When the morning came, Rose left the building in a hurry, moving so quickly that it almost seemed as if something invisible were chasing her. This was simply because she did not want to be caught in the awkward invitation of sharing an unwanted breakfast, especially one that she suspected would involve Kevin trying to strike up conversations she had no strength to entertain. She had already made a firm resolve deep inside her heart to avoid Kevin at all costs, because no matter how much she respected his kindness or his persistence, she was not interested in romance. Even if she were, she did not want to give him any false hope, knowing with absolute certainty that she could never reciprocate the feelings he held for her.
Her footsteps carried her to her apartment, which was not too far from the club. The short distance felt longer only because of her exhaustion, and the moment she pushed the door open and entered, she instantly headed straight to the bathroom without stopping. The water splashed against her tired body as she took a quick bath, trying to wash away the tension and the remnants of the night's work, but her body was already shutting down. As soon as she stepped out, she did not even bother with the small things she usually did, because she simply fell onto the bed and slipped into a heavy, almost dreamless sleep.
However, her sleep did not remain peaceful for long.
Rose suddenly found herself standing at the altar wearing a white wedding dress, the familiar structure of a church surrounding her, its tall walls and shadowy silence making her breathing uneven, and in her hands, she was holding a bunch of red flowers that seemed too vivid, almost unreal in the dim atmosphere. Her eyes were fixed on the doorway, and her entire being was focused on the silhouette of a person standing there, shadowed by darkness, waiting to be revealed. A bright, expectant smile curved her lips as she silently called out, her heart whispering a name, "Nick."
The shadow began to move, step after step, closing the distance, but still his face remained unclear. Rose felt her chest tighten with anticipation. When he finally inched closer, close enough for her to recognize him, her heart leapt in relief and joy for a moment, but the joy was crushed instantly by what she saw. He was holding his abdomen tightly, blood flowing between his fingers and staining his shirt, the dark red spreading quickly. Her face went pale as the horror of the sight consumed her.
"You killed me," the man said, his voice cutting through the silence of the church.
Rose immediately began to shake her head in denial, her lips parting in desperation as if she could erase the words by refusing them. But her eyes fell downward to her own hands, and what she saw made her tremble uncontrollably. The flowers she had been holding were no longer there, because in her right hand there was now a gun, and in her left hand there was a single red rose, its petals glistening like drops of blood.
"No, no, it wasn't me!" she cried out, her voice breaking in fear.
She dropped the items to the ground with a clatter and tried to run forward, desperate to reach him, desperate to prove her innocence, but no matter how much she pushed her body, something invisible was holding her back. It felt like chains made of air, unseen but powerful, wrapping around her and keeping her from moving, and the harder she struggled, the tighter they bound her.
A scream erupted from her, one filled with agony, pain, despair, and desperation, the sound echoing through the empty church like the cry of a broken and burning soul.
At that moment, Rose woke up, her body jolting upright as she panted heavily, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Thin drops of cold sweat rolled down her temples, and her skin felt clammy as if she had just stepped out of a storm. The images of the nightmare replayed vividly in her mind, haunting her with every blink, tormenting her like ghosts that refused to leave.
Her fingers dug deep into her palms until she injured herself, tiny pricks of pain blooming in her skin, but even that pain could not erase the far heavier ache clouding her heart. She pulled her legs close until her knees were pressed against her face, and she buried her head in between them, curling into herself as if she could make the nightmare vanish by becoming smaller. Her trembling hands went to her hair, pulling it tightly in frustration, while broken murmurs fell from her lips.
"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" she repeated over and over, her voice cracking each time, but let alone a single team, there was no trace of wetness in her eyes.
For almost ten minutes, she remained trapped in that endless cycle, but the blood, the gun, and the rose refused to leave her mind, clinging to her like demons that would not lift. At last, she threw the sheets aside, and with her unsteady legs, she staggered out of the bed and into the bathroom.
She turned on the tap and let the tub fill with water. As it filled, she left the bathroom and walked into the living room. She opened the fridge, took out a medium bucket of ice cubes, and carried it back. Without a word or even a sound, she poured the ice into the tub and stood silently as the water grew colder. She waited until the cubes melted completely, and then, without hesitation, she stepped into the tub and sank her entire body into the freezing water. Not a hiss escaped her lips, because it was as though her body had grown used to the icy torment.
Hours passed, and the day melted away until the evening came.
At exactly eight o'clock, Rose was already at Club Del Amore, standing where she was supposed to be. Her figure was neat and her expression calm, showing nothing unusual that could betray the chaos that had consumed her earlier. She walked towards the counter and was about to be handed an order for one of the tables when the manager stepped in, his eyes finding her immediately.
"Rose," he called.
"Yes, sir," she answered simply.
The manager studied her for a brief moment, his eyes narrowing slightly before he spoke again.
"For tonight, you won't be doing service on this floor."
Rose did not argue, but the faint frown on her face revealed her surprise and her mild displeasure. Still, she kept her lips pressed together, waiting for him to continue.
"An important person has requested you to be their exclusive waitress for tonight, or any other night they visit," the manager said firmly.
Rose remained silent, though her thoughts stirred uneasily, trying not to drift toward the possibility she suspected was behind this arrangement. After a pause, she asked calmly, "May I know who the person is, sir?"
The manager's eyes hardened as he looked at her, almost accusingly, and his voice carried a sharp edge when he answered, "That's not your business." He stepped closer, lowering his tone but filling it with warning. "Let me not catch you using underhanded methods, Rose. This is a reputable club, not a brothel."
Rose did not let anger rise within her, because she knew better, and so she only answered quietly, "I understand."
The manager's expression remained stern as he added, "It's the boss' suite. You better handle this carefully. If you make a mistake, you'll solely take responsibility."
With those words, he handed her the order for the club owner's suite and left without waiting for another word.
Rose stood still for a moment, holding the order, her mind putting one and one together, almost certain of the person who might be behind this, but she forced herself not to overthink. She adjusted her grip on the order, steadied her breathing, and without much ado, she walked toward the upper floor, ready to do her duty.
***
"They said, "It's okay to move on." But I never knew where "on" even was. Because not all ghosts haunt houses. Some haunt hearts."