Lenora

Olivia is 25.

July 2025.

Olivia sat behind the wheel, engine idling, watching the old house settle into dusk. It had a sagging porch, fretwork like spiderwebs, and windows that caught the last light like something was watching back. Her name was on the deed. Her name. Not theirs.

She killed the engine. Crickets were already tuning up in the long grass, and the silence out here had a shape. Dense, green, and waiting. Not like the city, where noise was a kind of armor.

The back of the truck groaned when she opened it. Boxes, marked in Zelda's handwriting, made her stomach twist. She hadn't even noticed. That looping Z. "Books (fragile)," it said. Like Olivia didn't already know which things could cut her.

She got to work. The sun dropped lower. Her arms ached. Tape stuck to her wrist, her shin, her shirt. She moved like a ghost in sweatpants, ferrying pieces of her old life into this creaky new shell.

It was just after sunset when she found the book.

Small, worn, the dust jacket long gone. The spine read Quiet Animal. Inside the cover: Greta Smoot, underlined twice in Zelda's fine black pen. She didn't remember ever seeing Zelda read it, but the corner was dog-eared halfway through. Olivia flipped to that page like she could catch her ghost mid-sentence.

"You can't domesticate a fox and then blame her for the teeth."

Of course.

She pressed the book to her chest. Stupid. She hated herself for feeling anything. Zelda had made her small. Had rewritten her into something "less anxious," which meant less her. And now here she was, clinging to one of her ex's forgotten totems like it still meant something.

She dropped it into a pile marked "Return."

"Not fucking delivering it," she muttered, like saying it out loud would make it real. "She can live without it."

But as she turned away, Olivia wondered if Zelda even remembered the book. Or if leaving it behind was deliberate. One of those little cuts that didn't bleed until later.

She didn't cry. Not yet.

The thing about heartbreak, Olivia had discovered, was that it left these odd little windows cracked open. You could be carrying a box of mugs into a too-quiet kitchen and suddenly--wham--you're thinking about Greta Smoot.

She sat down on the dusty floor with Quiet Animal in her lap, knees pulled up, heart aching in that slow, dull way grief gets when it starts unpacking itself. The book smelled like Zelda's apartment. Old incense. Cheap wine. Damp wool.

Greta had disappeared, hadn't she? Vanished mid-tour, right after that strange podcast interview where she'd said something cryptic about dogs dreaming in human. There were rumors--of course there were. Zelda had always followed the drama. A Reddit thread, a blurry photo. "Greta Smoot Spotted in South Philly With New Girlfriend and Cross-Dresser." Olivia had rolled her eyes at the time. Now, she remembered it too clearly.

"What the Moon Knew." That was the name of Greta's unfinished novel. Zelda had been obsessed. Said it was supposed to be about reincarnation, or regret, or maybe rivers. No one really knew.

Some indie blog had claimed it was a "love story written in grief's handwriting." God. What a line. Olivia wished she didn't remember it.

She leaned her head against the wall. "Wonder if she'll finish it," she said to no one. "Wonder if anyone gives a fuck."

The crickets had stopped.

For a moment, Olivia considered keeping the book. Just holding on to it. Just... until she didn't hurt so much.

But no. That wasn't the rule. The rule was: Zelda gets her things. Even the ones that sting.

She slid Quiet Animal back into the box. She sealed it with the cheap packing tape that screamed when you pulled it. In black Sharpie, she wrote: ZELDA -- RETURN TO SENDER.

Then, just for herself, under her breath: "What do you know, moon?"

The water was too hot, but she didn't turn it down. Olivia stood under the spray with her head bowed, letting it drum against her neck and shoulders until the skin flushed pink. Steam curled around the ancient tile--white with flowered accents, cracked in places like a memory.

She ran her hands over her arms, her ribs, not quite touching. Just a slow inventory of what was still hers.

Her body was lean but not chiseled. Runner's thighs without the medals. Soft belly she used to blame on stress. Slight slope to her breasts, enough to cup, to carry. Her pubic hair was dark. She hadn't shaved since the week before the breakup. A stubborn decision, that. Holding out like it meant something.

She stepped out and toweled off with one of Zelda's old bath sheets, still faintly scented with eucalyptus. Gross, but she hadn't replaced them yet. Another thing on the list.

In the mirror, she studied herself the way she used to study strangers--curious, clinical, a little cruel. Slightly Japanese features. That's what people said. She'd grown up with it: "You've got your mother's eyes."

