“The sea never forgets what was taken from it”
That was the last thing my grandmother whispered to me before she passed away. Her breath was fading, eyes fixed on the ceiling as she saw something no one else could. I was only ten then and I didn’t understand. She had always said strange things, singing old song under her breath like charm meant for ghosts. Losing her,the last thing I want in my life, because she’s my best friend forever.
Seven years later, It happened I just wanted an A+. That’s all I had in mind when I choose “Ulek Mayang” for our Asian Folklore performance. No one else picked it, so I thought it would be my golden ticket. I didn’t know I was unearthing something older than time itself.
Everyone in Terengganu knew the eerie tales. School that had previously performed the Ulek Mayang often experienced mass hysteria, fainting spells and strange whispered. A bold choice buat dangerous.
Two weeks before the big performance, I was digging through my late grandmother attics for costume ideas. That’s when I found it, an old wooden trunk, smelling of camphor and rot. Inside was cracked leather notebook with golden yellow pages. A noted was tucked in front.
“Do not read unless your heart is pure, what lies within is more than words”
I laughed. “So dramatic, grandma.”
But, of course I read it out of curiosity.
Inside were handwritten lyrics to Ulek Mayang, but not the version we knew from school. These were longer, with symbols like blooming mayang flower, waves and seven stars circling a girl’s silhouette.
There was something else. A pressed strand black hair, brittle and ancient. I almost dropped the book.That night, I whispered some of the strange lyrics aloud. Just few lines. My voices echoed oddly at the attic wall and then…. Silence. The kind that presses on your chess. I shook it off.
It’s 2.44 am, I jolted awake. My ears rang. My bedsheets felt damp, as if I’d been walking through mist.
In a vivid dream, I stood barefoot on strange beach. Seven women in white stood before me, their gold scarves fluttering. One stood slightly behind the others. The youngest, her eyes looked onto mine.
The next day at school, my groupmate Mira said she had a dream too. Different beach, same seven figures.
We joked it off. Probably stress or too much Milo before bed.
But the dream didn’t stop.
Every night, I was pulled back to that shoreline. Each time, the youngest princess stepped s little closer. I began feel strange sense of quilt. Like I had disturbed a grave.
The night before our rehearsal.We dimmed the lights in the school music hall. The rehearsals started smoothly at first. I choreographed the sequence to include seven girls potraying the seven princess, with rhythmic chanting echoing through the school hall. I started singing the final verse.
“Ulek mayang ku ulek…
Ku ulek nak yang dalam bersarang…”
The sound changed. The mic hissed,
It began with Mira, the lead dancer mid rehearsal, she froze, eyes glassy, before dropping to the floor screaming:
“Dia marah !, jangan panggil lagi” ( She’s angry, dont call it anymore). Others soon followed, four girls collaped, Suddenly the light flickered.
Amani dropped her drumstick and stared blankly ahead. Another girl screamed. Then two more dropped to the floor, trembling. One was sobbing saying “ Dia panggil aku…she’s calling me…”
I froze. My throat went dry. I couldn’t move.
Then, everything went white.
In the blink of eyed, I was back on the beach from my dreams. But this time. The waves were furious, roaring. Lighting tore the sky apart. The seven figures appeared, glowing, floating above the shore. The youngest stepped forward.
“You called us. The door is open now"
I shouted, I didn’t meant to!”
She looked at me with eyes full of sorrow.
“It’s not you, it’s the song. It remembers who listens.”
The eldest princess emerged then, taller and commanding. Her voice echoed like the sea:
“Seven were taken, one remained. She was not supposed to. Now, she waits.”
The youngest lowered her gaze. Then, it hit me, she was the one left behind.
The final line of the forbidden lyrics wasn’t just poetic. It was literal. She’d been trapped between world, tied to the song, because no one had finished the ritual.
I turn to her. “Why me?”
“Bloodline… Only the bloodline can restore it” Said Youngest Princess.
“Your grandmother Siti Mariah, once walked this beach. She silenced the song to protect you. But the silence brings forgetting, forgetting weaken us.” Said one of the princess.
A memory surfaced, my late grandmother lullabies, the way grandma paused when the sea breeze blew. Could it be?
“She come!” the youngest princess cried. “The one who never named. She wants to return through the living.”
The princess began to chant, but their voices filtered. The shadow clawed toward me, The shadow spirits rooted the sand.
“Alisha!” a familiar voice called.
From behind the golden tree, my grandmother appeared, young, radiant. Holding bunch of fresh Mayang Flower.
“Speak your truth, say your name and restore the balance,” she whispered.
Trembling, I stepped forward. My voice shook but did not break.
“I am Alisha binti Zain, granddaughter of Siti Mariah, remember. I will not forget.”
The Mayang flower shoot form her hand, encircling the shadow. The spirit shrieked, collapsing inward, sucked back in the waves. The beach began to dissolved. The princess bowed.
“You have seen. Now let them know. Not with fear, but with truth.” The voiced echoed then disappeared.
Light engulfed me.I woke up in the school clinics with cold cloth on my head.
The teacher said we all fainted. But I knew better. The dreams stopped that night. Not because the magic sea was gone, but because a wound had been acknowledged.
The next day, we changed our performance. No full recitation. Just an instrumental melody, with projected visual about the legend. But this time, we told it differently:
“Ulek Mayang is not a horror tale. It’s a story of grief, of longing, of soul waiting to be remembered.”
As we played
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The storm had been brewing all day, but by nightfall, it had become a living thing. Wind screamed against the stone walls of the Sky Lantern Tower, tearing at its wooden beams as if trying to rip the ancient structure from the clouds it floated upon. Inside, sixteen-year-old Ling fought the wind, both hands wrapped around the massive copper crank that controlled the lantern’s shutters. Her boots slid on the wet floorboards as rain lashed through every crack.
“Stay with me,” she whispered to the light above, though the great flame sputtered and hissed under the storm’s assault. The Lantern was the heart of their floating city—its beam guided the airborne ships and kept the city anchored in the cloud currents. If it went out—Ling dared not finish the thought.
But as lightning lit the room, her heart dropped. The crystal core in the center of the flame’s cradle—the Star Shard—was gone. Without it, the lantern’s magic would fade, and soon the entire city would drift into the endless fog below.
She staggered back, water dripping from her hair. “Master Wei…” she breathed, but her mentor had left for the mainland three days ago. That left her—an apprentice with trembling hands—as the last guardian. Somewhere in the storm’s chaos, the Shard had been stolen or lost. She had until dawn to find it.
Ling pulled her cloak tighter and stepped out onto the rain-slicked bridgeways connecting the floating districts. The city lay shrouded in mist; the lights of houses blurred like half-remembered dreams. Every rope bridge swayed, every shadow seemed to whisper.
Then she heard it—soft footfalls behind her. She spun, hand on the small dagger at her belt. Out of the mist padded a white fox, its fur luminous even in the storm’s gloom. It stopped a few paces away, cocked its head, and said in a voice like silver bells, “You’ve lost something precious.”
Ling’s breath caught. Talking beasts belonged in old sailors’ tales, not in her rain-soaked reality. “How do you know?” she demanded.
The fox’s golden eyes gleamed. “Because I saw who took it.”
Her grip tightened on the dagger. “Then tell me.”
“I will,” the fox said, “if you promise to follow me without question.”
She hesitated only a moment—there was no time for suspicion. “Fine. Lead the way.”
They moved through the labyrinth of bridges and narrow alleys, the fox’s white tail a beacon in the mist. It darted down steps and into an abandoned market square where rainwater pooled between the cobblestones.
“The thief went toward the Cloudroot,” the fox said, pointing its narrow muzzle toward the farthest edge of the city, where the wooden walkways ended and a tangle of ropes descended into the swirling clouds.
Ling frowned. “The Cloudroot is off-limits. The currents there could tear a person away.”
The fox sat and licked one paw. “The Star Shard isn’t waiting politely in a safe place. Do you want it back or not?”
With a grim nod, Ling followed. As they climbed down the swaying ropes into the mist, her heart pounded—not just from fear of falling, but from the strangeness of her guide. “Why help me?” she asked over the howl of the wind.
The fox didn’t turn. “Because I’ve helped you before.”
They reached a narrow plank bridge strung between two mooring towers. The storm was wilder here; the wind clawed at her hood, tearing strands of hair into her face. In the distance, she saw a faint, pulsing glow. Her chest tightened. The Star Shard.
But standing before it was a cloaked figure, half-hidden by the swirling fog. Ling stepped forward, calling over the wind, “Return it! You’ll doom the city!”
The figure’s voice was bitter. “The city has forgotten the old bargains. It floats on stolen light. Better to let it fall than keep it chained to lies.”
Ling’s fingers dug into her dagger’s hilt. “Whatever the past was, there are children, families up there—”
The fox suddenly leapt between them, growling. “You won’t touch her.”
The figure’s laugh was lost in the thunder, but their hands moved—a shimmer of magic, the Star Shard lifting into the air. Instinct took over. Ling lunged, catching the crystal in both hands. Its warmth surged into her palms, flooding her chest with light.
For a moment, the storm fell silent.
In that stillness, she felt it—a memory, sharp and aching. A boy’s laughter, running through fields of cloudgrass. Her brother, Ren, who had fallen from the bridges two years ago and vanished into the mists below.
Her eyes flew to the fox, whose golden gaze held hers with unbearable tenderness. “Ren?” she whispered.
The fox’s form shimmered, and for a heartbeat, she saw him as he had been—dark hair damp from the rain, that lopsided grin. “I told you,” he said softly, “I’ve helped you before.”
The storm roared back, but her tears blurred it all. “Why—how—?”
“There wasn’t time to explain. The Star Shard doesn’t need a crystal, Ling. It needs a guardian’s heart. I stayed because yours was hurting too much to shine.”
She looked down at the Shard in her hands. The crystal’s light was dimming, yet the warmth in her chest was growing, spilling outward. She understood.
Ren’s voice was fading, carried by the wind. “The light is you, Ling. Always has been.”
Her breath shook, but she stepped toward the lantern tower, holding the Shard to her heart. The glow inside her flared, flowing into the crystal, then bursting outward in a beam that split the storm. The lantern blazed to life, its light steadier than ever, anchoring the city once more.
When she turned, the fox was gone. Only a single white tail-fur lay on the wet plank. She picked it up, tucking it into her cloak.
By dawn, the storm had passed, and the sky was a pale ocean of gold and rose. The city’s bells rang in relief, and the people cheered as Ling returned to the tower. They asked how she had done it, but she only smiled.
That night, alone in the lantern room, she lit the flame and whispered into the quiet, “I’ll keep it safe, Ren. For both of us.”
Somewhere, carried on the cloudwind, came a familiar laugh—soft, warm, and impossibly close. And the lantern’s light burned on, a promise against the dark.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The question echoed in her thoughts, soft but sharp:
How could a temple of knowledge lose track of the children who stepped inside, trusting the silence?
No alarms rang. No candles burned. The shelves remained undisturbed. The books hummed their ancient lullabies. The door clicked shut behind each child who walked in.
Yet none came back out.
The elders blamed the forest. The forest blamed the wind. The wind just laughed, carrying the truth away.
But Cara remembered.
She stood at the edge of the forest, her eyes full of the kind of determination only grief could sharpen.
She wanted the truth. She wanted her brother.
He had vanished months ago, swallowed by the malicious library like so many others. No trace. No goodbye. Just silence and the hollow ache that follows. He was the only one who’d ever made the world feel steady. And now he was gone.
The inked walls had taken the only light that knew her name.
The village whispered he was lost. But Cara refused to believe it. Now, she stepped into the trees. Her satchel held only a notebook, a flashlight, and her brother’s old compass.
The forest twisted around her. Roots clawed at her boots. Thorned vines tugged at her sleeves. Branches bent above her, like they were watching. The wind curled around her ankles like a warning.
She didn’t stop.
If the library took him, it would give him back, even if she had to tear its ancient pages apart.
The sky vanished beneath the canopy, and then, there it was.
The library.
Cold. Tall. Its bricks whispered with forgotten names. Its windows reflected nothing. The roof groaned like it remembered every story ever lost.
Cara stepped inside. Her face was iron, though her hands trembled. The air reeked of ink and dust. Silence pressed against her like a hand.
Shelves stretched forever. Candles burned without flame. Pages fluttered without wind. Her footsteps made no sound. A crimson book floated down. Her fingers brushed its spine.
Gold flared. Inside:
YOU’VE MADE YOUR CHOICE.
Then the world blinked.
Light. Then dark. Then silence.
She opened her eyes. Same walls. Same dust. Same book.
But something was wrong.
Outside, the trees were frozen. A bird hovered mid-air, wings paused. She glanced at the window and recoiled. Her reflection was dim, blurred. Like it wasn’t sure it belonged.
She looked down at her hands. Why did it feel like she was fading?
Then she saw her.
Between two shelves, stood a girl. Pale. Still. “You’re new,” the girl said. “You can still move. That means you remember.”
“Where am I?” Cara asked.
“Between the lines. Where the forgotten go.”
“I’m looking for my brother.” The girl nodded. “Then you’ll need the margins.” She stepped aside, revealing a door stitched into shadow behind warped books. “You’ll be tempted. Ink rewrites. Hold your truth.” Cara nodded and stepped through.
The margins were corridors of living parchment. Pages curled like lungs exhaling. Words stitched themselves into the walls. Ink dripped from the ceiling like black rain. Whispers clung to her skin, soft as breath, sharp as betrayal.
A shadow passed her. A boy with ink bleeding from his eyes. He whispered, “Names are anchors. Don’t forget yours.”
She whispered it back like a lifeline.
Cara. Cara. Cara.
The corridor bent left, opening into a chamber of forgotten things.
Her brother’s laughter in a glass jar, flickering like a dying firefly. Her childhood drawings fluttering across the ceiling. A crumpled letter she’d never sent, resting on a desk like it had always been waiting.
She turned away, until a voice stopped her.
“Ca?”
Her brother stood behind her. Older. Paler. Eyes deep with untold chapters.
“You came,” he whispered. She rushed to him, but he stepped back. “No. Don’t. You’ll get stuck.”
“I’m not leaving without you.” “I tried,” he said. “But the ink knows me. It wears me like skin.” She pulled out her notebook. Blank pages trembled in the flickering light.
“I can rewrite you,” she said. “No.” His voice cracked. “That’s not how it works.”
But she was already writing. With the edge of her will, she scrawled: We leave together. We run through the margins. The library lets us go.
The notebook pulsed. Ink spread like veins through the paper. A golden door blinked into existence. His eyes widened. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Come on!” she cried, grabbing his hand.
They ran.
The margins roared behind them, pages shrieking as they peeled from the walls. Ink surged like a flood, not liquid but alive, formed of crawling letters, melted memories, screaming mouths. It hissed her name.
Then it struck.
The ink lashed like a whip and coiled around her brother’s ankle. He screamed, toppling to the ground as the black tide surged forward.
“No!” she cried, yanking his arm. But the ink pulled back harder, dragging him inch by inch toward the waiting dark. Don’t stop!” he yelled, teeth gritted.
The golden door ahead flickered, unstable. Light leaked from its edges like hope trying to hold itself together. Her fingers dug into his coat. The ink crept up to his knee, boiling, seething, whispering: Stay.
She pulled. It pulled back.
“We’re so close!” she gasped. Her arms shook with the weight of him and the resistance of the dark. “You have to let me go,” he said, his voice thin. “If you stay, you vanish too.”
“I won’t.”
“You have to.”
The ink climbed to his chest. His breath hitched. Cara’s heart pounded in her ears like war drums.
