Page 41 of Hidden Echoes

I roll my eyes, shoving a coloring book into her hands before she can wreak even more havoc. “Here. Why don’t you color while I work?”

She blinks at me. Looks down at the book. Then back up at me, completely bewildered.

“Color?” She says it like I just asked her to defuse a bomb.

“Yes, color,” I deadpan. “You take a pencil, you move it around on the page, and congratulations—you made art.”

She squints, suspicious. “And people do this for fun?”

“Yes, Mia. Millions of children and adults across the world do this for fun.”

She flips through the pages, unimpressed. “Why?”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Because it’s relaxing.”

“I don’t get it,” she mutters. “But fine. I’ll try it.” She starts flipping through my intricate designs—skulls, detailed mandalas, mythical creatures—then wrinkles her nose in deep concentration. “No… no… no…”

I arch a brow. “You’re rejecting my designs like a casting director.”

“They’re just so serious.”

I’m about to argue when she gasps—full-volume, as if she just found the meaning of life—then rips a Hello Kitty coloring sheet from a stack I keep for clients’ kids.

“This one!” she declares, holding it up like a prized artifact.

I blink. “Hello Kitty?”

“Yes! Look at her—she’s so happy!” She hugs the page to her chest like it’s the best thing she’s ever been given in her entire life.

I shake my head, suppressing a smirk. “Okay, fine. You can color as many as you want.”

Her eyes light up like I just promised her a pony. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Zane.” She grabs my arm, staring at me with the intensity of someone about to make a life-changing request. "I just searched how to color, and they said glitter pens are the best. Do you have glitter pens?"

I exhale slowly, staring at the ceiling as I try to find patience within my soul. “Mia. I am a tattoo artist. Not a kindergarten teacher.”

“Ugh, fine. I’ll improvise.” She dramatically flops onto the couch with her Hello Kitty sheet and colored pencils, already lost in her task.

I shake my head, chuckling as I go back to work. I don’t know how the hell this girl managed to turn my tattoo studio into an arts-and-crafts daycare, but somehow… I don’t really mind.

By the time my client arrives, Mia is fully occupied with waffles and coloring, which means she’s oddly quiet—a rare win for me.

As I set up, the woman—who I think has been here before—glances at Mia, then back at me. “New employee?”

I shake my head. “No, just a friend.”

“That’s a shame.” She smirks. “I thought we could have fun again.”

I pause. Again?

Shit. Did I fuck this woman?

It wouldn’t be a surprise if I had… or if I just don’t remember. I never remember any of them. Faces blur, names slip away, bodies fade into nothing but distant echoes of things I refuse to acknowledge. Because I can’t. Because I don’t let myself.

I’ve never been able to handle that kind of physical contact sober.

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