The rain lashed against the tall, arched windows, drowning the world outside in a silver blur. The wind howled down the stone corridors of the old estate, whispering through the gaps in the walls like voices of the past.

Inside the dark, opulent room, a scream shattered the silence — not loud, not audible to others — but sharp and suffocating in Elle’s throat.

She jolted upright in bed, heart hammering. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps, as if she had been drowning — and maybe she had. Not in water, but in memories.

The crash.

The flames.

Her mother’s voice screaming her name.

The twisted metal.

The silence that followed.

That damned silence.

It echoed louder in her head with every breath. Her sheets were tangled around her legs like vines, and she shoved them off as if they too were suffocating her. She buried her face in trembling hands. Her skin was clammy, her nightgown stuck to her back with cold sweat.

In her grey eyes, the past still burned — silent, persistent, and merciless.

Why did it always feel the same?

Why couldn’t she outrun it, even in sleep?

People always said time healed. But time had only sharpened the memories. It filed them down to edges that could still draw blood. She hadn’t cried. Not that night, not at the funeral, not when they lowered the coffins into the earth. But her body remembered. Her soul remembered. And it screamed for her when she no longer could.

She used to believe the nightmares would stop. That one day, the accident would be a memory, not a wound. But it wasn’t healing. It was scarring — thick, ugly scars that pulled at her from the inside.

And no one really knew. No one could.

Then —

A gentle knock.

Three soft taps.

Measured. Reassuring.

She didn’t answer.

The door creaked open anyway, spilling warm golden light from the hallway onto the cold wooden floor.

“Elle, child… another one?”

It was Martha.

The warmth in her voice was like worn wool — comforting, a little rough, but woven with care. She stood silhouetted in the doorway, wrapped in her thick shawl, her silver hair tied in a neat bun. Her face was lined with age and long nights, but her eyes were focused and terribly kind. They found Elle instantly — wide, grey, haunted.

Martha had been in Elle’s life for as long as she could remember. Not just the head maid or housekeeper of Crestbourne Manor — she was family. A steady presence since Elle was four. She had held Elle’s hand during tantrums, tucked her in when fevers kept her up. While Elle’s mother was the sun, brilliant and loving, Martha had been the moon — constant, calm, always there in the dark.

After the accident, she became something more: the last piece of a home that no longer existed.

Martha stepped inside without waiting. She didn’t ask for permission — never had to. She crossed the room, her steps soft and unfaltering, as if she could walk through Elle’s grief without disturbing it.

She sat at the edge of the bed with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times.

“Nightmares again?” she asked gently.

Elle nodded slowly. Her lips felt too numb to form words.

“Same one?”

Another nod.

Martha sighed, not out of impatience, but weariness. She reached out and smoothed Elle’s damp hair back from her temple. Her hand was warm, solid — like an anchor in stormy waters.

“You were just a girl,” she murmured. “There was nothing you could have done.”

But Elle’s silence screamed back at her — Then why does it still feel like I should have?

They always said that, didn’t they? You were a child. It wasn’t your fault. Maybe, rationally, Elle knew it was true. But guilt didn’t obey reason. It obeyed memory. And her memory had immortalized that day — every second, every scream, every flicker of flame. Her mother’s perfume. The classical music in the car. The moment her father looked away from the road — just for a second.

If only she had said something. If only she had shouted, pulled at his sleeve — anything.

What terrified her most wasn’t just that she remembered it — but that part of her had begun to expect it. To brace for it, like it was a cruel routine. As if nightmares were stitched into her bones now, part of who she was.

Martha didn’t push. She never did. She rose and crossed to the old wooden dresser, pulling open the top drawer with a familiar creak. From it, she retrieved a small sachet of lavender — the same one she always brought on nights like this.

She placed it near Elle’s pillow and pulled the thick wool blanket around her shoulders.

“Try to sleep, dove,” she said softly. “I’ll be right down the hall.”