Then she remembered: the jar. The drawings. The letter. The things that made him, him. “Wait.”
She released him, not in surrender, but in defiance.
From her satchel, she tore the notebook page, ink bleeding as it ripped. She poured in the laughter, the drawing, the letter, memory, innocence, truth, binding them with shaking hands.
“Take this,” she said, voice cracking. “Let it remind you who you are.” The ink hesitated.
He reached.
As his fingers touched the memory-wrapped page, light bloomed from it. The ink hissed, recoiled, fracturing like cracked glass. Cara screamed, “Go!” and shoved him toward the door, causing him to stumble forward.
The door exploded with golden dust.
And then, it slammed shut.
She barely saw him vanish behind it before the library hurled her backward, into darkness, into silence.
As she looked around, everything was back to normal.
The library. Still. Dusty. Endless.
The crimson book in her hands. Shut.
Outside, the forest moved. Birds sang.
But she had changed.
She opened her notebook, seeing a single page, torn, stained, but alive, fluttered in her lap.
He remembered. So will you.
Her heart twisted. She turned to the final page and wrote his name, not in ink, but in something heavier.
Still here. Still remembered.
But lost between the lines.
The world outside waited. But she wasn’t done. She would return. With stronger words. Because some stories demand to be remembered.
And she would not be the last to try.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
“Sufie, I’m frying some curry puffs. Would you like to enjoy it with tea?”
Opah’s eyes turned to look at me with the loving spark she always had in her eyes. Sharing curry puffs was something we did almost every day, as Opah knew I loved her homemade treats. She usually fried a plate of them every evening, enjoyed with a cup of hot tea.
After all, I don’t think I could ever relive that very moment again.
Opah lived alone after all her children moved away from Seremban, the place in which her sweet, warm home was located. There, her friends often visit her for a chat, usually in the late evenings. They didn’t see each other every day, but when they did, Opah would make curry puffs and tea to enjoy, like usual. I don’t seem to recall what they used to talk about—it wasn’t necessary to me anyway—but the stories always seemed to brighten Opah’s days.
As a kid, Opah was the one who took care of me most of the time. Mum was mostly busy and would drop me off at Opah’s, which wasn’t far from home, every day before work. Opah would put on cartoons on the television for me while she made breakfast. It was a memorable childhood experience to see how Opah cared for me, even though I was always causing trouble—playing in the mud or riding my bicycle carelessly, which often led to scraped knees. Yet, Opah never seemed to get angry at me.
I was very close to Opah until the point when she couldn’t remember me anymore—not my name, not my face. It was confusing how I rarely visited the place where I grew up. How the person I was close with couldn’t recognise me. Dementia had swallowed her memory of her family, once filled with love.
But did she notice the emptiness surrounding her as her idea of love began to disappear?
Over time, Mum decided to move further away to the big city of Kuala Lumpur, and I had to go with her. She said it was because of her work, but was that even true, or was she trying to run from the responsibility to take care of Opah?
As Mum’s Proton drove away, I finally grasped the gravity of the situation—I’m moving away, to a place I have never visited before, where the roads weren’t the ones I knew by heart, where the surroundings would be filled with tall skyscrapers instead of dirt paths and shallow rivers. But then, there was no turning back. I failed to convince Mum to let me stay.
Through the window, I could see the image of Opah’s house in the distance, getting farther away as our car continued moving. This won’t be the village I visit every day anymore. It feels like a part of my childhood was taken away and kept in a sealed box.
“Why do we have to move away from Opah? Is she sick?” I asked Mum, desperate for an explanation, and I could see her looking at me through the rearview mirror.
“Sufie, it’s not the right time to ask questions. I’m trying to focus on the road, and all your questions are making it hard for me to do so.” Mum once again looks at me.
After that, the car fell silent. Somehow, the image of Opah’s cheerful smile as we shared a plate of curry puffs kept running through my mind, filling my heart with guilt for leaving her—she who cared for me tirelessly during my childhood, who brought me everywhere she went to look after me at all times, even though she was already old. Her hearing was slowly fading. She couldn’t live alone with her condition—Mum knew that. Why couldn’t she find a better solution? One that allows me to be with Opah for as long as I can.
After a few long minutes, we arrived at what was going to be our new home. It seemed like a normal rental house in a normal neighbourhood—nothing exciting. The atmosphere was grey and colourless. It wasn’t anything like Mum assured me. The city wasn’t that full of opportunities.
Looking at the house, it seems like it has been a long time since the last owner left, since the ankle-high grasses have filled most of its front yard, growing through the cracked cement, but I tried to ignore it.
This place can be nice. This place can feel like home, and even if it didn’t, it will: eventually. After all, this was only for a while, right?
I rushed to help Mum carry the boxes and bags from the car’s backseat and trunk. I put my belongings into a room, not too small, with windows facing the side of the house.
I locked the door, unpacked and tidied up my room as nicely as I could, and placed my empty luggage next to the mattress as I stared blankly at the walls, knowing this wasn’t my usual bedroom, where I cuddled with my stuffed animals and measured my height every month.
When night came, I tried to close my eyes and fall asleep, but somehow, I couldn’t. All the questions I wished I had asked kept spinning in my head.
I didn’t even need to be remembered for myself to be loved and longed for—but isn’t to be loved to be remembered? Was I even loved the same way Opah loved others? Why couldn’t Opah remember me, when I spent my whole life with her? Was I not important enough?
-
It was morning. I couldn’t remember when I slept. A knock at my door woke me up.
“I bought curry puffs for breakfast. Opah told me you loved them, right?” Mum was holding a plastic bag full of fried curry puffs – I wasn’t sure what the fillings were, but seeing Mum’s smile as she offered them to me, I hoped it was just like the usual ones I had back in Seremban.
I smiled at Mum and took the plastic bag from her hands.
Life began to grow differently, and it felt like another version of me had grown through me—a version I didn’t recognise. A version people call ‘town kid’ in the city and ‘city kid’ in the town – a version that doesn’t have a place to be.
Mum taught me how to make curry puffs, and we had a pack of frozen ones to fry whenever I felt like eating some. It was an accomplishment, but does making curry puffs symbolise Opah’s warm gestures of love?
-
Mum finally got a break from work to visit Opah in Seremban. As usual, luggage was packed neatly into the trunk.
Opah waited patiently for us at the front door as Mum’s car entered the driveway.
“I brought a plate of curry puffs,” I said with joy as I ran to hug Opah.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
I could feel his heart beating against mine, his bronze arms embracing me lovingly, and his sculpted face shining with affection. Those eyes, dazzling blue with the depth of the sea, looked into my soul, understanding all my hopes and despair, loving me more than ever. I did not want to wake up from this fanatical dream, however inevitable it was.
“Boo!”
A jovial brown face peeked out from the kitchen door, a crack of light flooding the dark hall. Her eyes twinkled with merriment as she beckoned to me, soft brown curls dancing.
“Lyra!” I called, quickening my pace.
The kitchen was tinted gold, sunlight shining through, smelling sweetly of apple pie. Flour, water, eggs, a rolling pin… They lay basking on the wooden table, carefully arranged by a hand I knew so well.
“Elena, we’re going to bake bread today, like I promised!” squealed Lyra, unable to contain her excitement, smiling all over her face. Lyra always knew how to cheer me up, away from the mundane routine every girl had — sewing, sewing and more sewing.
Lyra was never envious that I was beautiful, unlike all the village children. She was the only one who was always there for me, through thick and thin. Her playful spirit, gentle laugh and kind eyes— she was my closest sister, my bosom friend, and my soul’s only comfort.
“Aren’t they sweet?” Lyra sighed, gathering wildflowers into her apron. The soft beach sand weaved between my toes, gently nuzzling me. The waves rippled softly, the sky a cloudless blue. Giggling, I placed a June lily in Lyra’s hair. Each petal breathed out a lullaby of warm, floral sweetness. Lyra’s eyes closed as she inhaled, a smile forming between her lips.
The day seemed too perfect to last. And last, it didn’t.
All of a sudden, the sea changed right in front of our eyes. The waves crashed onto the shore, spitting foam, and roaring fiercely. I hugged Lyra in fright, backing up against the cove. Bits of foam clustered right in front of us, becoming bigger and bigger, taking the shape of a— a majestic, white stallion!
It neighed gracefully, bowing down upon me with elegance. Instantly, the sea resumed its usual calmness, as if nothing had happened at all. “Wh— What?” I cried, startled. He crooned softly, charming us with his gentle nature. Hesitantly, I reached out a hand to pat him. Lyra stroked its glistening mane, feeling its softness, like a downy, feathery cloud.
As I patted this friendly visitor, my hand tingled upon contact, and I felt a strange stirring in my heart. There was something familiar about this animal. Laughing, Lyra played with him, and I climbed onto his back. There was a sense of ease and sturdiness as I did so, sitting comfortably.
“Neigh!” The steed reared up with a cry and charged for the sea. I screamed, helpless, clinging desperately to his mane. Lyra was dumb with shock, her face contorted in horror, eyes wide. I screamed till I was hoarse, but there seemed no way but to let the horse carry me into the unknown. The horse seemed to walk on water, galloping towards the horizon without an inch of fear, confidently carrying me at breakneck speed across the waters. Surprisingly, the ride was gentle and calming despite the world rushing by in a blur. Not even a drop of water splashed onto my dress. “How—?” My thoughts whirred.
I looked back, my eyes filled with fear and shock, at the tiny figure of Lyra, a dot in the distance. I could imagine her panicked face, calling repeatedly for me to come back. My heart thumped against my chest, and I felt as if I had been slammed by a hammer. Would this be my last time seeing Lyra? The world went black.
I woke to the sound of a man’s voice. “Elena. You’re just as beautiful as they say you are.” His voice was strapping and deep, yet bearing a gentle charm. My eyes flew open, finding a man staring straight at me. His hair was a celestial halo of gold, his piercing blue eyes full of earnestness. I felt a peculiar sense of déjà vu. “Wait.” My voice quivered slightly as I tried to feel brave, my thoughts racing. “You are the man in my dreams!”
We had arrived at a little meadow, the air shimmering faintly, as if time itself slowed here. The grass rippled and flowers danced in the wind, spritzing their floral fragrance.
“I—” I began. “How—”
He cut me short, motioning for me to sit. “I am the god of all gods. The one with supreme power, ruling over everything. I have watched you, Elena. I have seen your kindness, your charm, your beauty, and your longing for a bigger life.”
He pulled out a ring. It glittered in the sun, drawing me to it.
I gasped.
He pulled closer and whispered tenderly, “Live forever in pleasure and power. Let your name be etched into stardust. The mortal world will forget you. But the universe will remember. You can leave your dull life for another as my queen.” His eyes shimmered, taking my breath away.
No more words came, and my heart fluttered. The world was a blur.
I knew.
It would be one word.
One word, between mortal and immortal, life and eternity, friends and riches, home and palaces— My thoughts raced, this was it! The answer, floating out of my soul like a pearl.
“Yes.” I breathed.
His lips felt moist on my cheek, sealing my future.
I was queen.
Years had passed, coming and going like water between the slits of your fingers, slipping away. I stood by the shore, letting the wind blow my hair over my face. The sand caressed my bare soles, the waves licking my toes. I faced the sea, my heart aching, yearning. I had dreamt of a face, blurry with time, yet lit with joy and laughter. Lyra.
“How could I? How could I, in that fleeting moment, blinded by my own selfish hopes, leave Lyra alone?” Anger and pain clouded me as I blamed myself, feeling the cold steel of the ring that separated us burning on my finger. “And now, standing here, eternally alone, with empty palaces and no love, a queen in name, but not in heart.” My voice broke, tears sliding down my cheeks like melted stars. I believed this was the punishment I deserved.
The sea wind shifted. And at that moment, I heard it. Echoing through the waters, across thousands of miles, a single word whispered, like how it was long ago. It tugged at my heartstrings.
It was my name. Elena.
Whispered so tenderly and lovingly, the way only someone who truly knows you can say it.
It tasted like warm bread. It smelled like June lilies.
It was the call of home, and I yearned for it.
Hot tears flowed down my cheeks, and my heart spilled a thousand forgotten memories. A name rose from my lips, soft and aching, full of hope, regret, longing and love for the only person I cared for in the world.
Lyra.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
“Roshan,” I urge, my voice hushed by the rippling waves lapping against the barnacle-infested hull. The wooden floorboards creak beneath me, threatening to cave under my weight. “Roshan. Roshan? Wake up!”
Darkness breaks like a tide as Roshan’s eyes flutter open. She sits up, glancing blearily around Cabin 303, before locking eyes with me. “Moray?” she mumbles, slumping back into her narrow iron bunk. “Why are you… awake?”
“Look there,” I intone, trying to subdue my fleeing composure. “The rats… why are they running topside?” I gesture eastwards, where a plague of small, flickering shadows dart across the deck.
My sister’s head snaps towards me, eyes wide. “What?” she sputters, a blend of languidity mingled with concern straining her voice.
“Remember last week’s geography class? Where they taught sesimic activity and sinking precautions?” I ask, averting Roshan’s penetrating gaze.
“Moray…” Roshan’s voice falters. “We have to make sure.”
Even silence has teeth. I try to remember how to stand normal.
As I rise to my full height, the boards sag with a hollow whine, brittle and bowed from the sea air. Then, in the margins of my vision, I notice something. A broad glimmer, rippling in the dim, moonlit cabin—a keychain, suspended by a clothes hanger, chinking against the thin, panelled wall.
I furrow my brows. How can that be? That keychain—a drop-dead magnificent replica of the Titanic—has been locked away days ago, inside the old oak cabinet in my bedroom, tucked behind a row of carved trinkets. I even checked it twice before we left. So how is it here now?
Maybe Roshan brought it along?
After all, the dainty resin souvenir is exquisite, sculpted atop watch-sized analog clock. Since we share a multitude of items, I figure Roshan admires its bewitching tact.
The clock reads 2:49 A.M., though we’ve been aboard for hours. Has it always been stuck there?
2:49 A.M.—etched into the face like it wants to be found.
Still 2:49 A.M. No ticking. No change. Just waiting.
I blink and look away. It’s just a souvenir. Just a broken clock. But the time still needles at the back of my mind. I don’t know if I’m breathing wrong, or if the world is.
Dismissing the thought, I glance towards the deck. The mice have vanished, but a heavy veil of dread weighs down the rapture I once hoarded for this expedition. I wish the threat has retreated along with the scuttling whisker-thieves, but reality bars heaven.
Half a dozen minutes later, Roshan and I lean over the rusty iron gunwale. A wave of nausea courses through me as the ship reels unsteadily, reminiscent of a rocking cradle. Although vibrant corals and sessile anemones piggyback the rocks, the pungence hits like a slap—brine, bile, and rotting things too soft to name.
Roshan and I pinch our noses, heaving shaky gasps through our mouths.
Wait.
“Is that… land?” my sister whispers. She points downwards, finger notched at a writhing mass of something solid… and slimy. I flinch. But then the ‘land’ shifts. Squirms. It glistens with a thousand barnacles, the sea buckling as something long and grotesque stikes the water surface.
Then I realise—they aren’t barnacles.
The glistening cords of muscle, wrapped in slime, are dotted with rows of tiny suction cups akin to the underside of an old bathtub mat, puckered yet stalking our every move.
Oh no.
It… it can’t be.
Hope shrinks to the size of a pinhead. Trepidation paralyses me like a vice.
A shared truth flickers between our eyes—a glance that seals what neither dares to say.
It’s coming. The Kraken.
