Chapter 2 – Ashes of Silence

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.