Elle said nothing, but her eyes followed Martha as she moved toward the door. There was something about the way she carried herself — upright, unhurried, undeterred by shadows — that made Elle feel just a little less adrift.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Elle remained seated, listening to the soft sound of retreating footsteps and the low moan of the wind outside. Her room, once elegant and warm, felt cavernous now. The chandeliers above hung like ghosts from the ceiling. Her canopy curtains stirred, moved by the breeze sneaking through the windowpane.

Elle sank slowly against her pillow. The scent of lavender curled around her, mingling with the faintest trace of perfume that still lingered in the room — her mother’s. She didn’t know if it was real or imagined. Some nights it comforted her. Other nights it cut like glass.

Maybe sleep would come again. Maybe not.

She turned on her side, eyes fixed on nothing, the blanket pulled to her chin.

Outside, thunder growled again, low and mournful — as if the sky itself remembered.

The thunder had long faded into the distance, retreating into the folds of the night, but within Elle’s chest, the storm hadn’t passed. It never did.

It simmered — a quiet, smoldering chaos.

A breath held too long.

A scream buried too deep.

A wound sealed over but never healed.

She sat still in her grand canopy bed, cocooned in silk sheets and shadows. The soft rustle of the blanket sounded too loud in the silence of her room. She pulled it tighter, not for warmth — the chill in the air didn’t bother her — but for protection. As if it could somehow form a barrier between her and the weight pressing down on her ribs.

Outside, the wind whispered secrets through the ancient trees lining the estate. Their branches tapped against the window panes, like impatient fingers. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, each droplet sliding down the glass like a tear. But inside the room, nothing moved except Elle’s breathing — slow, controlled, and deliberate.

She lay back against the pillows, the down-filled cushions sinking under her slender frame. Her eyes — those piercing, storm-colored eyes — fixed on the ceiling above. The dim glow of the moon filtering through the window danced across the plaster, turning the ornate carvings into moving shadows. They looked like phantoms.

She hated shadows.

They reminded her of what couldn’t be outrun.

Sleep would not come again. It never did after the nightmares. They left her raw, trembling beneath the surface, though her exterior remained calm — too calm.

Her gaze drifted to the bedside table, where an ornate silver frame stood. It gleamed softly in the moonlight, almost inviting. Carefully, hesitantly, she reached toward it.

The photo inside was old, slightly faded.

Her mother’s delicate smile — lips curled with warmth that could soothe a tempest.

Her father’s proud, steady eyes — the kind that never wavered.

And herself, a younger Elle, no more than eight or nine, nestled between them.

Innocence. Light. Laughter. All captured in a single still moment, untouched by fate.

She brushed her fingertips across the glass, lingering on the face of her mother… then her own. There was reverence in her touch, but also something sharper — guilt. A memory tried to surface, but she pushed it down.

Her jaw clenched, her throat tightened, and with a sudden sharp motion, she turned the frame face down.

The silence deepened.

She sat still for a long moment, breathing in the cold air, letting it fill the spaces where emotion tried to creep in. Then, slowly, she pushed the blanket aside.

Her bare feet touched the polished wooden floor soundlessly. She moved with practiced grace — fluid, quiet, measured — like someone trained to avoid notice.

She crossed the room to the tall windows, parting the heavy velvet curtains with barely a whisper. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the view beyond. The estate grounds, usually so vast and immaculate, were now shrouded in mist and shadow.

The rose gardens. The stone fountain. The skeletal outline of the greenhouse. All slumbered under the cloak of night. Peaceful on the surface, unaware of the storm that stirred inside its mistress.

Elle stood there, unmoving, arms folded across her chest. The moonlight caught the sharp line of her cheekbone, the hollow beneath her eyes. Her long hair hung loose, curling at the ends from the humidity.

There had been a time — not too long ago — when she would cry after each nightmare. She’d wake up gasping, tears slipping down her face, the weight of grief clinging to her like a second skin.

But that girl was gone now.

Now, she didn’t cry. She didn’t tremble.

Now, she burned.