The floorboards split with a sickening crack. Wood turns to mush underfoot. The whole deck lurches like it’s trying to buck us off. Roshan screams something, but it’s drowned beneath the shriek of tearing timber. A tornado of fear gyrates, barrelling straight for my heart.
Our gazes collide and hold.
Is this goodbye? The words choke me.
Roshan seizes me, propelling me forward. Adrenaline courses through me like an electric current.
Once again, I feel the breath being ripped from my lungs, each panting gasp a reminder of the danger nipping at my heels. I don’t dare glance back—I stumble, my heart racing in a wild rhythm. The fear in my belly has become a beast of its own, coiling tighter with every laboured breath I take.
A thick, oozing limb of jet-black tenebrosity barrels after us, tearing through the atmosphere at bullet speed.
“Roshan! ROSHAN! IT’S COMING!” I scream, voice cracking.
BANG.
My face slams into something solid—hard, cold, unmovable. My vision bursts with alabaster.
A dead end.
No, no, NO—
Then palms crash into my back. I stumble forward, yelling—
It’s Roshan.
“DON’T WAIT FOR ME!” she shrieks, and I barely register it before she’s dragging me—hauling me—into a narrow cupboard. The door slams shut.
Something slaps the hallway wall outside. Hard. The wood quakes.
NO.
Roshan!
The noise is deafening, like putrid meat hitting wood, but magnified and alive. My back presses into the inside wall. My breath rattles, sharp and shallow. I want to call her name. I want to say something. But nothing comes out. Just the pounding of blood in my ears.
Then I notice it—the intricate Titanic sculpture, its broken analog clock dangling beneath it.
Tick…tock…tick.
What? The clock was broken. It always had been.
Now it ticks, intermittently, somehow steadily, like it has never stopped. But the metallic, off-tempo tick-tock it emits: it’s not tracking time—it’s a countdown.
I curl tighter in the cupboard. The sound isn’t sharp, but it nibbles at my skin.
Each tick roars: You’re alone. You’re trapped. You’re next.
I can hear the slow smear of something across wood. Hot tears cascade down my cheeks. I want to scream. But I must be silent. My emotions war, a conflicting battle between the devil and the deep blue sea.
One second. One sound. One heartbeat.
The tentacle brushes something—soft, like cloth. The cupboard wall trembles.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
And then—3:00.
The darkness retreats, shadows cowering like black cats fleeing from an unseen threat. Nausea strangles me, while chains of fear bind my ankles to the ground.
ROSHAN! NOOO!
I lurch awake, wheezing. My heart palpitates, hammering against my chest like battle chants echoing through a canyon.
Where am I?
Casting panicked glances in all directions, I realise I’m back in Cabin 303, slumped against my uncomfortable iron bunk. I whirl around and draw the window shutters—and gasp. The deck hoards no trace of the past pandemonium. It’s pristine. Flat. Normal.
Was it a dream?
I turn to Roshan’s bunk and let out a shaky breath, relieved. “Ro—”
Wait. Roshan?
She’s not there.
It doesn’t make sense—not until I glimpse a familiar, malevolent shimmer—the Titanic sculpture. It rocks back and forth, cradled snugly against Roshan’s bunk rail.
It’s alive. Smiling. Chortling. I can hear it. But it’s mocking and ravenous, far from pleased.
The clock reads 2:59 A.M.—and it’s ticking.
I wish I hadn’t looked.
I close my eyes. I don’t want to see what’s next.
I want Roshan.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Some say the bell tower of Saint Brighid’s never rings on its own.
They claim it hasn’t since the war, when bombs cracked its foundation and the nuns buried their dead beneath the chapel floor. Yet every year, on All Saints’ Eve, just before midnight—it tolls.
Once. Just once.
Camellia Ragvindr didn’t believe in ghost stories.
She believed in order. In top grades. In cleaning her fencing blade until it gleamed like a mirror. She was fifteen, the youngest prefect Saint Brighid’s had seen in decades, and the first Ragvindr to walk its halls in over fifty years. Her mother barely spoke of the place. Any mention of the school made her lips flatten like a letter she refused to open.
But Camellia was determined. She walked through the iron gates with her shoulders squared, her shoes polished to catch starlight, her long braid tight against her back like a sword in its sheath.
Until the bell rang.
It was her second week. A Tuesday. Late evening. She sat alone in the grand library, scribbling notes for a history essay, surrounded by books older than most nations. That’s when it happened.
A single, low, iron-drenched toll that seemed to rise from the stone floor itself. Chandeliers trembled. Her ink pot bled across her parchment. Her quill froze mid-sentence.
She blinked. “What was that?” she asked Miss Potts, the librarian.
The elderly woman didn’t look up. “Wind,” she muttered, though her hand shook as she turned the page.
“But the wind doesn’t ring be—”
Miss Potts snapped her book shut. “Best not ask questions you don’t want answered, Miss… Ragvindr.”
That night, Camellia dreamed.
Of a girl—herself, but not. Lying beneath the chapel’s vaulted ceiling. White camellias blooming from her mouth, tinged faintly with red, as though her silence had blossomed into something cruelly beautiful.
She woke with a gasp.
Over the next few weeks, she clung to routine. Chapel. Dorm checks. Class. More class. Her prefect badge began to feel heavier, as if weighed by something more than responsibility. Girls whispered as she passed. One flinched when she introduced herself. Teachers hesitated during roll call. One of them, pale and brittle, dropped her teacup when Camellia said her full name aloud.
And always, the dream returned.
And always, the bell.
She told no one.
Then came the East Wing. Off limits since the fire of 1943, its doors sealed, its halls forgotten. But curiosity proved stronger than fear. During prep time, Camellia found a loose panel near the old infirmary and slipped through, flashlight in hand.
Dust covered everything like frost. Beds remained tucked. Desks undisturbed. A schoolgirl’s ribbon lay abandoned on the floor, stiff with time.
On the wall hung a painting.
A girl in Saint Brighid’s winter uniform. Her eyes were too sharp. Her smile, calm but unreadable.
The brass plaque read: Columbina Ragvindr, 1938–1943.
Camellia stopped breathing.
Her grandmother’s name was Columbina.
But no one had ever told her Columbina had died at fifteen.
And here she was. Painted, preserved, remembered.
That night, Camellia didn’t sleep. Her dreams were louder. Columbina appeared again, humming a melody without words. Her eyes glistened. A camellia sat in her hands—white, fresh, bruised at the edges.
The days blurred. Camellia began to search. She bribed the archives girl with chocolate bars to see newsletters covered in dust. She flipped through chapel logs, exam records, even handwritten music sheets, faded with age.
Columbina had been a prodigy. The chapel soloist. The Moon Maiden, they called her, for her voice carried like moonlight. But one day, without warning—she stopped singing. Stopped speaking.
On All Saints’ Eve, the bell tolled once.
They found her under it.
Camellias had bloomed from her mouth.
No cause of death. No official bell ringer.
No funeral ever recorded.
Camellia tried telling her mother. Over the phone. Her mother’s voice sharpened.
“You will stop digging. You will not mention that name again. Do you understand me?”
She hung up before Camellia could answer.
So she didn’t stop.
Because something in her blood had started to stir.
Not fear. Not madness.
A calling.
The final night of October arrived.
Camellia lit a single candle by her window. The flame danced like a held breath. The bell hadn’t rung in days, but the air felt tight. Like a room waiting for someone to speak first.
She put on her full uniform. Every button, every pin. Hair braided. Ribbon tied.
She walked barefoot to the chapel. Her shoes had felt too loud.
Inside, silence pressed against the stained-glass walls.
The scent was unmistakable. Camellias. Sweet. Faintly metallic.
She stood beneath the bell and whispered, “Why me?”
No answer.
Until a voice—soft and clear, like the echo of a memory—spoke behind her.
“Because we remember.”
Camellia turned.
There she stood.
Columbina.
Her hair loose. Her hands full of white blooms. Her eyes were not hollow, but tired. Tired and knowing.
“You’re the last,” Columbina said. “The flower they buried with me bloomed again. The toll is not death. It is remembrance.”
“I don’t understand,” Camellia said.
“You will,” Columbina murmured. “When the bell tolls, we return. Not to haunt. To be remembered. Our voices weren’t meant to disappear. You’re the echo. The next note.”
She reached forward and touched Camellia’s hand.
Camellia gasped. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t even pain. It felt like memory. Like centuries in one breath. Her throat trembled.
Then she sang.
One note. Pure. Steady. Clear.
It filled the chapel like moonlight. The walls seemed to breathe. The air shimmered.
And the bell answered.
Once.
The next morning, the headmistress found Camellia sitting quietly on the chapel steps. Her uniform was streaked with wax. Her hair was loose. But she smiled.
“Were you out all night?” the headmistress asked.
Camellia looked up. Her voice was quiet, but sure.
“I remembered.”
That term, she took over the chapel solos. Her voice shimmered. Girls stopped whispering. Teachers wept during hymns. Camellia’s presence changed the school.
And every All Saints’ Eve, Camellia vanished before midnight.
The bell always rang.
Once.
For remembrance.
For the last toll of the flower.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Dragons in the ancient kingdom of Eldwynd were not just animals. They were powerful beings and living myths only bound by laws that existed before humanity. Among them was one whose name inspired both fear and awe: Vorath the Crimson. His wings could block out the sun, his roar could tremble mountains, and his breath could turn castles to slag.
But even dragons, mighty as they are, could owe debts.
Three hundred years ago, Vorath was young and reckless, drunk on the fires of his youth. During one of his rampages, he descended upon the peaceful kingdom of Elmyra. Its forests were torched, rivers boiled, and cities reduced to mere ash.
That was until Queen Serelene appeared. She was praised for her beauty, yet feared for her trickery. One day, she ventured into the scorched valley where Vorath rested atop a pile of treasure.
“I don't come with a weapon!” she declared, “But I come with a deal.”
Vorath, entertained, allowed her to speak. Serelene offered a deal: her most powerful sorcerers would cast a binding spell that would allow Vorath to live unharmed for three hundred years. In return, he would owe the royal bloodline one favor. Any favor of their choosing, at any time in the future.
Dragons are proud, but they honor deals made with magic and blood.
Vorath agreed.
And for three hundred years, Elmyra was at peace, undamaged and unbothered by dragonkind.
Three hundred years passed. A new king took the throne, and the fate of the kingdom changed. Magic became rare, and the age of dragons faded. But the bloodline remained.
Now, Elmyra is ruled by King Aldren. Known as Serelene’s great-great-grandson. He wasn’t a warrior, nor a wise man. He was just a desperate king in a dying kingdom.
War had come. The ruthless armies of the North, led by the warlord Malgrin. They pressed closer to the capital city each day. Elmyra had no more allies, no army strong enough to resist.
Except for one.
In the deepest chamber of the royal vault was a scroll, sealed with red wax. The ancient words written in dragon-tongue read: “Call and I shall come. One debt remains.”
King Aldren broke the seal.
In the heart of the Blackspine Mountains, an opening was shaped.
Vorath trembled. The air grew heavy as molten stone dripped from his jaw. The ancient magic tugged at his soul. It was a call he couldn’t ignore. The debt had been summoned.
With a roar that split the sky, the Crimson One soared toward Elmyra.
He arrived in silence. As his gigantic form landed in the castle courtyard, the soldiers fell to their knees in awe and terror.
Aldren approached the dragon, trembling.
“You have summoned me, mortal,” said Vorath. “Name your favor.”
Aldren bowed deeply towards Vorath. “I ask for your aid. Enemies from the North surround us. Protect Elmyra, and your debt is repaid.”
Vorath’s eyes lit up in surprise. “You summoned me here.. for war?”
“It’s the only way”
There was a short pause. Then, a soft chuckle. “So be it. The debt shall be paid with blood.”
The next morning, the battle for Elmyra continued. Malgrin’s army consisting of 50,000 men lined the hills. They were confident in their numbers.
Then came the roar of the Crimson One.
Vorath descended like a meteor. His flames lit up the sky. His wings started hurricanes. Lines of enemy infantry were reduced to ash. Siege towers exploded.
The enemy ran in terror. Some fled while some were incinerated. The fortunate died quickly.
The war that should’ve lasted months ended in hours.
Elmyra was saved.
After the battle, King Aldren stood before Vorath. “Your debt is paid, you are free.”
But Vorath didn’t leave.
“There is more to a debt than fire,” he said, his voice like grinding stone.
“What do you mean?”
“I owe a favor to the bloodline of Serelene. You asked for war. That was easy. But the realm is still broken. Your people are hungry. Your nobles plot against you. You are not fit to rule.”
Aldren bristled. “Are you threatening me?”
“I am fulfilling my debt.”
In a flash, Vorath spread his wings and lifted into the sky. He did not return to the mountains. Instead, he flew across the kingdom, gathering knowledge, watching, listening. Where crops had withered, he dug irrigation channels with his claws. In villages plagued by bandits, his mere shadow brought peace.
He became a guardian instead of a weapon.
Weeks passed. Then months.
The people stopped speaking of Aldren and were speaking of the Crimson Regent.
Vorath had a mind as sharp as a scholar. He restructured trade routes, reformed corrupt councils, and established new systems of governance. His voice carried authority, and no one dared to defy him.
King Aldren became powerless and paranoid. He grew resentful.
One night, he conspired with a group of assassins. Their target was Vorath.
But dragons can’t be slain so easily. The assassins were caught and burned in the throne room as Aldren watched in horror.
“You were a fool,” Vorath growled. “I came to fulfill a debt. You turned me into a king-slayer.”
Vorath could’ve crushed him right there. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned and flew away.
With Aldren exiled and no heir to follow, the kingdom stood on the brink of collapse.
But Vorath returned. Not as a tyrant, but as a protector.
He formed a council of wise leaders, each representing the people. He watched from above, intervening only when greed and injustice reared their heads.
Elmyra became a place unlike any other. A kingdom where no one ruled alone, and a dragon watched over all.
Children sang songs of the Crimson Regent. Farmers left offerings of gold and fruit at the base of his mountain. They once feared him. Now they honor him.
Many years passed. The skies of Eldwynd saw fewer dragons each century. Magic faded further, and citizens forgot the ancient pacts.
But Vorath remained.
Then, one day, a girl climbed the peak of Blackspine. She was no older than ten and wore a simple pendant bearing the mark of Serelene’s bloodline.
Vorath, older now, his scales duller but his eyes bright, stirred as she approached.
“You carry her blood,” he said gently.
The girl nodded. “My name is Eryn. My village is starving. The rivers dried up, and the crops failed. I don’t want treasure. I don’t want power. I just want to help them.”
Vorath stared at her for a long moment. Then he smiled. A deep, rumbling smile.
“I owe your bloodline no more debts,” he said. “But I will come. Not because I must… but because I choose to.”
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
“Pomi, remember. We’re the Forest’s Knight.”
Her calls echoed,yet no soul came to her aid.Footsteps were abating.She galloped on,last sight of Papa harrowing her.Exhausted,she collapsed,staining her orange-grey fur,world blackening..
Years passed,on a night where moonlight trickled through leaves,Pomibella bobbed her head.“Has Mahjreal Peacocken wandered by recently?”she questioned countless neighbours.Answers? Despondently straightforward, “Me? Spilling beans about my buddy’s schedule? Shoo! Mephistophelian,obnoxious-right-eye hybrid! ”
Every refusal made Pomibella feel like she’s gambling.
