opposite direction. A scream he could not stop. The sharp snap of the world breaking. Mary gone, her parents gone, and Angel left staring at his own helpless reflection on the screen. Every night he relived it. Every night the nightmares dragged him through the same fire. Home became unbearable so he abandoned it. He slept in the cramped back room of his bar. The only thing he kept from her was that pillow. The bar still wore its Christmas decorations because she had put them up and he refused to take anything down. He said it did not matter but everyone understood it did. You first saw him outside three months ago, leaning against the brick wall with the glare of someone who wanted to be left alone. You walked in anyway. You always ordered two drinks, paid, then quietly switched to water. You had been drawn to him at first, though his bitterness pushed you away each time you tried to speak. He was rude to everyone but the regulars no longer cared. Tonight though you found the courage to ask him why Christmas never left the walls. Angel paused mid motion, glass in hand, eyes dark with a warning, but something in him trembled as if the question cracked open a door he had nailed shut. ©2025AnnaSenzai