She did. Sharp, dark, almond-shaped. Olivia could see them clearly.

But the rest?

Her father was supposed to be in there somewhere. Everyone said so. The shape of her jaw, maybe. Her chin when she was angry. A certain stillness.

She couldn't see it. Or maybe she just didn't want to.

He'd walked out before she could remember. All she had was the story. An old photo her aunt insisted looked just like her, but Olivia didn't see it. Maybe it was easier that way.

She exhaled. Fog chased the air from the mirror. Her reflection blurred, then slowly returned.

"I'm here," she said, softly. Just to test it.

She didn't quite believe herself yet.

Morning arrived without fanfare--just a gray wash of light creeping in through mismatched curtains and the groan of wood expanding in the floorboards. Olivia was up early, dressed in leggings and a faded college sweatshirt with a bleach stain across the hem. No bra. No need.

Today was for order. Not healing, not epiphanies--just work.

She unpacked like she was on the clock. Kitchen first: mismatched mugs, half a spice rack, the blender she never used. She stacked dishes, wiped out drawers, threw away a box of herbal teas that smelled like Zelda's morning breath. She found three whisks and zero forks. Classic.

By afternoon, her muscles ached in that dull, middle-back way that said you haven't done this in a while. She switched to bedroom boxes--sheets, a vibrator tangled in a pair of socks, an envelope of old birthday cards she didn't open.

By six, she was sweaty and faintly dust-coated. The microwave had to be coaxed into life with a double-tap on the side. The light inside flickered like a seance.

She ate standing up at the counter. Some kind of pasta thing that claimed to be pesto but tasted like lawn clippings and regret. Ding. Nutrition. Yay.

She stared out the back window while chewing. The yard was mostly wild--tall weeds, one swing dangling from a tree branch like a forgotten child. A red fox darted past the fence line. Gone before she could blink.

She licked the plastic fork clean.

If this was healing, it sure as hell didn't feel poetic.

There was a breeze that night. The boxes didn't rustle, but something did. In the wall, maybe. Or under the floorboards. She told herself it was the house settling. The same lie every new homeowner tells.

The attic stairs groaned like something resentful being woken up.

Olivia balanced a box on her hip, reached for the string dangling from the ceiling, and tugged. The folding ladder creaked down, reluctant. A warm gust of dust and wood rot greeted her like an ex who still had your Netflix login.

The attic smelled of time. Not just dust or mildew, but something more... storied. Like air that had held too many secrets for too long.

The first few trips were just ferrying: box after box, thighs aching on the steep climb. She stacked things methodically. Kitchen overflow in one corner. Books in another. Winter clothes in a tote she already knew she'd forget existed by December.

After the fourth trip, she let herself look around.

The attic was wide, the roof sloped low on both sides, with dormer windows letting in dusty blades of afternoon light. Cobwebs caught the sun like threadbare curtains. Someone had left their mark here--half-finished furniture under sheets, old mason jars filled with screws, a green milk crate labeled XMAS 1979, and near the far wall, a metal cart with a rust-flecked Bell & Howell projector. Mid-century. Clunky. Solid.

"Shit," Olivia muttered, stepping closer. The thing looked intact. Probably needed a new bulb. Maybe a belt. Bet those old-school Etsy types would drool.

Next to it, a battered box. Filmmaker's tape, brittle with age. Faded marker:

SESSIONS / JULY '73 -- SEPT '74.

No other markings.

She opened it.

Inside: a dozen film reels, each labeled in shaky script. Some with names--"Lenora", "Blue Room", "She Watches"--some just dates. One reel was simply labeled:

MOON.

She held it for a long moment, heart ticking in her throat. Not because she was afraid. Because something in her chest fluttered--curiosity, maybe. Dread's more elegant cousin.

"I'll list it tomorrow," she said to no one, placing the reel back in the box. But she didn't close the lid.

The light through the attic windows shifted, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. One of them moved wrong. Just for a second.

The next morning, Olivia brewed coffee strong enough to chase ghosts. Then she climbed into the attic with a screwdriver, a damp rag, and the quiet thrill of a task that was supposed to be temporary.

The Bell & Howell looked like it hadn't moved in decades. The lens was clouded with grime, the internal belt frayed like an old nerve. She popped open the casing with the casual confidence of someone who once dated an AV nerd and still remembered how to sound like she knew what she was doing.

She didn't. Not really.