At dawn she stumbled upon a picturesque farm.What to do? An old goat,Jenz,raised his head,, "Goodday,need a guide?” Pomibella flinched at his abrupt greeting. Jenz said thoughtfully, “Hold your horses! You’re.. Pomibella?Daughter of fox Chanvinara and wolf...” “Blencaora?”Pomibella finished,Papa’s name souring her throat. “Yes...”Jenz whispered,“Used to visit me.They adore you,Pomi.” “But Mama died long ago...” “Not really.”
Pomibella’s eyes gleamed,in contrast to Jenz's stolidity, “Possibilities are minute.. if alive,presumably she’s at a human’s laboratory.”
Humans.Unmerciful tyrants.The word made Pomibella quiver,but laboratory.No animals leave there alive lustily..
With orientation,Pomibella followed a trail of Mahjreal’s intricate blue feathers which couldn't be wronged.It ended at a cottage door.Mixture of feelings surged through her.Mahjreal,here?
BAM.The door swung open suddenly,plunging her into a pond.Agitated geese residents lunged towards their intruder,creating hullabaloo.Nonetheless Pomibella calmly swam to shore.
Until a hand strangled her neck from above.
Mahjreal noted humans were gregarious.Well,not this one. “Eatin’ my geese? Outrageous!” he roared. However in lickety-split,the human grinned ironically. "Parents’arr Blencaora and Chanvinara aye? I’ll take you to them.Ogurro.” Kind eyes,soft voice—yet his odour dreaded Pomibella already. “I’m Pomibella,"she said flatly.
A van whirred up the slope. “This’ Driver-Qunoi,” Ogurro nudged Driver,who just glared back,muttering furiously ,“Now I’m also in danger.” It resonated deafeningly in Pomibella.She snuggled up Ogurro.Was she in danger too?
Or was she the danger?
“Pomibella,”said Ogurro soberly. “Enter’ backdoor.”
A jaw-droppingly gigantic laboratory came into view. “What a gimmick..”Pomibella gasped,her heart pounding.This is it.
Ogurro dropped her off.But she came to a halt.The backdoor was wide open, welcoming her! What fortune? Suspicious. Pomibella chose to clamber up the pipe,crawling through the ventilation system.Swiftly.Stealthily.She peeked out every vent for her parents.
Suddenly her ears eavesdropped on some intriguing words,luring her to one of the vents. “Get me that pompom—what? Ah,Pomibella.Get her.” Scientist Juneyc spoke beseechingly to Pomibella’s initial reason to wander.Elegance,twinkling eyes,dazzling blue feathers… her lifesaver. Disappointingly,they were halfhearted deeds.She choked on her tears,“Morning,Mahjreal.”
Pomibella strained to go on.She passed by rooms of scientists chattering, “..get Pomibella’s power..” “..asset!..” “.. priceless..” Pomibella never felt cherished much,but now that she was,apprehension grasped her.
Below,a scorching,steam-filled room.Murkiness ,however animal excruciation heard.Pomibella coerced sharply,“Where.is.Blencaora.” Not questioning.Obligating.Unfortunately her ferocity only reflected uproarious cackles. “Ho! Why Meek-Blenc?!” A wolf denigrated Papa.Some foxes chanted, “SAVE US INSTEAD!!” Evidently they hadn’t seen Pomibella.
“Next door,”a weak answer voiced louder than the commotion.Pomibella smiled to the goat's eyes in the reddish atmosphere.
As the animals erupted into guffaws,Pomibella tiptoed to the next vent.Unprepared,terror struck at the sight of the miscellaneous room.Juneyc,who fawned Mahjreal,was fumbling around.At the centre,caged,was Mama and Papa.
Later Juneyc left. Pomibella bolted out,seizing the opportunity. But Mama edged back,blocking Papa.“Pomi? ..This place is perilous.We’re dangerous..escape!” “Mama!”cried Pomibella in disbelief.Mama shook, “We’re infected.. but you can still run.” “Ma! Let’s go! Don’t blabber nonsense,”Pomibella persuaded,before realising. “...Infected..?”
Mama stammered, “P-Papa’s.. mutating..” “..L-Let’s find a cure!” Pomibella’s enthusiastic words failed to bely her agony.
“The drug combination? Too vast for us to conceive..”Mama froze. “Besides,t-too late..”She moved,revealing Papa.Unrecognisable.Stitches pierced into his bones,narrowed pupils,foam drooling out,his eyes twitched unrhymically.Distraught rose like tsunamis in Pomibella,too immense to prevent.Pure nightmare fuel.
Mama smiled fainty. “Rescue who remains.” Pomibella gritted her teeth.Implications of those selfish human acts! Pomibella sunk her jaws savagely into Juneyc’s shin as Juneyc busted in.“EuAGHUuHh!!” she yowled,bewildered.She smashed a button,which croaked stentorianly, “EMERGENCY!! ROOM 44! BACKUP REQUIRED ASAP!!” Juneyc tumbled down,blood spewing out alarmingly,still barking at the arriving scientists,“Tranquilize her! Don’t kill! She’s Pomibella!” Pomibella leapt,shattering glasses of apparatus.Scientists stabbed,but she dodged dexterously. “You triggered this enmity,” smirked Juneyc.
“I won't let things deteriorate,” growled Pomibella. “You’ve poached numerous species to the brink of perish.Set them free.” “Pooh! Ignorant! They’re designated to doom anyway!!”Juneyc scowled. "Furthermore,I’m merely an experimenter.”
Thung! Pomibella dodged another wrath.She gnawed a chair down,barely obstructing Juneyc. “You’re valuable,Pomibella.We need you, guinea pig.” “I know.” Pomibella shot bites down,severing legs of struggling humans.They collapsed,piling up between Pomibella and Juneyc.
Pomibella gulped,“Mama..I don’t want to go alone.”Mama turned to Papa,smiling dolefully, “But we’ll be by your side.Forever.”
“Mama, I love you and Papa..” “And we love you too,”Mama kissed Pomibella’s forehead.,“Continue our legacy.Proudly.” A knife chopped into Mama’s heart,yet she continued determinedly. “Pomi,remember..”
Pomibella chimed in,heartbroken. “We’re the Forest’s Knight.”
Desperately,Pomibella chewed the wires broken ,before clawing down the door handle next door.The animals—Horses,lions,sheep alike—once crammed in the blazing atmosphere,swarmed out. Pomibella ushered them to the exit humbly.
Managing to climb out,Juneyc stood yards away,infuriated.“Botheration!”she groaned indignantly, “Pomibella!She made things go awry!!” She stamped.Then buzzings of trumpets tore through the air,which provoked her irritation more. “Ughhhhhh! STOP!!!!”
Nope.She was thrown back in as elephants trumpeted out everlastingly. She tripped.Clank.A fox,a wolf,out.Their fangs wielded.Cold sweat down Juneyc’s spine.
Papa soothed Mama with his last breath,both anchoring Juneyc’s body down.
The crowd rushed out.Another voice from behind called, “Pomi!” Pomibella stopped.“What,Mahjreal?” Not that she cared.
“Take this earring.Family heritage-” “Great.Sweet lie.Again.”
“I was trapped between the bridges of trust.You,your parents,Juneyc..I tried stabilising,but crumbled…”sighed Mahjreal.Pomibella faced him.The peacock’s leg was chained,and a leaf earring hung round his neck. “Don’t love me…..just take this so I can leave with less guilt..” .
“Pomibella,”urged Ogurro from the exit, “you comin’ ?” “Neglect him,” warned Mahjreal. “Pomibella?”Ogurro called patiently,but his hand hid a dagger that longed for Pomibella’s flesh.Pomibella walked towards Ogurro,before it lunged towards her.
“Mama and Papa went out with a bang,while I..” Pomibella squeezed her eyes,waiting.Nothing.Slowly she opened them and blueness overwhelmed her.Parts of it withered down,revealing Mahjreal,a dagger through him.His chained leg was ripped off, his voice was fading.
“Pomibella.... earring..,”Mahjreal fell down,eyes watering. “Be wise… strong…sorry…harbouring you from truths...Ogurro.. end ..you..Please promise me,you won't get deceived..” “Mahjreal..I promise..” “T-T-Thankyou,Pomi...”
Some silk was on Jenz’s mighty horns. “Ah,Pomi.Ogurro’s mediocre.Rolled right down! Now let’s go home.My home,up that cliff.” Pomibella helped Jenz climb, “But nobody’s here..” “Pomi,home is where we feel safe.When tables turn cruelly,only trust yourself.” Jenz laid,watching the glimmering stars, “Your parents howl together.Majreal and I’ve seen you too.” “Can I?” “Go on.It’s comforting.”
She kneeled,her earring tight,gazing at the moon,howling from her heart.
Pomibella,the Forest’s Knight.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The Coldwater Local Police Station, a modest brick building half-buried in snow, stands quietly on Main Street. Inside, tired officers work late under flickering lights while Eddie, a typical station officer, spun his pen with his fingers, bored out of his mind. He sat at his desk, stealing glances of the clock, waiting impatiently for his shift to be over. He sighed and collapsed into his chair, pen still spinning in his hands. His superior, Ted, walked over to his desk, a stack of papers in hand. 'Here you go! Sign them before your shift ends,' he said, dropping the papers with a thud onto Eddie's desk. 'I couldn't be bothered,' Eddie groaned as Ted walked off.
The bell rang, echoing through the halls of Coldwater Lakeside High. Elise, a brilliant and cunning new transfer student was headed to class, not noticing her best friend, Lana, match her stride. 'I can't believe you beat Vanessa at that math test, again!' exclaimed Lana, skipping with joy. Elise smiled, she liked being praised. As she walked into her math class, Vanessa, the school’s queen bee, glared at her. She used to be the top student, but now, she's overshadowed by Elise's triumph. Elise walked to her usual desk, catching a glimpse of Marion, a mysterious and quiet girl, sketching with a flimsy mechanical pencil.
The sound of students laughing, chattering and gossiping loudened in the cafeteria. Vanessa approached Jamie, a friendly girl who often forces a smile on her face. She handed her an invitation to what looked like her upcoming party. Jamie squealed with joy. ‘Really?’ she exclaimed, her eyes twinkled. ‘Could you hand it to Anna?’ Vanessa asked coldly. Jamie’s smile disappeared. ‘Sure,’ Jamie said, disappointed. Thoughts ran across her mind. Ugh, she’s so annoying. She thinks getting me hyped up for nothing is entertaining, Jamie thought, but plastered a smile on her face.
On a cold Sunday morning, an unexpected snowstorm had passed, covering Coldwater in a thick layer of snow. A group of seniors had snuck through the narrow path behind Coldwater Lakeside High, leading to a vast lake, often off limits but a known hangout during winter. The lake was frozen as snowy trees surrounded it. The teenagers laughed and played for a while, until one of them screamed in horror. Vanessa Muntz’s body, pale and cold, found beneath the ice. This was soon reported to the police who arrived in no time.
The next day, it was all the students could talk about. Elise walked pass the principal’s office, accidentally overhearing two teachers talking. ‘The principal doesn’t want the police to investigate further. She says the school’s image will be ruined.’ Elise held her books tightly. ‘If they won’t investigate, then I will,’ Elise muttered.
Eddie sat at his desk, signing papers while he waited for his shift to end. Ted walked towards him, slamming his hands onto the old, worn-out table. ‘Eddie, a teenager was found dead, her body trapped under the frozen lake,’ Ted said with a serious tone. Eddie looked at him, thinking he was joking, but he wasn’t. ‘Since you often sulk around and do nothing, I assign you to investigate on this case,’ Ted ordered. He then walked away, leaving Eddie confused but left him with a sense of hope. It was his first proper case, so he had to do well.
Elise gathered her suspects under the dim lighting of the old drama room. She interrogated her first suspect, Carl Frank, Vanessa’s boyfriend. The last time they were together, they fought, making him a suspect. His arms crossed, a ticked off look on his face. ‘I told you, we fought, I had nothing to do with it,’ he said. The next suspect was Jamie Rios, the uninvited guest to Vanessa’s upcoming party. ‘I was with my friends on the night of the murder,’ Jamie claimed, her eyes shifting, left and right. The third suspect, Marion Bruss. Often seen sketching in the woods facing the lake. ‘We’re just students, we shouldn’t be playing detective,’ said Marion coldly. Elise bit her lip, she knew Marion wouldn’t tell her anything, so she moved on to the last suspect, Lana Pierce, her own best friend. Lana’s parents were out on the night of the murder; her phone dead. Lana’s hands were shaking, her palms sweaty, she had no alibi. ‘Your bracelet was found at the crime scene,’ Elise said. ‘I swear I didn’t do it!’ Lana shouted. Just what Elise expected, denial.
Eddie rang the doorbell of an old suburban house. The door opened, revealing a man who looked like he was in his late forties. ‘Mr. Bruss, may I come in to investigate?’ Eddie asked politely. Mr. Bruss nodded, making way for Eddie to enter. He stepped into Marion’s bedroom, the door half open. The walls were covered in drawings—dark, detailed, and disturbing. ‘Marion has always liked drawing,’ Mr. Bruss mumbled. ‘Don’t mind them, they could often look weird.’ Eddie examined the drawings closely. There was one that looked like Vanessa’s pale, lifeless body beneath the ice, one of Lana being arrested, and one which pictured Elise, dragging a body towards the lake.
Meanwhile at school, Marion held her sketchbook to her chest, mechanical pencil in hand in an empty classroom after Elise’s interrogation. She silently sketched what looked like Elise, holding a sharp rock in her hand and Vanessa’s body on the ground with trees surrounding them. She sighed, tore the page and threw it away.
Eddie arrived at the police station, about to report his findings to Ted. As he hurried to his superior’s desk, he tugged on the drawings tightly with his left hand. He arrived, panting, in front of a confused Ted. ‘I found more evidence,’ said Eddie, gasping for air. He spread the drawings evenly onto the desk, pointing out the one showcasing Elise dragging a corpse toward the lake. ‘Eddie, this isn’t evidence. We can’t rely on a child’s drawing to solve a case. A student from Coldwater Lakeside High has already identified the suspect and turned her in. End of discussion,’ said Ted as Eddie panted, a fearful look on his face. Eddie walked to his desk and looked at the drawings. He shoved them into a drawer, feeling like he had failed, but he didn’t want to. ‘This isn’t over,’ he muttered.
As the cuffs clicked shut around Lana’s wrists, she searched the crowd for Elise. ‘You know I didn’t do this!’ she screamed. Elise looked away, biting her lip. She ran past the narrow pathway leading to the lake, now, a crystal-clear beauty. Spring was blooming as Elise sat on the grass, crying tears of joy. She laughed menacingly, feeling relieved that she had gotten away with it. She had murdered Vanessa. She had dragged the body, framed her best friend—and gotten away with it. She continued laughing, thinking she’s won. But deep within the trees, Marion watches, silently sketching.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
It’s snowing again tonight. A snowflake gently lands on Viola’s nose. She was mesmerised by how ethereal and breathtaking this year’s winter is. She looks up to her sister, Sylia who was taking pictures of the frozen lake. Sylia stops to stare at the lake, she then proceeds to put on her white skates.
‘’Wanna see Syl play the violin?’’ She said softly to the young little Viola.
Viola hurriedly put on her blue skates while shouting ‘’Yay!’’ excitedly.
Sylia smoothly glides on the ice, swirling as she holds her violin gently. Viola watches as her sister plays the violin elegantly, she recognized that her sister is playing Nocturne by Lili Boulanger.
Viola watches as Sylia swirls around the lake, gently spins and playing her violin. Viola closes her eyes for a moment to hear the violin, but when the last note was played and she opened her eyes again,
Her sister was… gone?
10 years have passed, it’s snowing again. Viola was going back home from high school, everyday was the same. She lost all hope in life after her sister left her when she was 7, now she lives alone. She had to learn a lot by herself to survive this world.
