From the time Lyria could walk, something in her made life stop. She drifted through the brothel like a sliver of moonlight quiet, pale, and impossible to hold. The women called her "phantom child," for she moved without sound and left no trace. Her skin bore the faint glow of dusk, and her white hair shimmered like candle wax under moonlight.
At age eight, she had already begun to vanish. Into the hills behind Short & Sweet, she would go, barefoot and wild-eyed, slipping past the rusted back gate and disappearing into the thick brush. Hours passed. Sometimes days. When she returned, she carried no stories, only silence. Her hands dusted with pollen, her hair tangled with feathers or wildflowers always white ones.
No one knew where she went. She never said. Serina, the madam of the brothel and her mother, stopped asking after the third time. The girls whispered among themselves, wondering if the child was touched by spirits or some magic of the earth. There was something ancient in her eyes, grey like ash or fog and no one could look too long without feeling as though they were being seen, not just watched.
Gossip clung to Lyria like mist. Even the floorboards beneath her feet held breath when she passed.
It was a morning like any other. The air smelt of coal and cinnamon. Birds called from the roof like gossips in church. Serina, rising before the others, passed through the courtyard to find the back door ajar, swinging lazily in the breeze.
Curled in her usual spot beside it the night before had been Lyria, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, arms folded around her only doll, a headless rag-thing stitched from scraps of lace and old pillow linen. But that morning, she was gone. The doll was gone too.
Serina's stomach dropped. Maids were roused. The girls scattered, shouting her name into the hills, checking corners and crawlspaces. There were no footprints. No scrap of fabric, no sound. It was as though the girl had been plucked from the earth, erased by some hand that did not believe in closure.
Panic set in. For the first time in years, Short & Sweet fell into complete silence. Even the usual bustle of morning men tired, eager, smirking felt frozen. No moaning through the thin walls. No creaking beds. Just the tension of breath held too long.
Serina's heart pounded through her ribs. Her palms were slick with sweat. She stood at the window, eyes cast toward the trees. Twilight bled purple across the sky when the door creaked again. Lyria stepped inside. Barefoot. Calm. A few dried leaves clung to her curls. Her white hair caught the dying sun like moonlit silk. The doll was gone. In its place: a faint shimmer around her wrist, like a bracelet made of starlight and water.
Serina rushed to her, arms ready to embrace, then halted. Lyria looked… changed. Older somehow. Her skin glowed like polished amber. Her eyes no longer sought comfort they gave none. She looked around the brothel as if returning to a house she'd once visited, not a home. Serina said nothing. Neither did the child. They understood.
It was not long before the rumors returned but louder now. Not whispers, but sharp tongues.
Mrs. Kena, the preacher's wife, stormed into the brothel courtyard one hot afternoon, dragging her red-faced daughter by the arm. The child trembled, lips sealed tightly. Her mother's voice, however, split the air like a whip.
"Your daughter," Mrs. Kena shrieked, "taught my child… shameful things!"
Women froze mid-task. A tray clattered to the ground. Lyria appeared at the top of the staircase, watching like a still ghost behind the rails.
"Positions!" Mrs. Kena continued. "Pleasure! My child is ten! She said your demon-girl spoke behind the mango tree told her what men want. Said moans mean love!"
Serina's lips thinned. She pulled Lyria down beside her, hand trembling as it rested on the girl's back.
"What did you say to her?" Serina asked softly.
Lyria's voice was small, but steady. "She asked. I told."
That was all.
Mrs. Kena spat on the floor. "You raise a harlot in a den of sin, and now she poisons our daughters!"
Serina's expression turned granite. She guided the woman and her daughter toward the gate, shutting it behind them with a thunderous slam. The sound echoed through the stone walls like a closing tomb.
Inside, the silence thickened. Serina paced, fingers knotted. Lyria sat quietly on the velvet settee, legs folded beneath her like a doll on display.
"Why did you tell her?" Serina whispered finally.
Lyria met her gaze, blinking slowly. "You never told me not to. I only answered questions."
Serina's breath caught. "Because you were born stained," she said,
voice barely audible. "Before their seed touched you. From your first breath, you were… marked. Men died the week you were born. Obsessed. Two vanished. One set fire to his house, claiming he saw an angel."
Lyria's brows furrowed, but she remained quiet.
"You were born from passion and violence," Serina continued.
"And I - I gave up my body to raise you. To shield you. I thought I could teach you to control it. But you… you're stronger than any of us."
Lyria stood then. "And still," she said coolly, "you're raising me to do exactly what they did to you."
Serina blinked.
"When you turn eighteen," she murmured,
retreating into the woman she was before motherhood,
"you will be one of us. Men will choose you. You will keep your money. But you do not get innocence. That was never meant for you."
Lyria smiled faintly. "I already lost it. Or maybe I was never meant to have it.
The brothel held its breath around her now. Lyria disappeared more frequently, vanishing after sundown and returning before dawn. While the other girls learned seductive dances or practiced their smiles, Lyria wandered beyond the hills, past trees whispering in tongues no one understood. To the river, she went. It called her.
Silver light pooled over the water as if waiting. And Lyria would kneel at its edge, fingers tracing the bracelet that now hugged her wrist etched with the same symbol as the painting in the hallway, a halo wrapped in broken chains.
She spoke into the water. Words not hers. Words older than language. Sometimes she wept. Sometimes she laughed, a low melodic sound that disturbed the night birds. Sometimes the water shimmered in reply, and shells unbroken and silver pink washed onto the shore at her feet.
One night, she dreamt of flames beneath the water, and hands dragging her down, not to drown, but to awaken. She awoke with salt on her lips. No one asked where she went.
The maids whispered, "Spirit child." Some left her offerings a ring, a comb, bread. The river never told what it gave her.
Serina, despite herself, began allowing Lyria into side rooms. Rooms where the clients were regulars, men who understood boundaries, or so she thought. Lyria served wine, oiled hair, mimicked the older girls' lines.
She watched.
She listened.
Then one evening, a man with wine stained lips and wandering hands grabbed her wrist.
"Stunning child," he slurred.
Lyria tried to leave. He tightened his grip. And then he gasped. His eyes rolled. He turned grey, visibly grey and collapsed to his knees, retching bile onto the crimson rug. He left in the night, ghost-pale and shaking. Some claimed he saw Death. Others said he met a goddess and lived. No one dared touch Lyria again.
One night Serina summoned her again. This time, her voice was low. Broken.
"You question the work?" she asked.
Lyria did not respond.
"It was made for you," Serina said.
"You are gift and weapon. The world has always known your kind. Men destroy themselves chasing what you are."
She reached forward, tucking Lyria's hair behind her ear.
"But this house is the only place that will keep you alive."
Lyria's eyes drifted to the painting the divine symbol again. Her voice was soft, resolute.
"I don't want to be safe."
Serina's eyes filled with tears. "I know."
She cupped her daughter's face. "Then until eighteen survive."
Lyria nodded.
Not in obedience, but understanding. She accepted the war within her. The darkness she never chose. The light that pulsed at her palms. She was both curse and cure. Desire and danger. A child made of whispers, returned from rivers where spirits kissed her skin. She was becoming. At that moment, a candle flickered on the altar. Then snuffed. No wind. No hand. Just silence.
And in that hush, the night held its breath for the girl who disappeared was waking into something the world could never unmake.