#baroquestorytelling

Maria picked the café. Of course she did. It had pink chairs and velvet napkins and wallpaper covered in flamingos drinking martinis. I pulled up looking like a girl who definitely had weird dreams and possibly keeps secrets in her glove compartment.

She waved from the table like we hadn’t just seen each other yesterday. That’s the thing about us—we treat every meeting like a reunion. Because some of us don’t get many lifetimes.

We ordered food—breakfast tacos and overpriced matcha—and settled into the comfort of us.

“So tell me,” Maria said between bites. “What weird witchy shit happened last night?”

I blinked. Took a sip.

And then I told her.

The dream. The beach. Dante.

I didn’t call him that last night. But today, in daylight, it fits. He’s not a man. Not really. He’s the shadow that followed me home. The one who knocks before he shows you the truth.

I reached into my jacket pocket. Pulled out the photo. The one I found in his coat.

Only— there was nothing there. Just blank paper.

I froze. Looked around. Checked my other pockets. Purse. Inside my phone case.

Gone.

Maria paused. “Did you lose it?” “I didn’t.” “Are you sure it was ever there?”

I didn’t answer. Because I wasn’t.

Maybe it wasn’t about the photo. Maybe it was about the moment it gave me.

We ate. We laughed. We lingered too long like we always do when something heavier is beneath the day.

She walked me to my car. We hugged like people who might dream of each other later.

I drove away thinking I was fine.

Turned down one of those winding San Francisco side streets that only ghosts and locals know.

And there— dead center in the road— was a black dog.

Still. Staring. Like it had been waiting.

I slammed the brakes. My heart fell into my shoes.

The tension from the dreams came flooding back. Like fog under the door.

We stared at each other.

The dog didn’t growl. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at me.

Like it knew.

Then—

“DANTE!!!”

A voice from the sidewalk.

A man running with a leash in his hand. The dog glanced once and then ran toward me.

Straight to my driver side window. Stopped.

And just looked.

Not like a threat. Like an old friend. Like a promise.

And behind him— the man caught up.

And my breath caught too.

Mr. Perfect. From the dinner party. From the pet photos. From the ring conversation.

His dog.

Of course it was his dog.

I didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Just a breathless laugh, an awkward smile. A nod that said, You see it too, right?

And I drove away, heart hammering, hand clenching the wheel like it might float away.

After-Credits Scene

I’m getting ready for a night out.

Hair’s a little fuller. Skin’s got that glow like someone’s been whispering confidence into my dreams. I put on a jacket. Check myself in the mirror.

Something’s shifted. I’m still me. But a little more her. A little more Seraphina.

The moon’s full. Of course it is.

I walk to the bar. The usual haunt. Smell of cheap cologne and spilt regret.

I order a drink. Sit alone.

At the bar behind me, some guy’s ranting about his girlfriend. Loud. Gross. Calling her crazy. Saying he “lets her” go through his phone like that’s a gift.

I sip slowly. Listen. Then glance at the mirror behind the bar.

“Asshole,” I whisper.

He steps outside for a cigarette.

And just outside— on the curb— under the streetlamp—

is a black dog.

Watching him.

Just… watching.

Next entry? Maybe I go outside too. Maybe I follow the dog. Or maybe—I let him do what he came for.