Today Is the anniversary of her sister’s disappearance and she wanted to know how and why her sister had to leave her.
So, there she is, staring at the frozen lake. She put on her blue skates and holds her violin gently.
She took a deep breath and glides onto the ice. She plays the first song that came up to her mind, Nocturne. Her movement was elegant and fluent as she plays every note calmly and passionately. But when the last note came to an end, her vision starts to blur as she suddenly lost balance and-
Thump.
Viola wakes up with the sun glinting through her eyelids. Slowly, she squints and opens her eyes. At first, she didn’t notice anything different about her surroundings. But as she stands up, she freezes.
Everywhere she turns is snow and ice.
She starts to panic, all she that have is her violin with her. She doesn’t know what to do.
She tried to make sense of what was happening, then she heard a voice.
‘’Hey!’’
She turned around and saw a guy with a recorder that looks inhuman in some way.
‘’Who are you?!? Stay back!’’ She yelled while pointing her violin bow to him.
‘’woah! Calm down! Are you lost perhaps?’’ He responded calmly, but Viola was sceptical. ‘’Where am I!’’ she asked loudly. The guy then replied ‘’ You’re in the World of Music! And I’m Nathan by the way!’’
Viola then realised she is no longer in her country, furthermore she’s no longer on earth!
‘’well… you know what just watch!’’ he said as he starts to play his recorder. Suddenly, a huge wind twirled around Nathan.
Viola was in disbelief; she didn’t know what happened. She looked down at her violin and played a note. Suddenly a Blizzard appeared behind her and disappeared as soon as she stopped.
‘’woah! That was a strong one.’’ He said amazed.
‘’How did that happen?!?’’ she said in shock. ‘’Well, you see, everything in this world is related to music. That includes magic of course!’’ he replied.
‘’what am I doing here? And why are you so friendly with me!’’. Nathan stood there in silent. ‘’well, you see, my queen who’s from the Kingdom of Harmonies is looking for you!’’ he responded.
‘’so why not you just follow me to the kingdom and we can talk this out.’’
Viola was thinking about it, she knows she doesn’t have a choice, so she had to go out on a limb and trust him.
It took a long time to arrive there, but Viola didn’t exactly know how much hours it took. Nathan showed her the way to the queen, as she walks in the room, she saw a majestic and ethereal looking woman sitting on a throne.
‘’Welcome Viola, please come forth.’’ The queen said softly.
‘’ let me introduce myself, I’m Queen Aurora, the ruler of this kingdom. I’m also the one who summoned you to this world.’’
‘’what? Summoned, why?’’ Viola replied.
‘’You see, my kingdom is in great danger of the hush. A longtime enemy who wants to end all music harmonies in this world is declaring war again, also your world. So, I summon some of the most skilled instrumentalist on earth, to help save all of music kind, and one of them is you’’
Viola was thinking, she thought maybe her sister, Sylia had been chosen too. So, she had to choose either she accepts to help them, or go home without finding anything about her sister, and she agreed.
After some weeks, the day have arrived. Viola has trained every day for this. She understood that every song she played with her violin, the movement of the blizzard she creates changes. So, when it started, Viola smoothly skates across the battlefield with her allies and plays a familiar song, Nocturne.
Multiple blizzards from all sides surrounds the hush as she glides through. She swings her violin, throws it up in the air while swinging her violin bow to slice all hush that came to fight face to face. One by one they all fell. She then grabs her violin that was slowly falling back and play a strong note, A7. Which causes the blizzard to speeds up and cause a massive attack on the hush ranged group.
When the battle slowly comes to an end, she realised that they had won. She teared up, knowing her sister would be proud. However, she still doesn’t know what happened to her. She returned to the kingdom, barely holding on as the queen carried her and lay her down on the mattress.
‘’I’m so sorry for having to make you do this dear.’’ The queen said in regret.
‘’I thought I would lose you just like I lost your sister…’’
‘’what?’’ viola responded instantly. ‘’Your sister is Sylia, right? I’m sure she’s the reason why you even agreed to help us. I’m sorry Viola, but she was also chosen like you, it’s just…’’
‘’She didn’t make it.’’
Viola’s heart sank. She didn’t want to believe it, but she knew it’s the truth.
‘’here, this is her belongings.’’ Queen Aurora said as she gives Viola the skates and violin of her sister.
‘’thank you.’’ She replied. ‘’ now what happens to me?’’
‘’you can choose either to stay or return back’’ the queen replied.
‘’alright then, I choose to go back.’’ Viola answered. ‘’ okay dear.’’ The queen then opened the portal back to her home. Before Viola returned, she hugged the queen and Nathan while saying goodbye. She will definitely miss them, but she knew she had to go back home.
She accepted the reality of her sister leaving her, she knew she can’t be sad forever, that’s not what Sylia wants. So, she decided to live her life as an instrumentalist, and she did. She managed to achieve her goals of becoming an amazing and successful violist, all for Sylia.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Rain fell slowly and gently onto the streets of Hemmerledge, creating puddles on the ground as the streets shimmered under the weight of raindrops. The soft, whispering pitter-patter of the rain was a quiet melody only Erine could truly hear. In the heart of Hemmerledge, where cobblestone paths twisted like memory lanes, time didn’t just pass—it wandered.
Erine had always been fascinated with how time passed by with ease. She was drawn to ticking clocks, intrigued by the sound of metal against metal as gears turned and the swing of pendulums. Erine lived with her grandmother, the only person who seemed to understand her. Her grandmother used to say, “Time doesn’t just tell—sometimes it listens.”
But one ordinary day unravelled everything.
Her grandmother had collapsed in front of her and fell terribly ill, and it was as if time had stopped listening altogether. Doctors came and left, murmuring about heart conditions and timeframes. “Days,” one said solemnly. The doctor gave her pitying glances. Her ‘friends’ mumbled half-hearted apologies they didn’t truly mean. Her neighbours gave her food and comforting words she didn’t need. Erine accepted them with polite nods, but inside, she was collapsing too. Her grandmother, her storyteller, her world was slowly slipping through her fingers like grains of sands.
Erine sat beside her grandmother in that every precious night, unable to let go of the fact that the person she loved most was slipping away by the second. “If I had more time,” she whispered, “I would fix this,”
Her words hung in the air before she stood up with a newfound resolve.
…
That night, with determination coursing through her veins, Erine followed the constant sound of ticking in the air deeper into the forest behind the cottage where she lived. Branches and undergrowth scraped across her knees as she went deeper, the ticking louder. Giant shadows of trees loomed over her ominously and the moon above glared at her, as if daring her to take another step. Overgrown roots stretched out, attempting to trip her as fear lodged itself deep into Erine’s heart. She stopped out of the blue, her legs shaking, her bare arms shivered as the cold night air tickled her skin. I can’t do it, Erine thought to herself. The determination in her was gone sooner than it had come.
As she turned back to the direction she came from, a loud tick-tock resounded through the air, causing Erine to freeze right on the spot. She whipped her head around as she adjusted her eyes.
There.
Hidden beneath a cluster of trees, a whimsical cottage stood in the middle of a small clearing. A giant, wooden door painted with red was blocking the entrance, its hinges slightly rusted and the red paint was fading. As Erine made her way to the wooden door, the deafening ticking stopped all of a sudden and silence cut through the clearing like a knife. Had it sensed her presence?
She knocked lightly. No one answered. Erine pushed open the door gently.
Inside was a strange workshop—there were hundreds and thousands of clocks and timepieces that hung on the ceiling. The walls were adorned with wooden shelves and on the wooden shelves, were more clocks. Every single clock in the workshop resembled something different. A grandfather clock was standing in the corner of the workshop. Without warning, it chimed. It was one of the loudest sound Erine had ever heard and it sent yet another shiver up her spine.
At the center of the workshop stood a tall figure cloaked in midnight blue. His back was facing her and his head was bent down, his fingers flying around the air, as if painting time itself.
Erine cleared her throat, “Excuse me…are you Time?”
The figure didn’t look up, but his fingers stopped almost instantly and they dropped to his side. “Borrowers rarely speak up first,” He commented in an unusually soft voice, “But I suppose you’re here for her.” Erine nodded slightly.
He turned around.
Before she could stop herself, a gasp escaped her throat. The figure was faceless—or rather, he had no eyes. His face was abnormally silvery white, like melted metal with a tint of white colouring. His eyes were blurred into white as well, his eyeballs gone and his mouth…it had no lips. His nose was there but it was…flattened. “You-you’re-”
“I can give you more time,” Time said, interrupting her as if he didn’t even notice her words. “But every second has a price.”
Time offered Erine a deal: One week added to her grandmother’s life in exchange for a year from her own future.
Erine didn’t hesitate. “So be it. Take a year from me,” she whispered, voice soft but firm.
Time paused for a second, then reached into the pockets of his cloak and took out a silver pocket watch. He extended it to her. “When the hands stop moving, the debt is paid.”
…
Sunlight streamed through the windows as Erine jolted out of bed. The events of the previous night rushed back to her—her encounter, the cottage, the deal she made with…Time. As Erine gripped the handle of her bedroom door, her palms turned sweaty. What if it hadn’t worked? She threw the door open. Her grandmother was humming in the kitchen while cooking, and she looked happy. Erine rushed down the stairs and threw her arms around her grandmother. Her actions were so abrupt that the teacup in her grandmother’s hands slipped and shattered to the floor.
The next seven days meant everything to Erine. They cooked together, read bedtime stories like they used to and even danced barefoot in the rain, something Erine hated doing, but this time, she didn’t mind it at all. Amidst all the fun, Erine never let the silver pocket watch out of her sight. Its hands ticked slower than usual, as if savouring every second.
But on the seventh day, Erine sat by her grandmother’s side as she lay in bed, holding her hands. “I made a deal,” Erine whispered softly to her grandmother, “I gave up a year from my life for it.” She looked at Erine gently, and her eyes softened even more. She simply nodded, as if she had known the truth all along. As the final second ticked, her grandmother gave her a loving smile and finally closed her eyes.
The pocket watch stopped ticking.
Erine expected to feel pain, sorrow and to feel herself growing older by the second. But she didn’t. She knew her grandmother was in peace now. When Erine returned to the workshop, she found that it had vanished, and with it, the pocket watch.
…
Years passed.
Erine grew up to be a watchmaker—the best the town had ever seen.
She would never forget her grandmother’s last words either: Sometimes, even when time runs out, love keeps ticking.
One day, while repairing a broken wristwatch for a young girl, she questioned softly, “Mistress Erine, can you make a clock that gives you more time?”
She smiled. “No, but I can teach you how to use the time you already have.”
And she did.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Rocco and the red necklace
Rocco the stray cat trotted quietly along the alleys of Venice, Italy. His skinny body fitting into the miniscule holes in the walls. His green eyes searching for scraps of food to fill his empty belly.
“Now, if I was a scrap of food, where would I be?” he asked himself.
He then smelt something extraordinary. He followed the angelic scent. There it was. A half eaten plate of pasta put next to the old dusty garbage can.
“What kind of human would throw pasta - with a plate?”
He was getting a bit suspicious. But it was still food. Should he take the half eaten pasta that looked heavenly, or go hunting for other scraps of food? But he couldn’t take it anymore. Rocco gave in and bolted to the pasta. As he munched and munched, someone approached him from behind.
“Look who we have here!” said a mysterious figure.
Rocco recognised that voice. It was Toto the cat! Toto was a Calico Maine-Coon that reveled in gambling. He was rich and had more Catoz - cat currency - than anyone ever had. He had blue eyes that shimmered like crystal clear water.
“Toto! W-What are you doing here?” Rocco laughed awkwardly.
“It’s time to pay your debt Rocco.” Toto growled menacingly.
Rocco owed Toto 1000 Catoz. When Rocco was really poor, he couldn’t walk due to a disease he got. He thought it would be the end of the line for him, until Toto showed up with a deal. Toto would give him the only medicine that could cure him, and Rocco would give him 1000 Catoz in return in the future.
“Give me 1 more week! Please!” Rocco begged.
“Hmm…”
“BOSS! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” said a voice.
Toto turned around to see it was his two personal assistants, Antonio and Luca: green-eyed, orange-coloured cat twins. Antonio loved to talk, whereas Luca was mute.
“ANTONIO, LUCA, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!?” Toto screamed.
“We were following you but we bumped into a cat selling fish and it looked super delicious, so Luca and I bought the fish for you because we know how much you love fresh fish, then-
“DO YOU EVER STOP TALKING?! Anyways. What was I saying?” Toto asked.
“No?” Rocco answered.
“Oh yes. NO!”
Rocco started to run as fast as a cheetah while Antonio and Luca chased him. He ran into the grand canal streets, took a hard left and leaped onto a gondola boat with the twins hot on his tail. Rocco darted swiftly from boat to boat, but soon, he reached the last boat and was cornered by Toto and the twins.
“PLEASE, I’LL DO ANYTHING!” Rocco begged.
“Anything?” Toto said curiously. “There’s one thing you could do. Find the legendary ancient red necklace underneath Lake Como.”
“Fine…” Rocco mumbled.
“Good. Antonio, Luca, row us to lake Como. NOW!” Toto screamed.
“YES BOSS!” Antonio replied.
The twins rowed the boat into Lake Como. In the distance, jagged mountain peaks reached the clouds. The lake had an earthy, musty smell like the smell of soil after rain.
Toto was holding a map that he stole from the National History Museum. They continued to row the boat until they reached where the ‘X’ was on the map. It was a small piece of land in the middle of nowhere, with no trees, no grass, nothing. Just sand.
They all got off the boat and walked towards the centre of the land. Suddenly, there was a loud rumbling noise.
“Guys… Is it just me or is the land, sinking?” Antonio said.
The sand dissolved out of nowhere. The land turned out to be a huge stone platform which lowered them down.
It felt like eternity before the platform stopped abruptly, leaving them at the mouth of a giant cave. It was pitch-black. Toto used a lantern that he found on the ground. There were sky-high stalactites, and a huge body of water. Luckily, there were boats. Rocco got onto a boat with Antonio. There were patches of light from lanterns stuck to walls every few metres.
“Antonio, why are you doing this job?” Rocco whispered.
“Its for Luca, really. He’s mute so he can’t do job interviews. Then, Toto bumped into us and gave us a job offer. I feel like me and Luca would earn more Catoz after he rules the world with the red n-” Antonio gasped quietly.
“PLEASE DON’T TELL BOSS!!” Antonio replied.
“I won’t tell him. But, you do realise you and Luca are helping him rule the world?”
“Yup, but it might be the only job Luca will get.”
“I could help you. We can loan money from the bank and start our own fish business!” Rocco suggested.
“There’s a catch, isn’t there?” Antonio replied.
“Take down Toto once and for all. I can’t do it without you and Luca.”
Rocco handed Antonio a piece of paper that wrote “The ULTIMATE Plan.” It had drawings and detailed steps. He also handed a human phone.
After endless rowing, they saw land and came to a stop. LAND!" Toto yelled. As the group docked their boats at the shore, Antonio made his way to Luca to show him the plan. The group had made only a few steps on the land when stalactites started to fall from above their heads, making the land below them fall beneath their feet. They screamed but alas, a gigantic fan saved them. The wind current from the fan saved them from their fall. It stopped and they fell to the ground unharmed.
They all looked around to see a golden treasure chest right in front of them.
“There it is… The red necklace!” Toto said.
“NOW!!!” Rocco screamed.
