Page 7 of Ghost Of You

I chuckle, "Can’t lounge around forever."

Sydney swallows nervously as I gently push aside the small curtain that hangs over the doorless gap leading into our deep blue corridor. The corridor is lined with artwork, each piece adding to the vibrant atmosphere of the studio. Before Sydney can respond, I slip into the corridor, leaving her momentarily speechless behind me.

Entering the first room on the right, I pass by Maeve’s Barbie Dream-house room, a space that exudes her deep affection for Barbie and vintage dolls. Maeve’s room is a whimsical pink paradise, lined with shelves brimming with Barbie dolls still in their original packaging. Her love for these dolls is evident not just in her studio but extends to her home, where she boasts an impressive collection valued from a few thousand to several hundred thousand pounds.

In stark contrast, my room reflects a different vibe. The walls are painted a rich, dark purple, providing a dramatic backdrop for the space. One wall is adorned with a collage of photos capturing moments with Laelia over the years, a nostalgic reminder of our journey together. The other three walls showcase a rotating gallery of my artwork, each piece a testament to the creativity and skill that define my craft.

The room itself is relatively minimalist. On one side, there’s a simple tattoo bed paired with my chair, ensuring a functional yet unpretentious workspace. Opposite this setup, a cabinet holds my essential tools—my iPad and tattoo machines neatly arranged on top. Despite the sparse furniture, the room feelsintimate and personal, a reflection of the dedication I pour into my work every day.

Ethan had clearly anticipated my return today, as he’d already set up much of my equipment. When I informed him of my plan to come back, our conversation took a contentious turn. He insisted that I hadn't given myself enough time to process everything that had happened.

To be honest, I was taken aback by his concern. After all, it was just a minor car accident. Sure, I had some cuts and bruises, but they were nothing serious. In my mind, there wasn’t much to process—just a brief interruption to my routine. Despite Ethan's insistence that I needed more time, I felt ready to get back into the swing of things and resume my work.

As I set my coffee and doughnut on top of the cabinet, I hear a gentle knock on the door frame and turn to see Ethan observing me with a thoughtful expression. He tilts his head and purses his lips, a gesture that always signifies he’s deep in concern.

“How you doing, man?” he asks, his voice carrying a note of genuine worry.

“I’m good,” I reply, trying to sound reassuring. “Glad to be getting back to normal. I hate having time off.”

I crouch down and open the cabinet, pulling out all the equipment I’ll need for the day—tissues, a variety of packaged needles, and cling film for wrapping the armrest. I meticulously prepare everything, wanting to ensure everything is in place for my first client.

“Are you sure you’re okay to be back this soon?” Ethan presses, his concern evident as he rubs his chin and furrows his brows.

I glance back at him, noting his uneasy demeanour. “Honestly, I’m fine, Ethan.”

He lets out a long sigh, clearly not entirely convinced. “Killian…”

“Ethan,” I say firmly, standing up to face him directly. “I’m fine. I appreciate you looking out for me, but I need to get back to work. If I stay at home any longer, I’ll go stir-crazy.”

Ethan fiddles with his lip ring, still scrutinising me. After a moment of silence, he finally nods. “Okay,” he concedes, the discussion coming to an end. “Just… don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”

Before either of us can say anything further, Delilah bursts into the room, her dark makeup streaking down her face from tears. She runs straight towards me, crashing into me and gripping me tightly, as if I’m her only anchor. Fortunately, I manage to keep my balance and steady myself.

“Woah,” I say, trying to assess the situation. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sobs, her voice trembling.

I start to reach out to comfort her, but before I can, Ethan rushes forward, gently but firmly prying her away from me. His concern is clear as he takes Delilah by the arm. “Come on, Delilah,” he says, guiding her towards the door. “Let’s leave Killian to set up, and we’ll talk.”

Delilah, still sniffling, nods and follows Ethan out of the room, heading towards his tattoo space down the hall.

Left alone, I stand there, scratching my head in confusion. This outburst from Delilah is completely out of character. I can’t help but wonder what could have happened to upset her so profoundly. And why was she apologising to me? Is she feeling guilty about something related to the accident, or has there been an issue with a client that I’m not aware of yet?

My mind races with questions as I try to focus on setting up my station, but the mystery of Delilah’s distress lingers, leaving me unsettled.

Hearing the chime of the studio doorbell, I know it’s likely my client, Oscar. I step out of my room and into the reception area,ready to greet him. Oscar is here for a tattoo to commemorate his beloved French Bulldog, Boris, who passed away a few weeks ago. He wants a tribute tattoo to honour his loyal companion. I understand the bond people have with their pets; it’s similar to the relationship I have with Meatball, Laelia’s ginger tabby. Though Meatball can be a bit of a troublemaker—shredding everything in sight, attacking my ankles, and peeing on my things—I still love him, despite his antics.

Oscar, who looks to be around twenty-four, extends his hand as I approach. His tattoos, two faded small designs, suggest he might be relatively new to the tattoo experience. I’m not sure how he’ll handle a full session, given how he’s squirming already. But, as always, I remind myself that appearances can be deceiving.

“Can’t wait to see what you’ve designed for me, dude,” he says with an enthusiastic smile.

I shake his hand and lead him into my room. “Let me show you,” I say, guiding him to the chair. “Take a seat.”

Once he’s settled, I grab my iPad and open Procreate. I show him the design—a simple yet meaningful piece featuring a French Bulldog with a bone beneath him, Boris’s name etched into the bone. It’s a straightforward design, but that’s exactly what he wanted.

Oscar’s eyes light up as he sees the design. I notice him starting to well up, and I give him a reassuring smile. “I’m guessing you like it?” I ask.

“Dude! It’s perfect!” he exclaims, his voice choked with emotion.

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