The bells tolled like mourning—three long, hollow chimes that trembled through the twilight-washed spires of Veladros. Elena exhaled slowly, the chill sinking into her bones, the day’s weight clinging to her skin like soot that refused to wash off.

  She lingered by the gate where the Drelm River split the city in two, watching the shimmer of magic skimming the water’s surface like silver blood. Her fingers toyed with the locket at her collar—always that same small, unconscious motion. Not for luck. Just to remind herself she still felt.

  Veladros sat on the blade’s edge between realities—a border city pressed too close to the Veil, where the skin between life and death wore thin as breath. It wasn’t a great city, not by the measures of the capital cities. But it endured. Obsidian walls wrapped it in a constant embrace, etched with warding sigils worn smooth by centuries of weather and worry. Its towers leaned like old men straining toward a dying sun. The people here walked with quiet purpose, their eyes flicking toward shadows that others ignored. They had grown used to the closeness of endings.

  But life pulsed here, in its way. Steady. Weathered. Like a candle that refused to die, even in the wind.

  And there—under the east tower’s crooked arch—stood Jonas, arms crossed, that familiar smirk playing on his lips. Lily clung to one arm. Thomas waved at her so hard his whole body tilted.

  Her heart stuttered.

  Gods, she’d missed them.

  Jonas nodded toward the corner of the square. “See? Told you it’d still be open.”

  Nestled between a velvet-draped tailor and a flickering apothecary, the bakery looked like something conjured from a story half-remembered. Its windows glowed with honeyed light, fogged from within by warmth and sugar. A wooden sign creaked above the door, carved with the image of a coiled bun encircled by stars. The Sleeping Swirl. The kind of place untouched by time. Familiarity made brick and breath.

  The bell above the door chimed soft and silver as they stepped inside. The scent hit Elena like memory: cinnamon, sweet yeast, baked apples, clove. The air was thick with comfort and forgotten days.

  Inside, the shop was narrow, lined with crooked shelves and soft light. Preserves glimmered in thick glass jars. Wax-wrapped honeycomb. Charms spun lazily above the register—wards for freshness, protection, peace. Behind the glass counter, pastries lay in careful rows like sleeping saints.

  “Two cinnaswirls,” Jonas said without hesitation, “and one of those cherry things you like.”

  Elena raised a brow. “You never remember what it’s called.”

  “I remember it has cherries. That's enough.”

  Lily pressed her fingers to the glass. “Can I have a honey twist? Just one?”

  “Just one,” Elena said, knowing she’d find two later. Thomas bounced beside her, his eyes bigger than his appetite.

  They paid. The bell sang once more behind them.

  They found a worn stone bench beside the old fountain. Lily sat cross-legged, sketchbook in her lap, humming under her breath. Thomas leaned into Jonas, devouring his swirl like he hadn’t eaten in days. Elena took a bite of her tart—flaky, tart, alive. She closed her eyes.

  The city wrapped around them like a cloak stitched from memory.

  Veladros breathed: merchant voices softened by distance, the hiss of a relit rune, the murmur of tired priests arguing scripture. The sky held its endless twilight, stars blurred but never absent. A mist curled low to the ground, not menacing—familiar. It was always there.

  For a heartbeat, for a breath, she forgot how to brace against the world.

  Then she felt it.

  That prickle at the base of her neck. The kind of sensation that meant you were not alone.

  She turned her head, slowly.

  A figure stood at the fountain’s far edge.

  Tall. Still. Smiling.

  Watching.

  His outline wavered—heat shimmered, unfocused. No face. Just the smile and that tilt of the head. Almost curious.

  Elena blinked.

  Gone.

  Not walked away.

  Gone.

  Her mouth dried.

  “Mama, you dropped your pastry.”

  Thomas held it up, his fingers sticky with cinnamon.

  She blinked. Her hand was empty.

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  But she remembered holding it.

  The scent lingered on her fingers. She hadn’t taken another bite.

  “Thanks, baby.” She took it. Warm. Intact. Uneaten.

  She turned the tart over slowly. No bite marks.

  Thomas leaned in again, identical smile curling his lips.

  “Mama, you dropped your pastry.”

  Again. Same tone. Same cadence.

  The sound clanged in her skull—wrong, like a bell tolling out of rhythm.

  She stared at him. Then at her hand.

  The pastry was there. Already. Still.

  “I... ”

  Her voice broke off. She looked past Thomas to the square. The priest was passing. She could have sworn she had seen him seconds ago.

  Same limp. Same muttering.

  Again.

  Elena stood slowly. “We should head home.”

  Jonas stretched. “You tired already?”

  “Just... ready to be home.”

  They turned onto the narrow street.

  No bells.

  Not from the tower. Not the stalls.

  The bakery was dark.

  The door was shut.

  She didn’t remember hearing it close.

  The street pressed in quieter with each step. Vendors packing up. Shadows lengthening. Mist curling higher.

  A boy laughed too loud. A shopkeeper flipped her sign to Closed. Then back to Open. Blink. Gone.

  Jonas said something. She didn’t hear. Her ears felt full of cotton.

  Lily skipped ahead. Thomas clung to her coat.

  The city was still there.

  But not right.

  Like it was holding its breath.

  Her pace slowed. Her legs felt heavy, like moving through water thick with memory.

  Each step cost more than the last.

  Jonas, Lily, Thomas—just ahead, just beyond reach—faded with each blink.

  Like names slipping from the tongue. Like a dream she’d already begun to forget.

