There was no wind, no rush of air. Just the stretch of forever pressing in on all sides. Like I was sinking in velvet darkness, limbs floating weightlessly while my stomach tried to catch up. Time stuttered, spun sideways. My scream never made it past my lips.
Down and down and down.
The shadows curled around me like ribbons. Like hands. Tugging me deeper, whispering things I couldn’t understand, but somehow felt were important.
And then?—
My pyjamas were soaked in sweat as I bolted upright on the bed. I reached for the bedside lamp and clicked it on, trying to even my breathing. I’d always been a visual dreamer but never like this. I turned my head to where my mum’s diary was resting on the bedside table next to theTales of Thornhill. I swallowed, then blew out a ragged breath, glancing at my watch. It was barely six in the morning. I pulled the book into my lap and leaned against the bed head.
I stared at the cover, my fingers resting against the edge as if the story might reach through the leather and pull me back in. It was nonsense, of course. Meant to scare children into obedience. To keep them away from things adults didn’t want them finding.
Still.
A shiver crawled down my spine. Not fear…something colder and sharper. The kind of sensation you feel when someone says your name in a room you thought was empty.
I sat the book aside and stood. The air in the room felt heavy, like it had been holding its breath with me. I needed space. Something real beneath my feet. My fingers were numb at the memory of falling from a place I had never been before, to the unfamiliar mausoleum’s stone floor disappearing from beneath me.
The story was just ink. But my dream hadn’t been.
I pushed myself out of bed, dressed, and snuck out into the garden. My dreams were leading me to one place. Somewhere I hadn’t dared to venture yet: the woods. So why not give them a chance? Why not go and see what lay at the edge of the grounds.
I crossed the garden, the morning gloom wrapping around me like a blanket too heavy to shake off. Each step through the mud felt like the earth was pulling me deeper, thick and sticky as it clung to my boots. The closer I came to the trees, the thicker the mist became, swallowing the pale grass beneath my feet. A crow’s cry cut through the fog, a lone, eerie sound that seemed to stretch on forever.
“Elodie.”
I froze mid-step, my name slicing the cold winter air. Turning, I found Lilian not far off, standing beside a half-done sculpture.
“You woke early,” she said, waving me closer. I walked back to where she was working on the statue under the drapes of an old tree with tangled roots. The shorter the distance became, themore I could see the form of a woman drawn out of the white stone. Hair carved into long locks, and fingers so delicate and life-like it seemed they would move at any moment…
“Where were you heading?” Lilian asked, glancing pointedly at the dark trees in the forest behind me.
“I was just wandering around,” I lied. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She nodded, then smiled. The chilly fingers of the wind clawed at my skin.
There was something off putting about the way she looked, as if her features weren’t made for such expression.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing at one of the benches close-by. I cast one last glance at the shadowed forest, then sat down beside her. The iron bit into my bottom even over the many layers I had on.
“I heard you met Declan Marzouq yesterday.”
My brows furrowed instinctively at the mention of the short meeting.
“He’s a fine young man, isn’t he?”
I shifted in my seat uncomfortably. “I suppose,” I said, careful to keep my voice neutral. “He seemed…polite.”
Lilian hummed, brushing a few specks of stone dust from her coat. “Polite is something many strive for.” She smiled again, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her gloved fingers trailed over the statue’s arm. “Do you know who this is?” she asked.
I glanced up at the marble woman, her expression serene and unknowable. There was something about her posture—elegant, but not passive, like she was listening.
I shook my head.
“A woman who used to live here.” Lilian’s voice was soft and oddly reverent. “Before the war. Some say, one day, she walked into the woods and never came back.” She paused, her fingers now tracing the statue’s hair. “They say the forest grew thicker after that. Hungrier.”
A beat passed between us. I watched the curve of Lilian’s jaw as she studied the sculpture, the way her shadow pooled at her feet like a second self.
“I was only going for a walk,” I repeated, not sure who I was trying to convince.