Unseen in the hallway, Greta watched from the shadows. The old maid’s wrinkled hands clutched the tea tray tighter to her chest, though she knew Elle wouldn’t want anything tonight.

She never did after the dreams.

Greta had known Elle since she was small. She remembered the quiet, curious child with wide eyes and a soft laugh. Fragile, yes — but kind. Always kind.

Now, there was something else. Something beneath the stillness, coiled and waiting.

A hardness. A distance.

It wasn’t numbness — it was control.

Deliberate. Dangerous.

It frightened Greta more than any nightmare ever could. And yet, she loved the girl fiercely. She wanted to protect her. But from what?

From others?

Or from herself?

Downstairs, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed four times, its echo curling through the silence of the manor like a ghost's whisper.

Back upstairs, Elle turned from the window and moved toward her writing desk. The room was bathed in a mixture of moonlight and shadow. Her silhouette stretched long across the floor — ghostlike, ethereal.

She slid into the chair, its legs creaking softly beneath her weight. Her fingers reached for the top drawer, pulling it open to reveal an array of keepsakes. Pressed flowers, old letters, a broken pendant — fragments of a past she didn’t speak of, didn’t mourn publicly.

Nestled among them was a small, black notebook. Bound in leather, plain, unassuming — and filled with truths.

She picked it up and flipped it open. Pages of notes greeted her — some handwritten neatly, others scrawled with urgency.

Drawings of faces. Names. Dates.

Patterns.

Connections.

She turned to a fresh page.

Her pen hovered above it for a moment, and then she began to write:

July 26 – Recurrence: Dream Three.

Her handwriting was careful, unshaking. Every stroke was intentional.

She recorded the dream like someone recording evidence at a crime scene.

No emotion. No elaboration.

Only what mattered.

The twisted road. The headlights. The rain.

Her mother’s voice — a whisper that was almost a warning.

The screech of tires.

The silence that followed.

Her grey eyes scanned the page.

Each word she wrote carved out a piece of the truth — or at least, what she believed was the truth. What she needed to believe.

When she finished, she closed the notebook gently and set it aside.

Then she sat there, unmoving once more, her hands folded on her lap.

The room was quiet again.

No tears came. No sigh escaped her lips.

In that moment, Elle Deveraux was not a grieving daughter. She wasn’t a girl battling trauma. She was something else entirely.

A force gathering in silence.

A mapmaker charting the terrain of darkness.

And behind those grey eyes…

Not pain.

Not grief.

Only calculation.

Sunlight spilled through the high windows in broken shafts, warming the mahogany floors and casting golden lace patterns on the walls. The breeze stirred the curtains gently, like a hand brushing hair away from a sleeping face. Somewhere beyond the rose garden, birds chirped—carefree, unaware of the girl still tangled in sleep.

A shrill sound cut through the stillness.

The clock on Elle’s nightstand read: 8:42 AM.

Her eyes snapped open.

“Oh no… no, no—!”

She bolted upright, her breath catching as if the room itself had punched her. Hair a tousled halo, blanket half on the floor, she scrambled to her feet, knocking a pillow off the bed as she lunged toward the wardrobe. The orientation lecture at Valemount University — her first day — began at nine sharp.

And Valemount was not five minutes away.

She brushed her teeth with one hand while yanking open drawers with the other. Toothpaste foam dribbled onto her shirt sleeve, but she barely noticed.

“Formal dress? No. Too much. This skirt has a tear… And where are my jeans?!”

She threw an armful of clothes onto the bed in frustration, running a hand through her hair — then wincing when it caught in a knot.

In the middle of her chaos, the door creaked open.

Greta stepped in like a quiet breeze, holding a neatly pressed uniform. Her soft grey eyes twinkled with restrained amusement. “Your uniform is already laid out, Elle,” she said gently, holding up a white blouse and a navy pleated skirt. “You mentioned you’d need it today.”

Elle froze. Toothbrush still in her mouth.

“Oh.” She blinked. “Right. I—I did.”

