Chapter 2
1148 Words
Same eyes, same hair, same faint scar along her jaw, standing under rainlight, hand pressed to her chest. He was behind her before she heard him move.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, quietly.
She spun. “You painted me?”
“I don’t remember doing it.”
“That’s not possible.” Iris spat.
He stepped closer, the faintest trace of sorrow in his expression. “It shouldn’t be. Yet here you are.”
“How long have you…” she began.
“Four hundred years,” he interrupted gently.
“Give or take. I’ve seen faces I couldn’t forget. But never one I couldn’t explain.”
Her pulse raced, and for a moment, she could hear it again, doubled, echoing his.
That second heartbeat.
His eyes softened, and she realized he heard it too.
“What are you?” she whispered.
He smiled faintly, not cruelly, but with the sadness of someone who’s answered the question too many times. “Something that should not still exist.”
He turned as if to leave, then paused. “I won’t hurt you, Iris. But you should stay away from me.”
“How do you know my name? I never told you.”
“Because,” he said, meeting her gaze, “I’ve painted it before.”
Lightning flashed outside the gallery windows. For one heartbeat, both their reflections vanished from the glass. Then the lights flickered and he was gone. Iris stood alone, surrounded by silent portraits and the slow, steady thrum beneath her ribs.
Only one heartbeat this time.
But it felt lonelier than ever.
And in the dark, one thought refused to leave her:
She hadn’t found him. He had found her!
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Sleep came, but peace didn’t follow. Every time Iris closed her eyes, she saw him; that pale stranger with eyes like rain and the sound of her own heartbeat tangled with his. She woke breathless, hand pressed to her chest, half-expecting to feel another pulse beneath her ribs.
By morning, she’d convinced herself it was all imagination.
Until she found the bruise.
A faint mark bloomed at the center of her palm, right where she’d touched him under the bridge.
It wasn’t painful but warm.
Like a secret refusing to fade. That evening, she decided to return to the gallery. The portrait of herself was gone. In its place hung a new painting; a faceless man in shadow, his chest open, hollow where a heart should be.
The plaque read simply:
'The Hollow Man'. Arden Vale.
Her pulse jumped.
“Looking for me?” His voice came from behind her, calm but heavy with something unspoken. She turned slowly.
“You have a habit of disappearing.”
“And you have a habit of finding what should remain hidden.” He countered calmly.
His tone wasn’t cruel, just tired.
As if every word cost him more than breath. He looked different tonight, a little less unreal but natural. Maybe it was the dim light, or maybe she was finally seeing the fractures in the perfection.
“I shouldn’t have followed you,” she said quietly. “But I can’t stop thinking about…”
“The bridge,” he finished.
She nodded.
“And the heartbeat. I felt it again.”
His eyes softened, then darkened. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Why? What did you do to me?”
“I didn’t,” he murmured. “You did.”
Her chest tightened. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
He stepped closer, slow enough for her to retreat if she wanted. She didn’t.
“When you touched me, something old woke up,” he said. “For four centuries, I’ve walked this world hollow. My heart…” he placed a hand on his chest “...was silent. No warmth. No pulse.
No feeling. Until you.”
She searched his face, expecting mockery. There was none. Only quiet, aching sincerity.
“You expect me to believe you’re… what, cursed?” His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Cursed is a gentle word.” She crossed her arms, forcing logic to drown the chill running through her. “You’re talking like…” “Like a man who should be dead right ?” He met her gaze, and for a heartbeat she swore she saw it; the reflection of a centuries-long ache, the kind no human could carry.
Her voice faltered. “Then what are you?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped close enough that she could feel the cold radiating from him. “You felt it because we’re bound now. Your pulse woke mine. But it comes with a price.”
“What price?” He hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to her wrist where her veins pulsed softly. “Each beat you give me makes you weaker. The bond is taking root in you.”
“I don’t believe you,” she whispered, though part of her already did.
He tilted his head. “You will.”
The lights above them flickered, and his pupils dilated, a sudden, unnatural black swallowing the gray. For one breath, she saw something monstrous beneath the beauty: the predator that centuries had carved from humanity. Then he blinked, stepped back, and the illusion broke.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You shouldn’t see me like this.”
“Then stop running,” she said fiercely. “Tell me the truth.”
“The truth,” he said, softly, “is that you’ve given life to a dead heart. But love like that never ends kindly.” Her heart stuttered, a sharp ache, then two beats too close together.
He noticed. His expression shifted to fear.
“It’s starting,” he whispered. “You need to go.”
“Arden…” He reached out, touched her cheek — cold fingertips, trembling slightly. “Please.” And before she could speak again, the air shimmered — a flicker of motion too fast to see — and he was gone.
The gallery lights steadied. The room fell silent. Iris stood alone before The Hollow Man and touched the spot above her heart.
It was still beating.
But slower. And deep inside, beneath that slowing rhythm, she could hear another pulse whisper back.
He’s still there.
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A week passes and the thought of him never left her mind. It was raining again.
It always rained when she thought of him.
Iris sat on her apartment floor, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the small medical monitor she’d borrowed from work. The numbers blinked steady, her pulse, her oxygen, everything was normal. Yet every so often, the device flickered, catching a second rhythm that shouldn’t exist.
Two heartbeats.
Always for a second, then gone.
She pressed her palm to her chest.
“Arden,” she whispered.
The lamp beside her flickered once!
- Writer
