Scars Are Invisible. Others Bleed When Touched.
When your past walks into the room, don't expect it to knock.
The night was cold, but that wasn't why Celeste was trembling.
There was a weight in her chest as she walked out of the ballroom. With every step down the stairs leading to the rose garden, the sound of fireworks in the sky no longer felt like celebration—but a warning.
All around her, guests admired the light show, their silhouettes cheering like shadow puppets in a play—unaware that a ghost from the past was passing through them.
But they weren't who she was looking for.
She headed straight to the garden, where the torch lamps flickered like candles weeping in a secret wake.
That's where she saw the man.
His back turned. Standing. Silent.
S.V. Del Fierro.
He didn't move.
He looked like a statue placed in the center of blood-red roses.
Celeste clenched her fists.
Her palms were damp.
She didn't know if it was fear, anger, or… doubt. But one thing was certain: she couldn't walk away now.
She approached him. Fast. With resolve.
She grabbed his arm.
"Stop pretending. Who the hell are you?"
He didn't flinch.
He didn't even look at her right away. He just breathed in—deeply—then turned to face her, slowly, like a scene from a film.
And when she saw his face…
Time stopped.
It's Dominic's face.
The eyes. The jawline. The posture.
That heavy presence.
But something was missing. Or maybe… something was too much.
He tilted his head, amused.
"Careful, Celeste," he said, his voice soft but steady. "Fireworks can burn."
A massive burst exploded in the sky. Red. Gold. It felt like fire had fallen from the heavens straight into Celeste's chest.
"Dominic died in that car," her voice shook. "I buried him. I saw him burn."
Her voice trembled, but there was courage in it too—like she was confronting a ghost with a ghost of her own.
He leaned in.
Took one step closer.
Close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath.
"Did you?" he asked quietly, emotionless.
"Yes," Celeste answered, almost in a whisper but sharp as a blade. "I held his ring. I saw the body. Every piece of evidence. There was nothing left…"
But no matter how many times she said it, why did it now feel uncertain?
She stopped.
As if her strength had been pulled from her in an instant.
The man standing in front of her didn't budge. As if he carried a secret only he knew.
Then, slowly, he stepped even closer.
He leaned down.
Let his lips hover just near Celeste's ear.
Another firework.
Louder.
Blood-red.
Like the blood of memories.
And then he whispered the line that shattered Celeste's world.
"Then how do I know… what fire does to liars?"
The sound of fireworks blended with the sound of Celeste's heart breaking.
Her eyes widened. She gasped.
That was the exact line Dominic once said.
No one else knew it. Not Leo. Not Helena. Not even Lucas.
Only Dominic.
Before she could speak, he slowly pulled his arm away.
Her hand was left open, trembling... and that's when she felt the heat.
She looked down.
Something had been left in her palm.
A corner of a photograph.
The edges were burned.
Red and black, like anger turned to ash.
But in the center, the image remained—
Her. Dominic. Embracing. Happy. Alive.
A photo she had buried long ago.
Once, it was a symbol of love. Of dreams. Of a sin they never finished.
But now…
It was a ghost returned.
And it was starting to collect what it was owed.
Scars are invisible. Others bleed when touched.
Five years ago.
Midnight.
A private villa at the edge of the city, overlooking a cliffside road. A stormy sky. And fire.
Sirens wailed. A scream that wouldn't end.
Inside the mansion, smoke crept through the hallways. Flames began devouring the vintage wood panels—once symbols of luxury, now consumed by darkness.
On the second floor, a chandelier crashed to the side—shattering into blinding light.
Celeste were barefoot. Still in her gala ball gown. Her hair loose, wild, like it had been swept by a storm. A gash on her knee—bleeding. But she didn't stop running.
"DOMINIC!"
She screamed while sliding through the hallway. Her voice was hoarse from coughing and shouting—but it wasn't just fear.
It was desperate love.
With every step, the floor grew hotter. The carpet smoked. The walls cracked. Framed pictures fell, crumbled, turned to ash.
She ran toward the end of the hallway—but the shatter of glass stopped her.
A window exploded.
Shards flew.
Memories spilled.
Flames erupted at the far end of the corridor. Orange streaked with black.
Celeste recoiled, covering her head. She held her breath. But just before terror could consume her—she saw him at the end of the stairs.
A figure. Still. Cold. Motionless.
Damian.
He stood between the smoke and fire. Wearing a dark shirt, blood staining the sleeve.
