Ash didn’t decide to leave. Not really.

One day, she packed a weekend bag.

The next, she was standing in a borrowed kitchen that smelled of mould and something unfinished, holding strange keys and feeding a cat that refused to look at her.

She paid the bills. Replaced a cracked window. Learned which light flickered, which cupboard stuck like denial in a throat.

She learned the town by the bar, by the quiet, by the weight of the same walk home.

The pub had carpet that smelled like Fridays, and stools that held a history no one bothered to finish. Ash got a job. Poured vodka without questions. A barmaid with dry wit and a reputation she wore like lipstick.

Beautiful in a loose, undone way. Hair like it had been pulled through an open car window. A laugh that wanted to start fights. She lived like a rumour. Always on her way somewhere. Always already gone.

It was a Tuesday, and a blow in suggested a party. Big house. Flash. Ash should come. She said yes because saying no wasn’t in her vocabulary yet. The house was beautiful. Wide windows. Marble tiles. A pool that glowed from within like it had something to confess. Candles on the stairs. Music from everywhere at once.

The drinks flowed fast and hit harder. She sat by the pool on a beanbag, letting the night blur at the edges.

When she opened her eyes, someone was standing over her.

A woman dressed in green velvet. Still. The kind of stillness only people who are never surprised ever earn. She smiled, already amused by whatever answer might come. Hi, she said. I’m Mara. Ash squinted, still half dreaming. Sorry… what’s going on?

I think you’re lost sleeping beauty Mara said, looking around at the pool, the glasses, the silence settling in. Ash sat up. Alone. Mara glanced at the pool again. This is my place. She looked down at the glasses.

So. Are we having a drink then? Vodka? Veuve? Or have you finished it all? She smiled. I see you found my good glasses. Ash stood too fast. I should probably go. No, Mara said. Calm. Certain. Don’t leave now. They drank together.

Talked about nothing. Or maybe everything. They got wrecked the way people do when they still believe time is generous. They loved vodka. They loved venom. Sometimes you felt the bite. But it only left marks when protecting something.

They became sisters in the only way that’s thicker than blood. The aftermath. After the drink wore off. After the noise faded. After silence became more honest than conversation. Whoever the women had been before that night, they haven’t been since.

They carried many selves. Held different versions of each other. The caretaker. The sister. The one who stayed too long. The one who vanished without warning. As the years grew quieter, in the mirror of that house, those selves would visit.

The Panther. Power and poise.

The Gorilla. Too much, too loud, but always there.

The Raven. Counting. Remembering.

The Flame. Still burning.

The Cat. Headphones on, gone without leaving.

They weren’t phases. They weren’t mascots.

They are mirrors. They show up when we need them. We let them wear us. Just for the night. Or as long as it takes to survive. And when she finally looks, really looks, at the selves she’s gathered.

The cat stays.