Horrifying, maddening darkness wrapped around Hayel as he sat at the table the entire night.
He did not sleep.
He did not move more than necessary.
He did not dare lower his guard.
Every creak of wood, every whisper of wind scraping against the walls made his pulse spike.
His eyes stayed fixed on the room as if something might step out of the corners the moment he blinked.
When the first weak rays of sunlight finally slipped through the window, he exhaled a long, shaky breath.
Nothing happened.
No footsteps.
No whisper.
No small shape standing behind him.
That should have comforted him.
Instead, it drove him closer to madness.
He could stay awake one night, maybe two, but not forever, not every night. The thought of doing this again and again until his body gave out made his stomach twist.
Dark circles clung to his eyes. His whole body felt heavy, hollowed out by fear.
As the room brightened, he pushed himself up. He needed matches. Candles meant light and light made him feel safer.
Deciding that he will not spend another night in darkness, he chooses to go buy new matches.
He walked toward his bedroom, sighing absently as he opened the door. His mind was still foggy from exhaustion, thoughts moving slowly, like wading through mud.
He reached for his grey, cheap clothes.
Then his ability brushed against something.
Something small, resting on the windowsill.
He frowned slightly and turned his head. Irritation flickered inside his chest as he leaned closer and squinted.
Matches.
"…What?"
For a long moment he simply stared at the small box, his mind refusing to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.
Were they there the entire time? Did he move them and forget? Did that thing move them?
His heart began to pound.
If he had placed them there, why didn't he remember?
If it had placed them there… how?
He clearly remembered the matches being on the table before he tested his ability. He remembered the exact moment the candles went out. He remembered searching everywhere in the dark, desperate and shaking.
And his ability… his ability should have felt something if anything moved in the room.
So how did it take them?
A loud crash exploded through the house.
The cabinet, the one his family had owned for as long as he could remember, shattered under the force of his kick.
Hayel panted, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Fury, confusion, and dread churned violently inside him. With a sharp motion, he swatted the matches off the sill. They hit the floor with a dry clatter.
He dragged a hand through his short dark hair, breathing unevenly.
Then he looked at the cabinet.
Regret hit him almost immediately.
It had once been beautiful—dark polished wood carved with elegant swirling patterns. His mother loved that cabinet. She used to clean it carefully, smiling faintly every time she did.
Now one of its doors hung crooked, splintered at the hinge.
"…Damn it…"
He groaned and sat heavily on the bed, burying his face in his hands.
"Seriously, Hayel? You idiot… They're just matches," he muttered to himself. "You're seriously breaking things over matches?"
The words tasted bitter.
After a few minutes, he forced himself to stand. Slowly, he calmed his breathing, changed his clothes, and decided to go out.
He needed air.
He needed people.
He needed proof that the world was still normal.
He grabbed his father's old brown leather wallet and stormed out of the house, still irritated, still restless. His feet carried him down the street toward the small village market.
He will buy alcohol.
It was a terrible idea. He knew that. He was still just a kid, but he didn't feel like one. He had lived alone for years. No one took care of him like a parent would.
Layla had caught him drinking once before. He promised her he wouldn't do it again until he was older.
…She wouldn't know this time.
He wouldn't drink much.
Villagers moved about their business. Some glanced at him strangely. Parents, mostly. People who remembered the fights he used to get into after his parents died. He had not been a pleasant child back then.
He stopped in front of the alcohol stall. Several jars of different sizes lined the wooden counter.
He could have brought his own jar to fill.
He didn't.
He forgot.
Again.
He clenched his jaw. He needed to stop acting so rashly. Alcohol was already expensive. Buying it in a jar made it worse, and he barely earned enough as it was.
The stall owner greeted him. Joseph—large, bearded, always talking too much. A man who knew everyone's business and spread it without shame, yet somehow remained well-liked.
"So lad, buying alcohol again?" Joseph said, scratching his beard. "You're still young, you know. Shouldn't drink much."
After a brief silence, Hayel replied flatly, "I don't drink much. Just give me something for ten coins."
Joseph studied him for a moment, then shrugged and handed him a smaller jar. Hayel passed the coins over, watching them disappear into Joseph's pouch.
Joseph leaned forward slightly. "How's Layla been?"
Hayel frowned. "Good. Why?"
"Well…" Joseph lowered his voice. "Something happened last night. You know Bob's daughter… Hannah?"
Hayel stiffened slightly. He vaguely recognized the name, though he didn't know the girl personally. Still, an uneasy feeling crawled under his skin.
Joseph clicked his tongue. "Word is… someone, or something, killed her. Beheaded her in the middle of the night." He glanced around before whispering, "They still haven't found her head."
The rest of his rambling faded into a dull buzz.
Hayel's heart slammed painfully against his ribs.
The head… do you want…
The memory of that voice crawled back into his mind, cold and suffocating.
"Hayel?"
He snapped back to reality, staring at Joseph with a strained expression.
"That's horrible," he said quietly. "I… hope nothing worse happens."
Joseph gave him a sympathetic look. "Be careful, lad. Just in case."
"Okay."
Hayel forced a small smile and turned away. Instead of heading home, he walked toward Layla's stall. He didn't want her to see the alcohol, but he couldn't find her stall from afar with his poor vision.
Eventually, he spotted her, talking animatedly to someone. Relief loosened the tight knot in his chest. She was safe. Still alive. Still loud.
He slipped into a narrow alley between houses and carefully set the jar down, hiding it from view.
Then he walked back toward her, smiling faintly just in case she noticed him.
"Hayel!" she called, waving.
"Hey."
She squinted at him. "Wow. You look like absolute shit."
"I didn't sleep," he admitted.
"Really? Too bad," she said bluntly. Then her expression darkened slightly. "Did you hear what happened?"
He shook his head. "No. What is it?"
Layla sighed. "Hannah… she's dead. Someone killed her last night." Her voice softened. "I didn't know her well, but… I knew who she was. It still feels awful."
"That's… terrible," he said, voice tight.
"Yeah…" She sighed again, then turned to serve another customer. "Hello, what would you like?"
Hayel waited quietly until the woman left.
"Will you stay here?" Layla asked afterward. "I'm bored."
He considered it. Staying meant noise, light, safety. But exhaustion dragged at him heavily.
"No. I'm tired," he said. "You should be careful though. Just in case."
Her eyes widened teasingly. "Aww, are you worried about me? How cute."
"Shut up."
She burst out laughing. "Fine, fine! Go then. Nothing will happen to me, don't worry."
He turned and left, her chuckles following him down the street.
Once he was sure she wasn't watching, he slipped back into the alley and grabbed the jar.
He held it tightly as he walked home, dread coiling again in his chest.
Behind his eyes, the memory echoed once more, low and distorted. The head… do you want…
He quickened his pace.