The woman’s house was a maze of shadows and contradictions. As soon as the journalist stepped inside, the smell of stale cigarette smoke hit him like a physical presence, making him cough once, involuntarily. He could see the haze in the dim light, curling lazily from the tip of the cigarette she was holding between two slender fingers. The smoke lingered in the corners of the room, thick and heavy, as though it was reluctant to leave.

She was seated in an armchair that didn’t match anything else in the room—a faded, threadbare thing with patches of worn-out fabric revealing the stuffing inside. Her legs were tucked under her, knees drawn up to her chest, and she looked at him from under the fall of dark, unkempt hair that framed her face like a curtain she could never quite pull back.

There were heavy curtains in every doorway, thick and dark as if she had to hide from something or someone. The windows were half-covered, casting the room in a perpetual state of twilight. The mismatched furniture—some old, some new, all in varying states of disrepair—seemed to be chosen more out of necessity than taste. It was clear the house had been pieced together over time, but it didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a place to disappear in.

“Come in,” she said without looking up, exhaling a plume of smoke that seemed to hang in the air longer than it should have. “Sit wherever you want. I don’t care.”

He hesitated, unsure where to place himself. There was an empty chair next to her, but it seemed almost too intimate. Instead, he chose a small, rickety table across the room, setting his notebook down carefully. He glanced around again, noting the strange clutter—books stacked in haphazard piles, photographs in frames gathering dust on the floor, and empty bottles scattered here and there. It was as though the house itself had been abandoned by order and cleanliness, a reflection of the woman who lived there.

She flicked the ash from her cigarette, her hand moving quickly but with an odd sort of grace. He couldn’t help but watch the way her fingers trembled slightly as she took another drag, eyes narrowing as the smoke curled upward. She had a peculiar way of holding herself, like she was constantly shifting between a state of withdrawal and readiness to pounce.

There was a long silence before she spoke again.

“There’s something you have to understand about me, if you’re going to write my story,” she said, her voice raw and unrefined. She didn’t look at him, but her words hung in the air like an ultimatum. “I’m a compulsive liar.”

He blinked, caught off guard. The casualness of her declaration struck him, but he pressed on, trying to compose himself. “Then how can I tell your story?” he asked, his voice betraying a hint of skepticism. 

She finally looked at him, her gaze sharp and cold, like two knives glinting in the half-light. For a moment, she said nothing. Then, she shrugged and flicked the cigarette sending the cherry away, the embers briefly flaring before dying out on the worn carpet. 

"That's something that you're going to have to figure out." Her tone was flat, as if it had no bearing on the conversation. 

His brow furrowed. "I want the book to be accurate. People want to know who you are." 

Her lips curled slightly, the barest flicker of something between amusement and derision. “That’s not my problem,” she replied, her voice cool. She waved her hand dismissively as if to wipe his concern away. “If you want to write your book, you’ll have to accept that as the only unclouded fact I will give you.”

The silence thickened. He felt the weight of her words, each one pushing him further into uncertainty. She was offering him nothing, not even the courtesy of clarity. His instinct told him to leave, but his curiosity rooted him in place.

She didn’t wait for him to speak again. Getting up slowly, she brushed a hand through her tangled hair, the motion almost exaggerated, before dropping the now burnt-out cigarette into a red glass cup—a cup half-full with melted wax from a candle long extinguished. She turned away from him without a word and walked toward the other side of the room, disappearing behind one of the heavy curtains that separated the spaces in the house. The air seemed to grow thicker with every passing second.

He wasn’t sure whether he should follow or wait. 

After a moment’s hesitation, he stood, his boots creaking slightly as he stepped toward the curtain she’d slipped past. The noise seemed louder in the stillness of the house, though she gave no indication that she noticed. He reached for the fabric and parted it, stepping into the next room. 

This space was even dimmer, illuminated by a single bulb that hung overhead, casting a sickly yellow light. The smell here was more than just smoke—it had a metallic tang, like blood or iron. The kitchen was sparse, the counters cluttered with dishes that had been left to dry for too long. There was no warmth here, not in the way the space felt. 

She stood by the counter, her back to him, hands resting flat against the cold surface. Her posture was hunched, her shoulders slouched as though the weight of the room—or the world—was too much for her. The quiet stretched on for longer than he was comfortable with.

"I didn’t ask you to follow me," she said without turning around. Her voice was thick with an emotion he couldn’t place.

“I wasn’t sure what else to do,” he answered, watching her closely. “You said I have to figure it out. Maybe following you is part of that.”

Her head turned just slightly, enough that he could see the smirk tug at the corner of her lips. There was something almost mocking about it.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“I think I’m persistent,” he replied, trying to match her gaze.

She sighed, a sound almost as worn as the fabric of her chair. Then, finally, she faced him fully. Her arms crossed, her expression unreadable, and her eyes—those eyes—held him with a fierceness that almost made him step back.

“I’ll give you this much,” she said, voice low and steady. “You’re braver than most people who’ve tried to do what you’re doing.”

“How many have tried?” he asked, curiosity creeping in.

“Enough,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear in a gesture that felt more for herself than for him. “None of them got it right. They wanted neat little answers. A pretty package to tie up with a bow. I don’t work like that.”

He swallowed, his own confidence wavering slightly. “I’m not looking for neat answers.”

“You should be,” she replied with a shrug, but there was something darker in her tone. “You want to know the truth? Well, the truth is just another story. The only difference is, it's the one people agree to believe.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond. Without another word, she stepped past him, brushing his shoulder lightly as she moved back toward the curtain. The faintest touch, a reminder of how little she needed him—or anyone, for that matter.

The words lingered in his mind, as if she had left them deliberately to unsettle him.