In the dim chamber beneath Gray Hollow, five figures stood within a circle of flickering candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of wax and ancient dust, every shadow stretching long against the damp stone walls. Each of them wore a crimson robe, the fabric pooling around their feet like spilled blood.
They formed a ring around the carved rune — an intricate design etched deep into the floor, its lines glowing faintly as if alive. The light from the candles trembled with each breath they took, casting their hoods in and out of darkness.
A low hum filled the air, neither wind nor voice, but something that seemed to pulse from the rune itself. One of the figures — the one standing at the northern point — stepped forward, his gloved hand rising in a silent command.
"It is time," the leader said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of generations.
The others bowed their heads, murmuring a quiet chant in the forgotten tongue of their ancestors. The sound was rhythmic, almost melodic, like a heartbeat echoing through the walls. The rune's glow deepened from amber to a dull, blood-red, and the candles wavered violently as if something unseen stirred beneath the earth.
For a moment, the leader hesitated, his gaze fixed on the center of the rune where an offering bowl rested, empty — waiting.
The silence that followed was suffocating, as if the whole chamber held its breath.
Alana placed the last of her items on the counter — milk, bread, canned soup, a few cleaning supplies — when a soft sniffle caught her attention.
A little boy stood a few aisles away, small and fragile, clutching a candy bar like it was his last hope. His big brown eyes were glossy with unshed tears.
Alana hesitated for a moment, then her heart tugged. She crouched beside him. "Hey, sweetheart… what's wrong?"
The boy didn't answer at first. His lip trembled. Then, in a whisper, "My friends don't wanna be friends with me anymore."
Something inside her cracked. She saw a younger version of herself — standing on the playground, too afraid to speak, hearing other kids whisper about her father. The kind of loneliness that burrows deep.
She smiled gently. "That's okay. Sometimes people don't see how special we are right away."
He looked up at her, confused but curious.
"Where's your mom?" she asked softly.
"She went to get something. She said to wait right here."
"Then I'll wait with you," Alana said. "It's safer that way."
"Why?"
"Because…" she said, tapping his nose lightly, "we're friends now."
That made him smile — a real, toothy grin. He reached out and took her hand.
And in that instant — the world tilted.
Alana gasped. Her vision blurred, and then shifted. Images flashed before her eyes — the same boy, screaming, dragged backward into darkness by something unseen. His small hands clawing at the air. His voice echoing, "Help me!"
Alana jerked back, heart pounding, the grocery store flickering back into focus.
"Excuse me," a woman's sharp voice broke through. "That's my son."
Alana blinked rapidly, disoriented. The woman — early thirties, tired eyes, protective stance — looked between them suspiciously.
"I was just keeping him company," Alana said quickly, forcing a small smile. Her voice shook a little.
"Anthony," the woman said, frowning down at her son, "what did I tell you about talking to strangers?"
"She's my friend," the boy said softly, still smiling.
The woman gave Alana a tight, polite nod, then ushered him away.
Anthony turned back and waved at her as they left.
Alana's hand trembled. The warmth of his touch still lingered — and beneath it, the echo of that terrified cry.
Alana grabbed her cart and headed to the counter, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. What's happening to me? Am I losing it? She shook her head, trying to push the worry aside. Maybe she needed a checkup—maybe this was all in her head. Was she running mad, she wondered.
She collected her groceries, mentally ticking off the list of things she still needed. Just as she was about to turn, she collided—hard—with a solid chest. The same broad wall of a man from the bakery. Her glasses cracked on impact, the sharp snap echoing louder in her ears than it should have.
"Why do we keep meeting like this?" His deep, smooth voice vibrated against her chest.
Alana's heartbeat jumped. "Are you stalking me?" Her voice was sharper than she intended, defensive, her fingers tightening on her cart.
"Stalking?" He tilted his head, amused, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "No. I've got groceries of my own. Don't worry, darling—you're not that special."
Her chest tightened at that line. Not special… Her mind flinched, a memory she tried to bury rising uninvited. Had she ever been important to anyone? The thought lingered, unwelcome and cold. He noticed change in her emotion.
She opened and closed her mouth then decided to brush past him, to escape the weight of the gaze, but he leaned slightly closer, calm, almost casual. "Let me help. You're not walking all the way up that hill with all this alone."
"And why would you help?" Suspicion laced her words. "Trying to figure out where I live?"
He laughed—a low, deep sound that seemed to reverberate through her chest. And for a moment, it made her forget her tension. "Sweetheart, I already know where you live. My sister stays nearby. I'm just dropping you off, then I'm gone."
She hesitated, weighing her options, uncertainty flickering across her mind. Finally, she said, "If that's what you want."
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He bent to lift some of her heavier bags, their weight surprisingly firm in his hands. She felt a mix of gratitude and irritation—annoyed she needed help, yet relieved she didn't have to struggle with everything herself.
Once inside the car, she sank into the seat, her body relaxing slightly against the warmth of the leather. She pulled out her cracked glasses, holding them against the side mirror, inspecting her reflection. Noon sunlight streamed through the windows, glinting off the scratches on the lenses. Her makeup, cheap and long-worn, was already fading; her scars would soon be visible again. She pressed her lips together, a flicker of frustration crossing her face.
She was just about to put the glasses back on when the driver's door swung open without warning. Startled, the glasses slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor with a sharp clatter. She bent to gather the pieces, a frustrated sigh escaping her lips.
When she finally looked up, he was still there, staring longer than she expected. The intensity in his gaze sent an odd shiver down her spine, making her heart skip a beat. Something in the look wasn't casual interest—it was studying her, like he was trying to read something she couldn't let him see.
Her mouth opened to speak, to make some casual comment, but the words died in her throat. She swallowed hard, her pulse racing. The moment felt suspended, heavy, charged—an unspoken current that hummed between them.
Alana forced herself to glance away, to focus on something else instead, the radio, she pressed play not caring if this was her car or not and looked outside the window.