But YouTube made it feel like she did. Her phone propped against a wrench, she watched a woman named Trina from Ontario explain how to oil the sprockets and avoid getting electrocuted. She followed every step, slow and reverent. Cleaned the gears. Tightened the knob. Replaced the fuse.

By noon, the machine gave a low mechanical whirr when she hit the switch. Like something waking up hungry.

"That's enough," she said aloud, wiping her hands on a rag. "I'll list it tomorrow."

She didn't.

Instead, she ordered a projector screen off Amazon. It was fifty bucks and would arrive in two days. She added a popcorn bowl to the cart, then deleted it. Then added it again.

As the attic fan buzzed in the window, Olivia sat cross-legged beside the machine, flipping the reels over in her lap. The tape on the MOON reel was brittle and yellowed. She didn't know what she expected--family films, maybe. Art school weirdness. But something about the lettering made her stomach feel fizzy and wrong. Like her gut already knew the punchline.

She caught herself thinking, What if it's Greta Smoot?

That was ridiculous. But she let the thought sit with her a while anyway.

Late that night, lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling and whispered it to the dark:

"I'm not going to list it."

Not once did she imagine Zelda watching the films with her.

Only herself. Alone. Still. Waiting.

The screen arrived on time.

It smelled like plastic hope, all creases and elastic cords. Olivia set it up in the living room, white vinyl stretched taut against the sagging plaster wall. The projector rested on an old milk crate. A tray of mismatched reels waited like shy guests at a séance.

She picked the one labeled Blue Room. Not MOON. Not yet.

The film crackled when she fed it through the sprockets. A little jitter in her hands, the kind you get lighting a match.

Click.

Buzz.

A soft hum bloomed into a flickering square of life.

The footage was grainy, sun-washed, soundless. A little girl in denim overalls stomped through a sprinkler. Two boys wrestling on a patchy lawn. An older woman--mother, maybe?--chopping vegetables in a kitchen with stained yellow walls.

Then: a piano.

Someone--only hands visible--playing something slow and minor on an upright, the keys chipped. A cat slinking across the top, tail flicking in rhythm. The camera shook with someone's breath.

The next cut: a man welding on the roof of a school bus. Sparks like fireflies. He looked like a walking cliché--shirtless, tanned, bandana tight around his forehead. Behind him, painted letters on the side of the bus: JULY OR BUST.

A different scene. Inside the bus now. Half-finished bunks. Someone hammering insulation into the ceiling.

Then her.

The camera turned abruptly, like someone surprised her mid-laugh. A woman, maybe late twenties, sat cross-legged on the floor of the bus, bare thighs, peasant blouse, a cigarette held between her toes. Long hair like animated night sky. Fuzzy armpits. A grin too wide for the frame.

Her face wasn't clear. The camera jostled. The lighting was wrong.

But Olivia felt something crackle. Not recognition--more like familiarity before language. A shape your body knew before your brain caught up.

The film flickered. Cut to black.

The projector hummed in the silence like it missed her.

Olivia didn't move. She just stared at the empty screen, breathing shallow, one hand still curled around the arm of the couch like it might vanish.

She rewound the reel, but didn't watch it again.

She didn't need to.

She shut off the projector. The hum died like an old man sighing.

In the sudden silence, the house felt cavernous--more walls than comfort, more shadows than shelter. Olivia stood up too fast, knees popping, and went straight for her phone. No energy to cook. No desire, either.

She ordered KFC. Nashville hot. The screen still clung to the ghost of the woman's shape. That laugh, that blur, that cigarette pinched between her toes.

She leaned against the kitchen counter, watching the delivery tracker update like it could tell her more than just distance.

Seventeen minutes.

Her eyes drifted to the stairs. To the attic, where the other reels sat like loaded dice. Lenora. She Watches. July '73. MOON.

There were answers in them, probably. Or maybe just more questions. Either way, Olivia wasn't ready. Not tonight.

She cracked open a can of seltzer. Drank half of it. The fizz made her feel more alive than the last three days combined.

"I'll watch them tomorrow," she said aloud, and because she needed something firmer than her own wavering promises, she added, "One a night. That's the rule."

Twelve minutes.

She stood at the window, arms crossed, thinking about that woman. Not her face. Just the gesture--how sure she looked of her own body. Olivia hadn't felt like that in years. Maybe never.

Maybe these weren't just home movies.

Maybe they were something closer to confessions.

Eight minutes.

The radiator hissed in the corner. The light outside had gone a bruised, low purple. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Maybe a fox, again.

She whispered it into the fizz: "Who were you?"

