Episode 3

Days passed—perhaps weeks, perhaps months. Time lost all meaning in Greywick, where the rain never stopped and the sky remained locked in eternal gray. Clara wandered through the flooded streets, her body growing weaker with each passing hour. The pulsing in her veins grew stronger, more insistent, as if the rain inside her was trying to take over.

She tried to leave the town, following every road, every trail, but they always led her back to the same place: the well beneath the church. No matter how far she ran, she would always find herself standing before the dark, ancient symbols carved into its stone.

The figure from the water began to haunt her, its glowing ember eyes watching from every ripple, every puddle. It whispered to her in a voice that sounded like her own, promising freedom if she surrendered.

“You belong to us now,” it said. “Stop fighting. Accept what you are.”Clara fought the whispers as long as she could, but the rain was relentless. She could feel it creeping deeper into her mind, eroding her memories, her identity, her very sense of self. She tried to hold onto the thought of Eliza, her sister’s face the only anchor in the drowning sea of her mind.

But then, one night, she saw Eliza again.

It happened in a dream—or perhaps it wasn’t a dream at all. Clara stood in the middle of the black ocean she had seen before, the rain falling harder than ever. Waves towered around her, and in the distance, Eliza stood on the water’s surface, her empty eyes glowing faintly red.

“Eliza,” Clara called, her voice breaking. “I’m here to save you!”

Eliza’s face twisted into something unrecognizable, her voice echoing with the rain’s cadence. “There’s no saving us, Clara. We are the rain now.”

The realization struck Clara like a lightning bolt: the rain wasn’t just alive—it was made of the people it consumed. Everyone who had vanished, everyone who had drowned in its endless downpour, had become part of it. And now, so would she.

Clara woke up soaked to the bone, lying in the center of Greywick’s flooded town square. The water reached her chin now, the walkways long gone. The townsfolk were gone too, their faces and voices now part of the whispers that surrounded her.

The well loomed before her, glowing faintly with an unnatural red light. Clara knew what she had to do, even if it terrified her.

She waded to the well, her limbs heavy as if the rain was holding her back. Peering into the depths, she saw the massive, grotesque form of the creature, its endless tentacles writhing below. Its ember eyes stared into hers, and a voice thundered in her mind: “Come to me, Clara. Become whole.”

Clara hesitated. She could feel the rain’s pull, its promise of release from the pain and fear. But she wasn’t ready to surrender. Not yet.

Summoning every ounce of strength she had left, Clara reached into her jacket and pulled out the journal she had taken from Eliza’s room. Inside, scrawled in Eliza’s frantic handwriting, was a single phrase repeated over and over: “The fire can end it. The fire is the key.”

Clara knew what she had to do.

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