“You’re not quite a morning dove, are you?”

Elle gave a sheepish half-smile, toothpaste and all. “You’re a life-saver.”

“I’m your Greta, dove. Now go get dressed before that poor driver of yours faints from worry.”

Exactly fifteen minutes later, at 8:57 AM, Elle flew down the grand staircase, shoes barely tied, blazer half on, and her bag swinging wildly from her shoulder. The cool air outside kissed her cheeks as she rushed across the gravel path. The vintage black car stood waiting at the end of the drive, its engine a quiet purr.

Mr. Hollins, ever composed, tipped his cap as she jumped in.

“Morning, Miss Elle. We’ve just enough time, if luck’s on our side.”

She looked at her phone. 8:57.

Her heart clenched. “We’ve got, like… three minutes. That’s not luck — that’s a miracle.”

“We’ve made tighter turns,” he said with a soft chuckle.

As the car rumbled through the twisting, mist-laced lanes of Greystone, Elle tried to calm her racing thoughts. But her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her blazer, and her knee bounced in place.

You’re fine. It’s just college.

But her stomach didn’t agree.

Valemount University rose through the fog like something out of a Gothic novel. Ivy crawled along the age-worn stone walls, and tall spires pierced the morning sky. Wrought-iron gates creaked open, and stained-glass windows glimmered faintly with shifting light.

Elle stepped out of the car with barely a thank-you and sprinted across the cobbled courtyard. Her shoes echoed too loudly in the empty archways. She pulled her bag tighter to her chest, eyes scanning for the main entrance.

Then—

She turned a corner and crashed right into someone.

They both stumbled, and Elle nearly lost her balance. Her bag slipped halfway down her arm.

“S—Sorry!” she said, eyes wide.

The boy she’d run into blinked, then stepped back. “No, it’s—it’s okay. I wasn’t… I wasn’t looking either.”

He ran a hand through his dark, slightly messy hair, avoiding her gaze for a moment. His uniform was slightly wrinkled, and his tie was askew, like he’d dressed in a hurry too. His voice was lower than she expected — quiet, maybe even a little unsure.

Elle nodded, her cheeks hot. “I, um… I was running late. Still am.”

He gave a soft, awkward laugh. “Same. I’m pretty sure we missed the ‘arrive fifteen minutes early’ part of the invitation.”

She managed a small smile. “Yeah. Definitely missed that.”

For a moment, they both stood there, not quite sure what to say next.

“I’m—uh—Kai,” he said finally, glancing at her.

“Oh. I’m Elle.”

A pause.

“Nice name,” he offered, then winced slightly like he wasn’t sure if that sounded weird.

“Thanks. Yours too,” she replied, then immediately regretted how formal that sounded.

The silence stretched just a bit too long.

“I guess we’re, um… both heading to orientation?” Elle said, starting to walk again.

“Yeah. Hopefully we’re not too late.”

They fell into step side by side, not speaking much more. Elle noticed the way he kept fidgeting with his blazer sleeve, and Kai noticed how she kept pulling her bag strap higher on her shoulder.

It was awkward. Clumsy. And weirdly… kind of comforting.

They reached the massive double doors of the main hall just as they were being pulled shut. A faculty member gave them a sharp look but let them in without a word.

Inside, the hall was cavernous — rows of dark wood benches, high-vaulted ceilings, and windows that painted the air with colored light. The dean’s voice echoed as he began his welcome speech.

Kai slipped into a seat near the back. Elle, too nervous to sit beside anyone, slid into a bench closer to the window.

As she settled, her heart still thudding, she caught movement from the corner of her eye.

Kai was looking at her.

She quickly looked away.

But a moment later, curiosity won out — she glanced back.

He was still looking. Not smiling, just… watching. Calm. Observing. As if trying to figure her out without asking a single question.

Elle turned her eyes to the dean, pretending to listen. But her mind drifted.

And for a girl haunted by silence — his quiet stare didn’t feel suffocating.

It felt like something else.