  “Wait—guys, wait up.”

  No one turned.

  She ran.

  Called their names.

  No one looked back.

  The mist swallowed her words. Swallowed their backs.

  Gone.

  Panic surged.

  She spun, searching. Called again. Nothing.

  Except—

  A man.

  Tall.

  Waiting.

  She approached. His face wouldn’t resolve—blurred like breath on glass. But something about him felt known.

  A hole in his chest.

  Perfect. Bloodless.

  Mist passed through it like smoke through a broken window.

  She didn’t scream.

  “I need help,” she whispered.

  He turned his head slightly—just slightly. That same soft tilt Aiden used when listening to distant things.

  “What’s the problem?”

  The voice was warm. Familiar. Too familiar.

  She opened her mouth—

  Nothing.

  Her brow knit. The reason was right there—wasn’t it? Something urgent. Heavy.

  But when she reached for it, it slid away like water through her fingers.

  Her chest tightened. She looked at her hands. At the mist.

  Nothing.

  No blood. No wound. No memory sharp enough to anchor her.

  “I… I should go home,” she said instead. The words felt distant, like a line she’d been given to read.

  He nodded slowly. “Me too. My daughter’s waiting.”

  That smile.

  Too gentle. Too empty.

  He paused, gaze lifting—not to her, but somewhere past her shoulder. Listening.

  “Take care. Something feels weird tonight...”

  Then he turned and walked into the mist.

  No sound.

  No weight.

  No footprints.

  She turned. Walked.

  The streets twisted.

  Not visibly. Not all at once.

  But with every turn, every shadowed alley, something bent behind her, just out of sight.

  She passed a stairwell. Wax-dripped railing. A crooked alcove window, candle flickering inside.

  She didn’t think much of it.

  Until she passed it again.

  Same window. Same candle.

  She slowed. Looked back. The street behind her didn’t match what she remembered.

  A few more steps.

  Another corner.

  The stairwell again.

  Her breath caught. Her feet kept moving.

  This time, she counted.

  One, two, three windows.

  A door with peeling paint.

  A sign reading Mire & Sons – Closed

  She turned left. A different direction.

  Still. The stairwell.

  She whispered, “No.”

  Then froze.

  From somewhere nearby, a voice murmured.

  Too soft to understand. Too close not to hear.

  She turned. No one.

  Another whisper. Behind her now.

  Another version of her name—or was it?

  The world was retelling itself around her—and forgetting how it was supposed to end.

  She stopped walking. Let the silence close in.

  Her fingers found the locket at her throat—ice cold now.

  Not for luck.

  Just to feel. Just to remember.

  She closed her eyes.

  Whispered their names like a spell.

  Jonas. Lily. Thomas.

  The city held its breath.

  When she opened her eyes—

  The stairwell was gone.

  Ahead stood her home. The cracked stone steps. The iron railing. The warped door she always meant to fix.

  Familiar. Too familiar.

  She didn’t remember the walk.

  Just the weight in her chest pulling her forward

  Then—home.

  The steps. The railing. The cracked third stone.

  The door—ajar.

  The handle—bloody.

  And then she remembered.

  Fear gripped her heart.

  Elena froze at the threshold, hand outstretched, fingertips barely brushing the splintered wood. Her heart pounded in her ears—loud, uneven—drowning out everything but a quiet, unrelenting dread that coiled tighter with each passing second.

  She swallowed, her mouth dry as ash.

  The door was open Enough for a line of pale, honeyed light to spill across her boots, thin and inviting—but somehow wrong. The light seemed colder than she remembered, drained of warmth like a false promise whispered sweetly in the dark.

  She drew her hand back, fingers trembling..

  Her eyes traced the familiar designs along the stone steps, followed the iron railing rusted in exactly the places she knew by heart. The wind hissed softly past her ears, colder now, carrying with it the faint scent of copper—blood, fresh and sharp, mixed with something else, something ancient.

  You don't have to go in. The thought flickered, unbidden. Tempting.

  She looked around, desperate for something to anchor her to this moment, to reality. The street behind was empty—shadows long, mist heavy, silence absolute. Her breath misted, white and thin, as her pulse quickened.

  Then, faintly—so faintly she wondered if she'd imagined it—she heard a voice from inside.

  Lily?

  Elena pressed a palm flat against the door. It creaked softly under her touch, moving inward a breath's width.

  She hesitated again, chest tightening. Her locket burned cold against her skin.

  Her fingers tightened on the cold metal at her neck, feeling the tiny engraving she'd traced a thousand times. It had always comforted her. But tonight, it was just another piece of metal, meaningless, cold.

  Another muffled whisper—Thomas? Jonas? The voice was distant. Hollow.

  She inhaled slowly, summoned every fragment of courage, every memory still strong enough to feel real.

  Then, finally, she pushed the door inward, praying for something familiar, something warm.

  The door swung open with a quiet groan.

  Silence. A golden light from the kitchen.

  Her coat slipped off, forgotten.

  They were there.

  Jonas. Lily. Thomas.

  Seated at the table.

  Whole. Still.

  She sobbed—a sound between laughter and collapse. “You scared me to death.”

  She stepped into the kitchen.

  A fourth figure.

  Tall.

  Hair of molten white.

  Eyes like suns.

  He turned.

  Smiled.

  “Thy nature hath been... corrected.”

  She looked to her family.

  Vacant stares.

  Hollow chests.

  Each bore the same hole.

  Just like him.

  Elena screamed.

  And he laughed.