The Eternal Fireflies
A Morse code inscription… I didn’t yet know that the dots and dashes etched on her smooth skin spelled the word magical. Magical indeed—just like the atmosphere she conjured the moment she entered the room.
I had been sitting there for nearly forty-five minutes, alone at the rooftop bar. As usual, I had hoped to catch the sunset. But stuck too long at the office, I had missed it. From my seat, I kept watching the endless stream of cars far below. I raised the cocktail I had been holding for some time and took a slow sip. All I wanted was to clear my head.
And then, by chance, I turned at just the right moment—just in time to see her walk in. I wasn’t the only one who noticed; every head seemed to turn. Blonde hair, a flawless figure flowing inside a crimson dress that electrified the air. She didn’t just enter a place—she illuminated it, like an apparition one never expects but which imposes itself, natural and undeniable.
She settled at the bar, unhurried, as if it were hers alone. Before her, a glass of amber whiskey caught the dim light, scattering it into shards of copper and gold. It seemed as though even the light itself longed to belong to her.
Her laugh burst forth—frank, colorful, like a streak of yellow cleaving through gray. Her gaze was deep, dense as midnight blue. And her words, as she leaned slightly over her glass, slid under my skin like a burning red. With every step, I felt my body ignite, ready to consume all my bearings, all my certainties. I was already lost in her eyes, with no desire to find my way back.
I finally approached. It was impossible not to notice the Morse code tattoo inked on her wrist as she reached out her hand and told me her name.
— Amelia.
I wondered instantly if it wasn’t the name of some forgotten goddess pulled from Greek myth. No. But surely, it would have been worthy of one. She didn’t make me beg to sit by her side. Soon we were caught in a playful game, glancing discreetly at the people around us and trying to invent their stories.
Amelia shifted her voice and tone each time, mimicking the imagined characters she described. I had no choice but to let myself be drawn in. After all, there are certain charms one doesn’t even pretend to resist. To resist would be against nature itself.
Our glasses clinked softly, that fragile chime that sometimes signals the start of great stories. Between sips of whiskey, our words danced as if they had always known each other. In her phrases there was spontaneity, and in mine an odd certainty—as though the conversation had been written long before we ever met.
When our glasses ran dry, she suggested a walk. I agreed without hesitation. The night was beautiful. Downtown Phoenix unfurled around us. Not many tall buildings here. The streets still vibrated with echoes and neon, yet around her, everything seemed to slow down—as if the whole city had agreed to fade away and leave us alone in its scenery.
The sky, pierced with stars, had turned into a living canvas—a masterpiece even the greatest painters would have envied. We had missed the sunset, but the night offered us something vaster, bolder.
So lost were we in our conversation that we hadn’t noticed how long we’d been walking. Then, at the bend of a street, the art museum rose before us, imposing and silent. She asked me when I had last visited, and if I might like to go inside. I pointed out the obvious—it was late, the museum was closed. She only smiled, a glint of mischief in her eyes, and told me simply to follow. I was already swept into her adventure.
Only later did I realize I was in the company of an artist. Later still, that she was part of the staff who managed the museum.
The locked doors opened as if by magic. We stepped into a silent sanctuary where the works of art, bathed in protective shadow, seemed to be waiting for us. Every painting held its breath, every sculpture hung suspended between darkness and light. I felt as if I were walking in a dream, guided by a muse of flesh and blood.
She led me to a secluded room. Pausing at a discreet door, her fingers lingered on the handle with deliberate slowness.
— Would you like to see something the public never discovers this way? she whispered.
When the door swung open, I thought I had entered another world. Thousands of tiny lights floated in the darkness. Mirrors lined the space, reflecting infinity, engulfing our silhouettes in an endless swarm of fireflies.
She stepped forward first, her body carved out against the constellation. The word magical inscribed on her wrist suddenly revealed its truth. She wasn’t merely inside the artwork—she was its beating heart.
And I, lost within that infinite reflection, followed her. In that unreal sky, among the thousands of lights, there were only two stars that recognized each other. Two distinct sparks, drawn together until they fused into a single, radiant glow.