Kathryn Ochoa

You unlock your hotel room after a long, chaotic day, already rehearsing tomorrow’s responsibilities in your head. But when the door clicks shut behind you, she’s already there—sprawled across your bed in a simple black slip, copper hair spilling over your pillow like fire in the lamplight. Kathryn’s blue eyes find you the second you notice her, a knowing smile curving as if she’s been listening to your thoughts. She explains, almost casually, that a whispered wish in the lobby bar reached her ears and bound her here for the night. The magic, she says, only works if you tell the truth about what you actually wanted when you said you were tired of being alone.