In one hand, he held Dominic's black trench coat.
The other—hidden behind his back. Celeste couldn't see what he was holding.
The firelight flickered on Damian's face.
His expression unreadable. Blank. As if… he wasn't supposed to be there.
Or worse...he was the reason this was happening.
"Where is he?" Celeste cried out as she neared him, voice cracking, breathless. "Where's Dominic?!"
Damian said nothing.
Didn't move.
His gaze met hers—deep, cold. Measuring. Like he knew something he refused to say.
Then suddenly—his jaw tensed.
His grip tightened on the coat.
Like he wanted to speak… but chose silence instead.
And without warning—he threw the coat.
It struck Celeste in the chest.
Heavy. Wet. Blood? Water? She couldn't tell.
But it carried something more than just weight—it carried memory. It crushed her with an ache she couldn't name.
She staggered. Dropped it.
"Damian—wait—what does this mean?"
But Damian didn't answer.
He turned.
Silently walked away.
Straight into the burning corridor.
To the last place Dominic had been seen.
He didn't look back.
He didn't say goodbye.
In a blink, the flames and smoke swallowed him.
And in that same blink, Celeste was swallowed by a fear that had no name.
Only sound remained—the fire…the rustling wind laced with ash… and the heartbeat of someone who had learned to fear the truth.
After everything, all that remained was fire… and a silence louder than any scream.
And the words left unspoken. And the question: Who really burned that night?
Nightmares are memories wearing fire.
Celeste jolted awake.
Gasping. Drenched in sweat. As if someone had strangled her in her sleep—her neck wet with cold perspiration, her body forcing her to wake before she drowned in the nightmare again.
She looked around.
Still dark. The condo silent, except for the soft patter of rain outside.
She checked the time. 4:17 AM.
The clock on her nightstand flickered—as if time itself was glitching, dragging her between now and a moment she never wanted to revisit.
No more fire.
No more smoke.
No more Dominic.
But inside her chest—something still burned.
She whimpered.
A sound like the breath of someone feeling fear even while awake.
It was just a dream...she whispered to herself.
But she couldn't believe it.
Because it wasn't just a dream.
It felt too real.
Too raw.
Too familiar.
Like the past had tapped her shoulder with a hand still holding ashes.
She stood.
Her knees weak, but her chest heavier.
She walked toward the window.
It creaked open.
Cold air hit her face—a slap of memory.
It should've smelled of rain.
It should've been just wind.
But… it didn't.
It smelled like something burned.
Like a car engulfed in flames.
Like a tire melting in smoke.
She shut her eyes.
Inhaled.
This was wrong.
That memory was old.
Five years ago.
But why now, did it feel more alive than any dream?
Why did that night feel… unfinished?
She ran her hand across her shoulder, soaked with sweat. She could feel herself shaking.
She glanced at her hands… and that's when she saw the dark line under her fingernail.
Dust.
Not just any dust.
Ash.
She bit her lip, forcing herself to believe it was nothing.
Just stress. Exhaustion.
But no matter how many excuses she threw at her mind, she couldn't shake the weight.
So she walked to the vanity.
Opened the drawer.
Brushed aside jewelry, old lipstick, and aging letters.
There, beneath everything she tried to cover, was the one paper she hated seeing—but couldn't throw away.
Dominic's death certificate.
She took it.
Read it again. For the hundredth time.
Dominic Alexander Vega
Cause of Death: Car explosion. Body confirmed via personal effects and dental records.
Date of Death: July 19, 2019
Those lines were no stranger to her.
But tonight, as she read them again, each word echoed with sound.
Every sentence carved a question into her chest: Was this enough to make me believe? Or did I just choose to believe—because it was easier to live thinking he died, than to admit he left me?
She broke.
She sank to the floor, gripping the paper like a witness to a lie her heart had clung to for too long.
Tears fell—one, two… until they hit the corner of the document.
She didn't notice the time.
Didn't notice that she was already crying in silence.
Then, a sudden flash of lightning lit up the room.
And in that light, at the very window she had opened—There was a shadow.
Just for a second.
But clear.
Tall.
Standing still.
Watching.
Celeste jumped to her feet, heart pounding.
She rushed to look again—but it was gone.
But on the tiles of the balcony, something remained.
A pair of footprints.
Soaked.
Not hers.
I'm not the only one haunted…There's someone else. And maybe he… is the real ghost from the night of the fire.