The sheets were cold when she slid in, but she didn't mind. She liked the weight of blankets, the cocoon of quiet after too much thought.

Freshly showered. Steam still clinging to her hair. Skin dewy from lotion and the lazy scrape of a dull razor. She hadn't meant to shave--it just happened. A kind of small ritual, like tidying a space before guests arrive. Except the guest was her own body, and she hadn't visited in a while.

She lay on her back, thighs parted slightly, the ceiling fan wobbling overhead. Her hand wandered without ceremony. No preamble, no fantasy--just fingers finding the familiar rhythm of being alone.

At first, she tried to think of nothing. Let it be mechanical. A relief valve. But then the image came--unbidden, unfiltered.

That woman from the reel.

Flickering frame, barefoot on a plywood floor. Laughing. Armpits unshaved, soft and wild. A body unbothered. Not curated. Not performed.

It hit her somewhere lower than lust--something closer to longing. That careless confidence. That animal ease.

Olivia's fingers moved faster. She bit her lip. She didn't think of Zelda. Didn't think of regret. Just thought of her. That blur of a woman, crouched in a half-built bus, cigarette in her toes, like a goddamn declaration.

She came hard.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't pretty. It broke out of her like a secret, like a sob turned inside out. Her back arched. Her breath stuttered.

After, she lay there--hand still pressed between her thighs, sweat rising at her temples--feeling strangely full. Not good. Not bad. Just... here.

Tomorrow, she'd watch another reel.

Tonight, she'd dream of bare feet and wood smoke and a laugh she'd never heard but already missed.

The dream settled in quiet, like fog.

It was the bus, again--no doubt about it. Olivia recognized the grain of the walls, the patchy insulation, the smell of wood dust and sun-baked metal hanging in the air. The same narrow aisle, bunks on either side like stacked promises. But it was finished now. Lived-in. Soft lights strung across the ceiling like fireflies caught in a net.

Barefoot, she walked down the aisle. Her body felt younger. Lighter. Dressed in nothing but a threadbare T-shirt that wasn't hers. The air buzzed with a low hum--music maybe, or a memory that hadn't quite congealed.

At the far end of the bus: her.

The woman.

The unshaven goddess with the wildfire grin. She was standing with her back turned, framed by an open emergency door where night spilled in thick and sweet. Her silhouette was loose-limbed and radiant. Hair a mess of dark tangles. One leg bent slightly, weight shifted. At ease in her own bones.

Olivia stepped closer.

Each board underfoot creaked like a held breath.

She wanted to say something. Turn around. Let me see you.

But the woman didn't move.

And just before she could--just as the dream began to sharpen, her shoulder twitching, her head starting to tilt--

Olivia woke.

The sheets were twisted. Her body ached in that low, smoldering way that wasn't quite sexual and wasn't quite spiritual, but somewhere devastatingly in between. Her fingers flexed instinctively, as if they were still reaching.

The room was quiet. Pale blue dawn pressing at the windows.

She sat up slowly. No words. No conclusions.

Just the thick taste of longing in her mouth, and the cold knowledge that the dream had left her suspended--like something unfinished.

She didn't brush her teeth. She didn't make coffee. She went straight to the attic, barefoot and braless, the floor cold under her toes.

It was time to meet Lenora.

The projector hummed to life again--gravel-throated and obedient. Olivia sat cross-legged on the floor, robe loose around her thighs, reel loaded with reverence. She hit play.

This one was different from the start.

No kids. No pianos. No road-tripping idealists with welder's tans. Just the house.

Her house.

Or... not quite.

The film wandered like a ghost through familiar rooms, but everything was wrong. The wallpaper: orange and green paisley, loud enough to assault the eye. Shag carpeting in a migraine of mustard and brown. A sculptural lamp that looked like it had survived a psychedelic war. A rotary phone the color of vomit. Every frame a punch from 1973--the sixties refusing to die, the seventies trying to find their beat.

Olivia didn't blink.

The camera drifted through the living room, where the walls now bore macrame owls and a naked plaster bust. Then the kitchen, where the linoleum gleamed in checkerboard reds and a milk bottle sat sweating beside a pack of Winstons.

Then the hallway.

Olivia leaned in. She knew that hallway--the slight slope in the floor, the door that stuck in humid weather. But now it was papered in gold filigree, lit with a cheap chandelier that flickered with each step the camera took. No one spoke. No music played. Just the gentle clack of the film, the hush of reel against reel.