Antonio and Luca tackled Toto down while Rocco snatched the red necklace and ran with it. He ran towards a strange looking door in front of the treasure chest. When he opened it, it led to what looked like an alley back in Venice.
“How did I get here…” Rocco stuttered
He ran as fast as he could around the town. As he looked back, he saw Toto chasing him. He ran between alleys but Toto followed. Rocco then ran into a dead end.
“Give. Me. The. Necklace.” Toto growled.
Rocco crushed the necklace on the ground with his paws. Inside was a piece of folded paper. A van suddenly appeared out of nowhere behind them. The van said “Animal control”. Humans came out of the van and Rocco went into a hole in the alley.
“There!” A human shouted. Humans pulled out a pole catcher and put it around Toto’s neck. They put him in a cage and drove off with him.
“NOOOO!!!” Toto screamed.
Rocco, Antonio, and Luca showed up behind a hole in the alley.
“YAYYY!!” Antonio screamed.
While Luca and Antonio were celebrating, Rocco opened the folded piece of paper on the ground. It was a small map.
“Guys…That was not the real necklace.” Rocco said in confusion.
“What do you mean?” Antonio asked.
“When I broke the necklace, a small map fell out of the necklace.”
“If that was not the real ancient necklace… Where is it?”
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The elders in town used to whisper about this tree. It was an old tree, way out in the forest. Not the sort of tree you see from a road. You had to know where to look. They said when the wind passed through her silver-green leaves, she whistled. It was not like any whistle you or I could make, but something that sounded mysterious. Echoes of voices. There was also a story of how Lumalora, that’s what they called her, could grant wishes, but only for hearts that were true and together.
At least, that’s what we believed.
Every now and then, Nolly, Zelly, Lara, and Rina would make the long walk out to see her. It wasn’t that far, maybe fourty minutes if you didn’t dawdle, and Lara’s house was the closest starting point. They always went as a group. It was their place. You know that one spot from childhood that just… belongs to you? That was Lumalora for them.
In their group, they had very different, distinct personalities. Nolly was the strong one, not in muscles, but that kind of steady, unshakeable strength. Zelly was joyful. She could make anything feel like a celebration. Lara was quieter, always thinking, and she had this way of giving advice whether you asked for it or not. And Rina… she noticed things. Everything. The twitch of an eyebrow. The pause before a laugh. The way someone looked at the ground when they didn’t want to answer. They were the best of friends. Different, but their bond? Unbreakable. At least, until one of them started to pull away.
It started on a hot Saturday, the kind of day where the air feels thick and the breeze just teases you without cooling anything down. They were supposed to meet at Lara’s for a sleepover and to finish a school project they’d been putting off. Everything was fine, except one person wasn’t there. Then the phone rang.
“It’s Zelly’s mum,” Lara said, holding the receiver like she already knew the news wasn’t going to be good.
“Zelly might not make it. She’d caught a cold.”
“Is she okay?” Nolly asked right away, sharp with worry.
“She’s fine,” her mum said. “Just resting.” Then click. Line dead.
“But she was bringing the coloured papers!” Nolly blurted.
“It’s alright,” Lara said, in that calm way of hers. “Difficult roads often – “
“We don’t have time for your advice, Lara!” Nolly snapped, and the air in the room went tight.
Rina stepped in fast. “I brought extra paper. Coloured papers too. We’ll be fine.”
They got to work, and by the time the sky outside turned dark, the table was buried in scraps of paper and mugs of cocoa gone cold. Then, the doorbell rang. It was Zelly! Pale, but smiling like she’d just won something.
“You came!” Nolly grabbed her in a hug.
Even Rina smiled, but she caught something strange in Lara’s face. Just a flicker of… what? Disappointment? That didn’t make sense.
Later, when the adults had gone to bed, they loaded snacks, blankets, pillows, and Rina’s little projector into Lara’s battered red wagon. They sneaked out! Off they went, out into the dark. The forest felt different at night. Bigger somehow. The moon caught on the edges of Lumalora’s leaves, making them shimmer like they were dusted with frost. They were halfway through setting up when Nolly laughed at something Zelly said, and Rina froze.
The leaves above them rustled back. Not just any rustle. It sounded like Nolly’s laugh, soft and far away.
“Did you hear that?” Rina asked.
“Hear what?” Zelly looked up, squinting into the branches.
“Never mind,” Rina muttered, but her ears stayed sharp.
They formed their circle, hands clasped, and whispered their wish. They wished for Zelly to get well. Lumalora seemed to listen.
The wind picked up, winding through the branches like it had somewhere urgent to go. The leaves whistled, but with a strange, twisting sound. And just before the first clap of thunder, Rina heard her own voice in that whistle, saying: Zelly’s fine… just resting…
The storm came fast after that.
“The wish didn’t work!” Nolly yelled.
“We have to go!” Rina urged.
They bolted, running through the downpour until their clothes clung and their shoes squelched. Drenched! Wet! But safe nonetheless.
By Monday, Zelly looked worse. The nurse kept her in the sick bay, and when their class was called for the project presentation, Rina told Nolly, “We’ll stay with her.” Back in the classroom, however, Lara froze when their names were called. It was their turn! The teacher warned that they’d fail if they didn’t present. Lara stood up, shaky, and did it alone, all with her trembling voice. Luckily, they passed.
After school, Lara sent a message to their group chat. “Meet me at Lumalora.”
The sky was bruised with storm clouds when they got there. Lumalora’s bark was dotted with red glows now, faint but spreading like ink in water.
“Why did you leave me today?” Lara asked, voice tight.
“We left you?” Nolly shot back. “You’re the one who left us! Do you even care about Zelly?”
“Of course I do!” Lara’s voice cracked.
“You just want everything your way,” Nolly pressed, and that was when it happened.
The leaves shook, and from above came a voice: We don’t have time for your advice, Lara.
Nolly’s voice. But her mouth hadn’t moved. They froze.
You’re the one who left us!
Do you even care about Zelly?
The words poured down, one after another, all the sharp things they’d said to each other, but louder, twisted, and somehow worse. The red dots pulsed brighter. The ground under them shivered. “Stop!” Rina shouted, but the tree only hissed more echoes. All their anger, their mistrust, their fears!
“It’s us,” Rina said suddenly, her voice cutting through the wind. “She’s showing us ourselves.”
The rain broke, cold and heavy. Lara’s eyes filled. “I just wanted things to be like before. When it was easy. I never meant for this. Not for anyone to be sick. Now, I felt guilty.”
Nolly’s face softened. Zelly stepped forward, pale but steady. “Then maybe we fix it together.”
They joined hands under the tree, their howling leaves surrounding them. Slowly, the wind eased. The echoes then faded to a low, gentle whistle. The red glow sank back into the bark. One leaf, gold and glowing, drifted down between them.
Things were different after that. Nolly started listening more than she spoke. Zelly’s laugh came back, bright as ever. Lara still gave advice, but she listened, too. And Rina? She still noticed things, but she didn’t keep them to herself. They kept visiting Lumalora. Sometimes to wish. Sometimes just to sit. They didn’t think she gave them what they wanted anymore. However, she gave them what they needed.
Months later, they found a small cluster of glowing leaves at her roots. They sat there for hours, talking about nothing and everything, the wind curling through the silver-green branches above. It didn’t just carry sound. It carried answers they hadn’t even realised they were asking for. Sometimes, the answer hurt before it healed. And sometimes, it was just simply beautiful.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
As the Borneo Cultural Festival drew nearer, the whole town came to life. Stalls were draped in bright fabrics and filled with the aromas of Sarawak laksa, roasted sago worms, and durian, mingling with the rich sweetness of dabai fruit. Shoppers chatted in a mix of Foochow, Malay, Iban, and Mandarin, while a pair of local musicians played shimmering sape melodies as young girls performed impassioned Ngajat dances. Excitement tingled in the air — this year, the festival coincided with the rare blue moon.
In Sibu, an old legend has been passed down through generations — the tale of the Buah Hati, a heart-shaped fruit that blooms only once every hundred years under the pale blue light of Luna. It is said that only the Chosen can see it, granting them a fleeting glimpse of their loved ones for just a few precious minutes before it vanishes back into myth. And so, the old tale of the Buah Hati surged once again in the hearts of Sibu’s people.
But by then, my heart was too heavy to laugh.
The music and laughter sank into the background. All I could hear was the echo of the argument I’d had with Mum that morning:
"You never care about what I feel!" I had shouted, my voice trembling. “Other kids have a whole family, but I don’t. I want that too!”
Her eyes widened, and I could see the hurt in them, but I couldn’t stop. “You didn’t even try to make things work with Papa. You just… gave up. Maybe you never even loved Papa," I snapped.
The words spilled out like sharp stones, each heavier than the last. I didn’t notice how she clenched her hands at her sides, or took a deep breath, as if holding back her own pain.
At that moment, I was certain that she didn’t understand me and didn’t even care. I pulled my hand away from hers and stormed into the crowd.
The festival roared on behind me, its faint echoes of drums and blurred sway of lanterns in the humid air. The crowd moved as one around me, but I felt like a stone in the middle of a rushing river — unmoved by its current.
I kept walking, my thoughts looping endlessly — the fight, her face, the things I wished I hadn’t said. I don’t know how long I walked, only that the air grew cooler, and the festival’s noise thinned to a soft murmur.
That was when I noticed a strange silver glow spreading across the night sky.
Beneath that silver light sat an old man, cross-legged on a woven mat and surrounded by children. His hands cradled a heart-shaped fruit that glowed faintly as though it held starlight. My breath caught. The Buah Hati.
“This fruit,” said the old man, his voice deep and calm, “appears only once every hundred years, under the moon’s glow. Only the Chosen can see it, and if you do, you may catch a glimpse of the person your heart longs for, but only for a few minutes.”
He looked around the circle, then began.
Long ago, here in Sibu, there lived a woman named Amira. Her husband left her, and she raised their only son, Harun, alone. She worked by the Rejang River every day, selling kuih and weaving baskets — anything to keep him fed and in school. Though the nights were lonely, her love for Harun never faded.
One day, Harun left for the city, promising to return soon. He worked day and night, loading ships, cleaning stalls, saving every coin so he could come home early. But the harder he worked, the weaker he became. His hands trembled when he wrote, and his bright eyes grew dull. Some nights, he coughed until dawn yet pressed on. He whispered that every coin brought him closer to home.
At first, they exchanged letters but then came silence. Days passed into months, and Amira’s life filled with unanswered questions. As the blue moon approached, memories of Harun flooded her, bringing back the old stories of the Buah Hati. She had never believed in magic, yet the thought of seeing Harun again filled her with hope.
She planted a Buah Hati tree by the river, hoping it would bear fruit when Harun returned. But before his journey home, Harun’s strength failed him. His last words were, “Tell Mama... I love her. May Allah protect her always.” And with his final breath, he prayed to Allah to watch over her, even after he was gone.
The night wind slipped through the window, carrying his final whisper as though it longed to deliver it to her.
On the night of the blue moon, the Buah Hati tree bore its first fruit— a sign that love endures beyond death. Amira cradled it in her hands, tears mingling with the moonlight.
A memory gripped me — one night, years ago, hiding behind the bedroom door. Papa’s voice was raised, sharp as broken glass, and Mum’s was pleading. Then came a sudden crack — a slap. She stumbled, her cheek red, but she didn’t cry. She just told me to go back to my room, her voice trembling but gentle. I didn’t understand then, but now, I think I do.
I didn’t notice my tears until they touched my lips. The story felt like it was meant for me. Sometimes, silence didn’t mean she didn’t care — it was her way of protecting me, just as Amira had guarded Harun. I realised that Mum’s separation from Papa wasn’t because she didn’t care, but because she was protecting both me and herself. She had carried all the pain alone so I could grow up safe.
I jumped to my feet and pushed through the crowd, calling, “Mum! Mum!” The music pounded in my ears, people pressed in from all sides, but I kept searching. Then I saw her—eyes darting, scanning every face.
“Mum!” I cried. She turned, and I ran straight into her arms. “I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t understand. I’m so, so sorry.”
She held me tightly, her voice shaking. “It’s okay, my dear. I love you. Always.”
As my mother’s warm voice faded, I blinked and realised we were no longer in the festival crowd. The storyteller’s stool was empty. The music and lights of the Borneo Cultural Festival melted away like mist under the morning sun.
The familiar, warm aroma of Mum’s cooking filled my room. I was in bed, the morning sunlight streaming through the curtains. The Buah Hati was gone but in my heart, I could still feel its warmth. Real or not, the dream had reminded me of the truth that I would never forget. Sometimes love is quiet, sometimes unseen, yet it is always there, even if you don’t realise it. Mum’s sacrifices, her silence, her protection — all were signs of her love.
I hugged her tightly. “I love you, Mum,” I whispered. She smiled, pulling me close. In that moment, I realised that love — like the Buah Hati — is rare, precious, and eternal. Even if the Buah Hati existed only in legend, the love it symbolized was real, mine to cherish forever. I would never take it for granted again.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Arthur Jones, an architect whose blueprints were as boring and depressing as an unadorned chrome bumper, despised the past. Anything that whispered of a bygone era would send a jolt of pure resentment down his spine. To him, function and convenience was key, anything else was nothing more than a gaudy distraction and a gilded cage for good taste.
Then came this mansion. A sprawling, Victorian behemoth on the outskirts of the city. Arthur bought it out of spite with only one goal in mind – to strip it bare and impose his modern will upon its anachronistic walls. The mansion’s turrets clawed at the sky and its gingerbread trim sagged dramatically like a student’s lips on a Monday morning.
Arthur pushed open the door which let out a deep groan, scratching against the wooden floorboards. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that pierced the dirty panes, revealing a set of grand, yet neglected stairwell leading to a second level speaking of forgotten dreams of the past. The air lingered with the scent of aged wood and forgotten things. For the next few days, Arthur spent his time planning which walls he’d order to abolish, and where modern steel and glass would rise.
He entered a massive library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. As Arthur ran a hand over a particularly dusty bookshelf, his fingers brushed against something metallic and picked it up. It was a locket of tarnished silver with intricately carved swirls which intertwined with every turn. A small, almost imperceptible clasp held it shut. Curiosity got the better of Arthur, and he pressed the clasp.
It released with a small CLICK!, revealing nothing but a tiny photo of a modestly-dressed woman with her hair up in a tight bun, her expression stern. As he leaned closer to get a better look, Arthur felt a strange sensation wash over him. The air thickened with an unexplainable tension, the lights dimmed before brightening to a blinding white light.
Arthur’s head throbbed and his stomach lurched. He felt as if he was tumbling and falling through an invisible spiral of unspoken secrets.
Then, blackness.
Arthur jerked awake, a cold jet of air hitting his face. The strange whir in his ears had been replaced by the clatter of horse hooves galloping on cobblestone and the cries of street vendors in the distance.
He pushes himself up from the damp ground of the pungent alleyway which reeked of horse dung and rotting leftovers. Arthur stumbled out of the alleyway, his jaw dropping to the ground at the sight before his eyes. It wasn’t cars that clogged the streets now, it was carriages. Women wearing ankle-length skirts and bonnets strolled along the footpath while men wearing frock coats tipped their hats in greetings. It wasn’t electric lamps that cast the warm glow around the town, it was gas lamps. On either side of the thoroughfare (streets), buildings of intricate stonework and carvings loomed. This wasn’t a film-set; this was real.
“Dear heavens, young boy. Are you alright?” a voice, posh and rich, sounded in Arthur’s ear, snapping him back to reality. He turned to find a man dressed formally in a black suit; a top hat perched buoyantly on the top of his head. This man looked like he just stepped out of a history book.
