By the time Alana dropped the rag into the bucket, her arms ached and her back protested every move. The old clock on the wall ticked past ten. The house smelled faintly of lemon polish and dust—an oddly comforting mix that made it feel almost alive again. She stood in the middle of the freshly cleaned living room, surrounded by half-open boxes, the faint hum of crickets filling the quiet. Through the open windows, the night breeze poured in cool and heavy with the scent of pine and wet soil.
She rubbed her eyes, too tired to think, and made a mental note to return Tom's plate in the morning—thank Erica properly, maybe pick up groceries and paint for the bedroom walls. Her eyelids felt like weights as she stumbled toward the bed. The sheets were thin and smelled faintly of cedar and old sunlight.
Sleep took her fast.
--
She was standing barefoot in a forest. The world around her glowed in a pale blue haze, the air cool and damp, her white dress brushing against dew-soaked grass. The trees stretched tall and endless, whispering secrets in a language made of wind. Her feet left faint prints on the soft earth, and the silence was so deep she could hear her own heartbeat.
Then she saw it.
A stone tomb rose out of the earth like something that had been buried too long and refused to stay down. Moss crawled across its surface, and the carvings—runes, perhaps—seemed to move when she blinked. The air thickened. She smelled iron. Her stomach twisted.
A sharp warmth spread beneath her ribs. She looked down.
Blood.
Thick, dark, and real. It gushed between her fingers when she pressed the wound, hot against her cold skin. Her breath caught in her throat; she tried to scream, but the forest swallowed the sound whole.
The world tilted—branches blurring, the tomb stretching upward—and suddenly she was inside it.
Ropes bit into her wrists. The air was damp, walls slick with condensation. Seven figures in dark robes circled her slowly, their masks painted with strange symbols that shimmered like molten silver. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she struggled to move, but her mouth was gagged, the sound of her own breathing harsh in her ears.
One of the masked figures stepped forward. The mask it wore was different—older, carved of bone. In its hand, a dagger caught the flicker of unseen light. The blade gleamed, trembling slightly before rising above her head. Her whole body shook, her eyes wide as the figure lowered the weapon—
—and the moment before it struck, she jolted awake with a strangled gasp.
---
Her chest heaved. The ceiling came into focus in the faint gray light. The curtains rustled as the wind pressed through the open window, carrying the scent of rain and earth. For a second, she couldn't tell if she was still dreaming—until she felt the damp essence between her thighs.
Alana threw the covers aside and ran to the bathroom, the old tiles cold under her feet. When she saw the red on her fingers, she let out a shaky laugh—half relief, half disbelief. "Of course," she whispered. Her monthly visitor. Just that.
The tension in her shoulders eased. She cleaned herself up, washed her hands, and turned on the tap. The water ran clear, echoing faintly through the small room. She stared at her reflection in the mirror as she wiped her face. The steam rose slowly, softening her features.
Her reflection looked different—paler, the shadows under her eyes deeper. She tilted her head, squinting. Her irises, once a warm hazel, looked faded… almost gray. Probably exhaustion, she told herself. The dream had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.
She showered quickly, the water cooling her skin and washing away the sweat and traces of the nightmare. Wrapping herself in a towel, she moved back to her bedroom, where morning light was just beginning to creep in through the window.
She dressed in a clean shirt and a pair of worn jeans that smelled faintly of the cedar chest they'd been stored in. Her movements were slow, deliberate. She brushed her hair into a messy bun, applied just enough makeup to feel presentable. The bruise along her cheekbone had dulled, but she dabbed concealer over it anyway.
Before leaving, she lingered by the mirror again. The gray in her eyes hadn't gone away—it was almost more noticeable now, like clouds rolling over sunlight. She blinked, frowned, then reached for her sunglasses. No point overthinking it. She didn't want anyone noticing the scar, anyway.
Grabbing her keys and a small tote, she gave the house one last look. Dust motes floated lazily in the sunbeams slicing through the room. The air smelled faintly of soap and pinewood. For a moment, she almost felt at peace.
Almost.