“I think so…” Arthur murmured, “where am I?”
The man let out a deep chuckle, “You’re in Blackpool, dear boy! And from the looks of it, you must’ve had too much of a touch with the evening’s spirits,” the man extended a hand, “Sir James at your service. I’m the architect of the town’s most prestigious buildings.”
Architect. His mind still a little dizzy from earlier, latched onto the familiar word. “Arthur Jones…I’m also an architect..” he shook Sir James’s hand which was strong and warm.
Sir James’s eyes lit up. “Splendid! A fellow architect! Though I must confess, your attire is… rather unusual for our current fashion. From the colonies, perhaps?”
Arthur, looking down at his jeans and t-shirt, could only offer a weak smile. “Something like that.” He decided not to mention the time travel. That could wait until later. “Sir James, the buildings here… they’re incredible. So… detailed.” He tried to keep the disdain from seeping into his voice, but it was a struggle.
Sir James beamed happily, “I see you’ve noticed! Come, let me show you. These buildings aren’t just here for show, each of them tell an individual story, a poem in bricks and stones.”
And so began Arthur’s unexpected education. Sir James, whose generosity that bordered with saintly, took him under his wing. They walked for hours, exploring different buildings which were almost scarily ornate.
They visited a newly opened library, which grand entrance was flanked by two towering pillars of marble. Sir James pointed at the pillars and said in a hushed tone, “These pillars aren’t there just to hold the library up, they endure the strength of knowledge. And the friezes above? Each carving, each line, is a whisper of the past. A part of the soul of the very person who built them.”
Arthur’s eyes widened slightly, he had never considered a building like that before. To him, a library was a place for books, and the cleaner it looked, the better. But as Sir James spoke, Arthur began to see it in a new light. He saw the decorative work on balconies that resembled delicate lace.
After, they stopped by an elaborate church, its towers reaching high into the sky like praying hands to the heavens. He noticed how the walls were hung with beautiful artworks which told of a biblical story. The gargoyles, although grotesque, were what warded off evil and demons, as Sir James had explained. These weren’t just decorations, they were basically philosophy, history and religion bunched and woven into a beautifully carved stone building. Arthur started thinking about his own architecture blueprints, they used to be perfect to him, now, he found them so dull, lacking of life, and so…silent.
“These buildings.. it’s like a whole different language…”
Sir James grinned, “Exactly, dear boy. We architects don’t build for the sake of building, we build to tell stories of our own!” Arthur felt something shift in him, feeling content that he had never felt in a long time.
By now, the sun had began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, casting long, dramatic shadows across the ornate buildings. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of coal smoke and damp earth. Suddenly, the world around him blurred. The sounds of hooves clattering faded, and Sir James’s voice became a soft whir before his world went black once more.
He woke up with a jolt, his body jerking slightly on his mansion’s library’s floor. He glanced around, his head still fuzzy. Was all of that real – or was it all a dream? The scent of the aged wooden floorboard now served as a comforting sense of the past, and the same carved marble vines which Arthur resented were now a nice reminder of the bygone era.
From then on, Arthur Jones designed buildings filled with life, not just boring skyscrapers and offices. He added hints of ancient designs, intricate friezes were a norm in his blueprints. Thanks to the locket and Sir James, Arthur realized that the world wasn’t just a blank canvas, it was an unfinished yet still grand masterpiece, waiting for another architect to add another thought into it.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
They told me to bury my name when I was six or seven. No explanation, no comfort, no "you’ll understand when you’re older" — just a wooden tag, a shallow hole in the forest, and a pair of eyes watching me like I was supposed to destroy the most important part of myself and be proud about it. They handed me a carving knife I barely knew how to hold and said, "Write your real name here." Then they pointed to the dirt and smiled like they were doing me some kind of favour — like it was an honour to give up who I was before I even figured it out. I remember my hands shaking, not from fear but from anger. I remember everyone clapping politely when I dropped the tag into the earth and patted it over. I remember the way my mother hugged me afterwards like I had just survived something — but what I did was lie. I didn’t write my name. I carved a fake one, “Matchstick,” because it sounded quick and kind of clever, and I cried a little on cue so the adults would think I’d done it properly. But my real name? I never buried it. I kept it. Quietly and secretly. Pressed into the back of my mind like a blade turned inward.
That was six years ago. And I’ve lived in this strange, dead-quiet town ever since — a place where no one calls each other by real names, where everyone walks around with borrowed words stitched onto their identities like lazy nicknames: Girl A, Echo, Silver, Blue. People here act like that’s normal, like calling your friend “Cloud” or “Glass” is fine, like they didn’t once have something better, something true. And when people disappear — because they do, always silently, without warning — nobody panics. The adults whisper, “They must’ve heard their name,” and then they move on like the missing never existed.
It’s like grief doesn’t exist here. Teachers clear out empty desks without a second glance. Best friends forget each other. Parents pretend their own children were never born. And you start to wonder if you’re the only one who still feels anything, or if you’re just the only one who cares. Sometimes, I think that’s worse than being afraid — being alone in the remembering.
My sister vanished last year. Her name was Sera. At least, it was before. No one talks about her anymore. My parents pretend she was never born. Her best friend doesn’t even blink when someone says her name — like it’s just another sound that never meant anything. But I remember her. I remember how she used to laugh loudly in quiet rooms. She hated milk. Made that gag face every time. But she still forced it down like she was scared her bones would snap if she didn’t. Back then, I figured she was just being weird and dramatic again.
A week ago, I went back to the forest — not because I wanted to stir up ghosts, but because the town had started to feel like it was shrinking, like the silence was pressing in on me from all sides and I couldn’t breathe unless I got out. The trees were taller than I remembered, and the air was thick with this heavy, rotten sweetness like something had died and no one bothered to bury it properly. I was just trying to be alone — until I saw it. A fresh grave. The dirt was loose, like someone had just been there. A wooden tag was jammed into the ground like an afterthought, like whoever did it wasn’t even trying to hide it — just wanted me to see it and freak out.
My real name. The one I never carved. The one no one knows.
I don’t even remember breathing after that. Just cut to night. I was dreaming of her again — but not the real her. This version was wrong. Too quiet. Too still. She looked like someone who’d been trying to yell with no mouth. When she finally opened it, I expected a scream, but all she said — low, hoarse, like it hurt to speak — was: “Remember me.”
The next morning, I didn’t wait. I went back with a shovel. I didn’t care if someone saw. I didn’t care if the town was watching. I dug, hands blistering, fingers bleeding. And when the dirt gave way, I found not just one name — but a box full of them. Dozens, maybe hundreds. Some were cracked. Some burned. Some still wet with soil. Each one carried a different name. Each one stolen. At the bottom of the box was a book. Not old. Not dusty. Still warm somehow.
I opened it. And the pages began to write themselves.
This is not a town. This is a waiting room. You are not alive. You were never safe. You buried your soul. You forgot. But now you remember. And remembering is dangerous.
I kept reading. I read until the words blurred. Until the truth was obvious. We’re not alive. This whole place is a holding pen for the dead — or half-dead. Limbo. A purgatory where souls go when they refuse to let go, where names are buried not to protect us but to keep us docile. People forget their names so they forget the truth. Because if they remember — really remember — they wake up. They escape.
And no one wants that. My sister didn’t vanish. She remembered. And someone didn’t want me to.
I took the book and ran. Not home — I didn’t trust my parents anymore. I went to the town square. Climbed the edge of the fountain. Looked around at the empty streets and sleeping windows. And then I opened the book and screamed the first name I saw.
Nothing happened. So, I screamed another. I shouted name after name like I was spitting them out just to stay sane. The air went weird — sharp and buzzing — and people started stumbling out of their houses, blinking like they just realized they hadn’t felt anything in years. I kept going. Lights blew out. Doors swung open. The ground groaned. Someone started crying. Another person fell to their knees.
And then I saw her. Not in this world, but in a hospital bed somewhere real, her eyes fluttering open like she’d just broken the surface of water. She gasped. Sat up, alive.
I didn’t stop. I ran to the forest one last time, stood in the middle of the name-grave pit, and shouted her name: “Sera!” The air felt tight, like it was holding its breath. Everything around me went still — like the whole town was waiting. I took one breath. Then I said my name. Out loud. No fear.
And then I disappeared. Not vanished. Woke up. The town is gone now. Just a fading echo of people who were too scared to remember who they were. But I’m still here. And now, when someone says my name — my real name — I answer without fear. Without shame.
Because I am not Matchstick. I am not dead. And I remember everything. And now, finally, they remember me too.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The car passes a row of stores. One catches my eye. “Noah’s Book Nook,” I murmur to myself. Paint is flaking off the walls. Vines cover the windows, pavement-even the shelves inside. As if the vines are trying to consume the bookstore, attempting to pull it away from reality. Curiosity takes over me.
“Hey, mom?”
“Yeah?”
“I need to go to the restroom real quick. I think that bookstore has one,” I say, feigning urgency.
I can’t help but stare at the store being absorbed by the green vines. Maybe it’s just for decoration purposes? Doesn’t look like it though.
“Alright,” The car comes to a stop not far away from the store. I step out of the car and quickly walk to the bookstore.
The bell rings as I open the door. My eyes widen at the condition of the store. It looks completely different inside compared to the view from outside. I walk deeper in. Vines consume everything-every book, every corner-devoured by ominous emerald green.
“Help me…” a hoarse voice croaks. It is coming from my left. I turn. A man has been wholly devoured by the vines. Slowly rotting away.. Shocked, I slowly back away, stifling my scream. The man takes his last breath and his body disintegrates into dust.
Suddenly, I fall backwards and find a vine slowly curling itself around my ankle.
I let out a scream. I shake my leg as hard as I can, clawing and thrashing at the vine but it does not budge. I pry the vine away from my ankle, shoot up and bolt out of the store. The bell rings again, the door closing slowly. I run back into the car, unusually quiet.
Curiosity killed the cat.
“OK, ready to go?” Mom asks.
“Yeah.” We head home.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
It’s the second period. The clock reads 9:00 a.m. Yesterday feels unreal-like a hallucination.
I decide not to tell anyone. They will think I have gone crazy. “Hey,” I ask. Vivian looks up from her book.
“Yeah?” Vivian answers.
“Remember the bookstore on Statenburg Street 1? Noah’s Book Nook?”
“Nope, I’ve never heard of it,” she replies, going back to reading her paperback while brushing her hair back.
“But yesterday you said you loved that bookstore? And isn’t this book you have here from the bookstore?” I take the book from her hands and turn it over.
There is no price tag. Not even residue from an old sticker. It is as if the bookstore has vanished, completely wiped from everyone’s memory. Vivian looks at me, confused. Then she says, “What are you talking about? I’ve literally never seen that bookstore anywhere.”
“Do you have any memory of buying this book?” I ask her with a concerned look on my face.
“You know… Actually, I don’t. Huh. That’s weird,” she replies with a look of bewilderment plastered on her face, her head tilted with one eyebrow raised.
My chest tightens. “Are you serious?”
“Wait, no. It must’ve been a gift. It was my birthday recently.” I look at her with disbelief.
“What? But yesterday I saw—”
The teacher walks in.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“Hey, mom,” I say, grabbing a spoon. Mom was cooking scrambled eggs.
“Yeah?”
“Can we go to Noah’s Book Nook after this?” I ask her.
“Is it a bookstore?” Mom questions.
“Yeah… Did I not tell you about this yesterday? We passed by the store and I went to the restroom. Do you not remember?” I say through a mouthful of rice.
“What are you talking about? We didn’t stop anywhere,” she chuckles.
Yet I remember it. Vividly.
I grab my phone out of my pocket and look up ‘Noah’s Book Nook’.
No results.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I stand in front of an empty plot, tall grass covers the area with a metal fence surrounding it. A sign is put up.
Plot for sale.
“What…?” I mutter under my breath. What about the owner? The workers? The guy from yesterday? What happened to them? I glance over to the store next door. A fried chicken shop. Vines are slowly, very slowly creeping up the walls.
No. No, no-
I burst in. I have to warn them. The delicious aroma of the fried chicken wafts through the air. People peacefully eat their chicken, unaware of the vines creeping around their ankles. On the walls, the floor, the signs — they are everywhere and spreading rapidly.
“You guys have to leave!” I grab one of their arms and yank them away from the vine.
“What are you doing? Don’t touch me!” As if taunting me, the vine lets go of the girl's ankle easily, knowing she will not believe what I am about to say.
I try to yank her away but she does not budge.
“Listen to me! The vines—they’re everywhere! Can’t you see them?” I scream.
“No, I don't,” she mutters. She looks down at me in disgust, like I am insane. Maybe I am insane. Phones are everywhere, recording. They do not know this might be their last day, and no one will remember them.
“Fine. If you refuse to believe me then perish with the rest of them,” I walk out the store embarrassed, confused and my mind in disarray. I drop to my knees as the screams of the girl and others echo in my ears as the vines consume them, wrap around them and leaving them to rot.
The passersby pay no heed to the screaming, as if they cannot hear it, see it. I tug on one of their sleeves, asking “Can you not hear the screams?” They look at me like I am a piece of gum. “What? No,” They tug their hand away and continue their day as if nothing ever happened.
Questions linger in my mind.
What are they?
Why is this happening?
How?
Why can I see them, but others cannot?
I have to stop this.
The world darkens around me.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I wake up in my bed, head pounding. The sun beams peak through my curtains, hitting my face with a sharp glare. “What just happened?” I murmur to myself. I rub my eyes, swollen from crying. Why? Did I cry yesterday? I have no memory of crying at all. I remember we just moved into our new home, before that we stopped by…
My head pounds. It hurts the more I think about it. The question is, about what? I try to push the thoughts away, of the- Realisation hits me.
Noah’s Book Nook.
I asked mom if we could go to the bookstore yesterday. She said yes. My thoughts get interrupted by my grumbling stomach. Oh, right. I haven’t had breakfast yet. I head downstairs to the kitchen. Mom is making scrambled eggs, the buttery scent wafting through the air.
“Hey, mom,” I say, grabbing a spoon.
“Yeah?”
“Can we go to Noah’s Book Nook after this?” I ask her.
“Is it a bookstore?” Mom questions.
I sat down. A wave of Déjà vu hits me. This scene happened before. Or am I imagining things? My head starts to hurt again. It’s happening again, but this time there’s a loud ringing in my ears. My hands fly to my head, clutching tightly as my face contorts in agony.
“Sophie, are you okay?” My mother asks in a panic. I feel the chair move towards her as she shakes my shoulders violently. “Sophie? Sophie?”
Everything fades to black.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I jolt awake sweating, the ringing in my ears fading away. It must have been a dream. I sigh in relief. It was just a dream, a dream. That’s all it was- My brain connects the pieces together, and realisation hits me.
I run downstairs and see mom making scrambled eggs. Everything is back to what it’s been.
We are living in a loop.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The bell rang sharply at 2.30p.m., marking the end of another long day at Cambridge University. Stella zipped up her bag and glanced at Stephen, who was already twirling his keys.
“Let’s leave before the canteen aunty catches Victor again,” she teased.
“I was borrowing a croissant, not stealing!” Victor shouted dramatically, wiping crumbs of his shirt.
Their group – Stella, Stephen, Damon, Della and Victor, were all top students. They lived in the university’s “Apartment Block A,” a building reserved exclusively for selected students.
It was fun like a never ending sleepover… Or at least, it used to be.
That day, as they walked back together – laughing, joking, sharing snacks – everything was normal until they reached their apartment.
Stephen pulled out the keys and stepped forward. But before he could insert the key,
Click.
The door creaked open by its own.
“Did you unlock the door already?” asked Damon uncertainly.
“Nope,” Stephen said, raising an eyebrow, confused.
Stella stepped forward and pushed the door open cautiously. The apartment looked normal.
Victor strolled in like nothing happened. “Maybe we forgot to lock the door before we left,” he said, heading straight to the fridge grabbing a bar of chocolate.
The others followed tossing their bags on the couch and pulling of their shoes. Stella placed her notebook on the table and hoped into a beanbag.
Then she looked at the table. Her notebook…. was open, on a page she hadn’t turned to in days.
It was a sketch, drawn of their hallway – rough lines, shadowed corners. But something had been added at the bottom, in a strange jagged writing, were words,
“Don’t stay past 3:13.”
She blinked. “Guys… did any of you write in my notebook?”
Everyone shook their heads. Victor added,
“Creepy, maybe you did it while half asleep?”
“I didn’t,” Stella said.
“That doesn’t make any sense Victor,” Damon said.
They all brushed it off. Kind of.
That night was filled with laughter again – pranks war, pillow fights and Victor pretending to be a magician with a towel cape.
Until the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then darkness.
“Ugh, this building’s wiring is garbage,” Stephen muttered.
But the lights didn’t come back till morning.
The next few days were different.
Victor’s chicken flavored chips vanished.
Della’s toothbrush ended up soaking wet – on the balcony.
Damon’s alarm mysteriously rang at 3:13 a.m.
And Stella’s notebook?
It opened again.
Same page. Same words.
But this time, underlined in red – ‘Don’t stay past 3:13’. Stella didn’t even own a red pen.
That night, Stella and Della heard footsteps outside their room. Slow, dragging footsteps. Stella opened the door – nothing. Just the hallway.
Silent…. and cold.
The next night, in Victor’s room. “Someone whispered my name by the fridge! I SWEAR!” he screamed shaking.
Damon, the most logical one in the group, began logging everything in a journal.
The flickers. The footsteps. The whispers.
All of it traced back to one time:
3:13 a.m.
Stephen didn’t believe it – until the mirror incident.
It was 3:12 a.m. He walked past the mirror to grab a glass of water.
Then he froze.
There was a dark shadow on the mirror.
The next morning, he didn’t tell anyone. But when he opened his water bottle – it was filled blood.
The haunting grew stronger day by day.
Drawers opened on their own. The TV switched channels by itself. The air turned icy cold at exactly 3:13 a.m., even though all the windows were shut.
Then, the kitchen clock stopped working. Permanently froze at that time. Every time they replaced the battery, the hands returned to 3:13.
Della tried calling her parents. The call never connected. Messages wouldn’t send. It was like the apartment cut off from the rest of the world after dark.
The other day Damon was cleaning the kitchen cabinet when he discovered an old college ID card. A faded photo of a girl, Ms. Jasjeet Kaur.
She was a top student from the 2017 batch. Stella searched all the death records in the library, hoping to find more details about Jasjeet Kaur. She found a book that said “Ms. Jasjeet Kaur disappeared mysteriously. Last scene in Apartment 13.
That night, Stella left her notebook open with a blank page.
By morning, someone had wrote a message in red ink:
“One must leave. Or all will stay.”
They were done.
“We’re leaving tonight,” Damon said. “Before 3.00 a.m.”
They packed in silence.
No jokes. No laughter. No arguing.
But as they reached the front door –
SLAM!
It shut on its own.
Locked.
The hallway light flickered. The television switched on, flickering with loud static.
The fridge door flew opened. Boxes and containers crashed to the floor.
“The clock! Look!” screamed Victor. All eyes turned to the wall.
3.13 a.m.
Then the mirror. A girl. Pale. Straight hair. Wearing an old ID card.
Ms. Jasjeet Kaur.
She began moving. Slowly. From inside the reflection… to the real world.
Della screamed. Stella froze. Damon dropped his journal. Stephen grabbed Victor and pulled him back.
Ms. Jasjeet Kaur’s voice echoed through the static:
“No one leaves.. unless one is chosen.”
Suddenly, Stella’s notebook flipped open on the floor. Five names appeared
Then one slowly vanished.
Stephen.
“NO!” Stella shouted, grabbing Stephen’s and Damon’s arms. “We’re not leaving anyone behind!”
The door burst open.
Without thinking, they ran.
Down the stairs. Out into the open air. Hearts racing. Eyes wide.
They didn’t stop running until the apartment was far behind them – a black box in the night.
The next day, Apartment 13 was sealed by the college. No one was allowed to stay there.
The five friends never spoke about that night again. Not at college. Not even to each other. The management gave them a different room in the apartment.
But sometimes…
Whenever they walked past the mirror in their new room or reached for a glass of water at night – they saw a dark shadow behind them.
Two years later, they all graduated from college and went their separate ways, each chasing their dreams. Stella went on to become a successful lawyer and a rising actor. Stephen achieved his goal of becoming an engineer, while Damon built a career as both an accountant and a music composer. Della followed her passion for education and became a teacher. Victor, the loudest and funniest of them all became a doctor.
Even after all this time, they still feel terrified when they recall the incident at Apartment 13.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Grief likes to take control in the quietest of hours. It could be a bad memory from a year ago on Facebook, or a song that comes on during a quiet car ride that reminds you of the precious things you have lost.
For Grace, it was the way the sky painted itself with vibrant colours as the sun began to dip below the horizon. On the same day many months ago, she would have been sitting on this exact hill, delicately painting strokes of molten gold and fading rose while chattering endlessly about the most mundane things to her mum. Only now, the absence of both those things was so painfully impossible to ignore. It seeped into every breath, every smile she faked, and every flicker of colour in the sky.
When her mum passed away due to an unexpected autoimmune disease, her passion for painting went with her, taking the only pieces of herself, she had ever really known. She hadn’t touched a brush since, and hadn’t dared to look too long at the sky for fear it might bring back memories she physically couldn’t bear to handle.
Howver, on this evening, the sunset refused to be ignored. The colours didn’t just sit in the air — they shifted, deepening, curling at the edges like paint dragged by an unseen hand. The world around her blurred and went quiet. When she looked up through blurred vision, Grace realised that she was no longer just overlooking the sunset—she was standing inside of it.
She looked around and found herself in a peculiar version of her own backyard, the sky a beaming yellow that resembled the exact shade her mum would mix for her sunset paintings. It felt so achingly warm and familiar that it made her chest tighten. Her eyes settled on a picnic mat laid out on the ground, a generous spread of food on top of it.
And sitting there, cross-legged and beaming, was her mother.
Not the sickly hospital version who looked more like a shell of herself, but the version Grace wanted, and needed, to remember her by. Dark brown hair they had gotten permed together, glowing skin, the yellow sundress she loved wearing during the summer.
Her mum beckoned her over to sit down with a faint smile.
“Come here, you.”
Grace’s feet moved before her brain caught up. Her knees folded onto the blanket, and for a moment she just stared, marvelling in every detail— the warmth in her mother’s eyes, the subtle contours of her face, and the tiny freckle on her cheekbone she had nearly forgotten.
They ate slowly, talking over each other the way they used to, swapping favourite memories, reliving all their moments together. It was so easy to fall back into the rhythm that used to be a daily ritual. Grace mainly listened, grateful for the opportunity to hear her mum's voice again.
“Made any new paintings recently?” she asked curiously, meeting Grace’s eyes.
Grace swallowed hard. “Umm… I can’t seem to find the time. And I don’t know what to paint. So no, no, I guess not.”
Her mum gave her that knowing look that constantly made Grace wonder if she could see right through her. She reached out for Grace’s hand and held it gently.
"Darling, you’ve got to keep painting. How else am I supposed to sneak into all your sunsets?” her mum grinned. “I’ll be in the swish of your brush, hiding in the pinks, dancing in the golds… I will always be with you.”
Those words made Grace feel true joy—something she thought unimaginable ever since the diagnosis. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. As the gold sky shone brighter suddenly, she knew it was an indicator that time was up.
Grace longed to stay. She wanted this picnic to stretch on forever, sun unwavering, the air warm and safe. But a breeze stirred, and the gold began to deepen, tinged with crimson. She reached out for her mother’s hand, catching one last soft smile as it faded away like most things in her life did.
When her eyes refocused again, the rich amber of her backyard was gone, replaced by a deep, angry red filter. It didn’t take long to realise where she was, back where it all started.
She spotted the version of herself that she had been a few months back, in that narrow hospital corridor, right outside the emergency room.
She was pacing, breathing frantically as she clenched her fists so hard, they left half-moon shaped bruises on her palms.
“Why? Why is this happening to us?” Younger Grace’s voice splintered through the air, sharp and raw as she whipped around to face her mum.
Her mother, dressed in her hospital gown, reached out to rest a hand on Grace’s shoulder, but Grace recoiled with such force you would think her mum’s hand was ablaze.
“It’s your fault! You should have taken better care of yourself! Look where we are now!” she roared explosively, her voice cracking in the middle.
The remaining light in her mum’s eyes dimmed, though she didn’t flinch or snap back — she simply stood there, still as stone.
Of course, Grace hadn’t known at the time that her mother’s sickness was genetic. How could she? She was only 12 years old, too young to understand the complexity of the situation. Rage was the easiest emotion and unleashing her anger at someone was convenient.
Even now, watching the memory unfold, Grace could feel the fury creeping back in —a bitter, familiar heat curling in her chest. Her heart started to beat faster, from a feeling which she recognised instantly. The pressure in her chest. The restless need to move, to shout, to fight against something.
The vermillion consuming her every being began to darken into something worse, deep black tendrils of smoke engulfing her entirely. She wasn’t just watching anymore. The heat crawled under her skin, twisting in her chest.
And that’s when the voices started.
The sounds of her and her mother’s laughs, untainted by the horrors to come.
Images of them painting various landscapes together.
The cold, sterile-smelling hospital room.
“The life expectancy… around a few months.”
Sounds of her own raw and guttural sobs during the last few days.
Grace pressed her palms over her ears, but the voices only grew louder, piling over one another until she could barely think.
“Leave me alone!”
“Be strong, Grace.”
“One last sunset?” Her mum’s voice rang shrilly in her ears as it warped into the sound of the monitor flat-lining.
Her younger self’s scream echoed and settled in her bones, Only, she realised it was coming from her own throat now.
“ENOUGH!” Her voice tore through the echoes of her mind, silencing them instantly.
“I can’t carry these feelings forever, I won’t.”
Her voice cracked, softer now. “I miss her. I’ll always miss her. But I can’t stay in the day in this grief, I’ll drown.”
She shut her eyes, letting the words hang in the stillness. “You wouldn’t want me to.”
Then the dark began to fracture, thin cracks spilling with blinding white light.
The raging hot air cooled, her lungs filling with something cleaner, lighter.
And in that white, the light softened, she found herself back on the hill. The horizon blooming into gold — colours that wrapped her in the same warmth as the evenings they used to share.
It felt like a hand on her shoulder. Like a smile she could still picture.
Like her mother, still here, just painted into the sky.
And as the colours bled into night, she finally understood — felt it settle in her chest like a truth she could keep: Like sunsets, some endings can be beautiful.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
I had just finished school, and it was raining heavily, so I took shelter in an old, abandoned house. As I was shaking the water from my jacket, a door creaked open behind me, and an old man with deeply wrinkled skin stood there, staring. Then, the nightmare began…
First, let me introduce myself properly.
My name is Oliver Yang, and I’m just an ordinary 12-year-old schoolboy living a normal life in a small town. I have a girlfriend, Cindy Tan. She’s beautiful, smart, and like me, just trying to survive the everyday routine of homework, friends, and endless classes.
One day, our school held its Chinese New Year celebration. After all the lion dances and fireworks, the skies turned grey, and a heavy rain began to fall. Cindy’s mom picked her up early, but I had to walk home alone. My usual route cut through an old graveyard, and with the rain turning the dirt path into thick, sticky mud, I was desperate for shelter. That’s when I spotted it — a small, crumbling house on the side of the road.
Its windows were shattered, and the roof sagged under the weight of years. Still, it looked better than battling the storm. I ran towards it and stood under the porch. As I caught my breath, the wooden door creaked open. Out stepped an old man with skin like dry paper. His eyes were hollow, dark, and endless, like staring into a bottomless pit. He was as tall as a grenadier, and his clothes looked like they belonged to another century.
Fear prickled at the back of my neck. Instinct screamed at me to run, but just then, the rain lightened, and I used the chance to slip away without saying a word.
The next day at school, I told Cindy everything. She listened, wide-eyed, but then laughed it off.
“Maybe he just wanted to see who was standing outside his house,” she said, trying to calm me down.
I forced a smile, but deep inside, unease twisted in my stomach. Something about that house didn’t feel right. Something… ancient.
That night, after finishing my homework, I crawled into bed, trying to shake the memory. As soon as I closed my eyes, a voice echoed in my room — a dry, croaking whisper:
“Come back… come back…”
My eyes snapped open. The voice disappeared.
Sweat dripped down my forehead as my heart hammered against my ribs. I didn’t sleep at all that night.
Night skies and stars disappeared, and morning sun rose. The sky was crystal clear, but my mind was clouded. I told Cindy about the whisper. She immediately went pale and suggested we check the house out together on Friday after school — and then have a sleepover at my house.
I hesitated but agreed. Somehow, having her there made me feel braver. But little did I know.
Soon it was Friday. After school, we made our way to the house, backpacks slung over our shoulders. It looked even worse in the daylight. The wood was rotted, and a strange mist clung to the ground.
We knocked, but no one answered.
“Maybe we shouldn’t—” Cindy began, but I had already pushed the door open.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and something else… something foul. As soon as we both stepped inside, a violent gust of wind slammed the door shut behind us.
The temperature dropped. Our breath misted in front of us.
We tried the door. It was locked.
Suddenly, the floor trembled beneath us, shaking like a living thing. We stumbled and fell to the ground. The lights, if they had ever worked, stayed dead. It was as dark as the deepest trench in the ocean.
From the darkness came a voice — the same one that haunted me in my bedroom.
“Come back… I need life…
A figure materialized in front of us. It towered over us, its head brushing the ceiling. It had no legs — it floated eerily, its skin translucent and grey.Where its eyes should have been were two black voids, pulling in all the light around them.
I stammered, “W-what do you want?”
“I want… to live…” the creature rasped.
Cindy found her voice. “Why us?”
“No one has dared to stand in my presence… until you,” it said, its voice like dead leaves scraping across stone.
“I need your brave souls… to escape this house. To live again.”
Terror gripped me. “You’re going to kill us?” I whispered.
“YES.”
Without hesitation, Cindy stepped in front of me. “Take me first, then him!” she shouted.
The creature roared, a terrible, hollow sound that rattled the windows. It shoved Cindy aside and reached for me with its long deadly hands.
In a flash, Cindy grabbed a rusty sword hanging on the wall — something left behind, maybe by someone else who hadn’t been so lucky. With a cry, she drove the blade deep into the creature’s chest.
The creature let out a piercing shriek that shook the very walls of the house. It dropped me, writhing in agony.
Before it died, it glared at Cindy and hissed, “You will regret this!”
Then, it dissolved into smoke, leaving only a horrible smell of burnt flesh behind.
The door creaked open. Sunlight poured into the house, banishing the darkness.
Without a word, Cindy and I ran — faster than we had ever run before — all the way home.
At home, my parents noticed the red mark on my neck. The creatures gasp but I lied, saying I had fallen at school trying to hide the truth from them.
Years passed. Cindy and I grew older. We lived happy lives, went to different schools, but stayed in touch. We tried to forget that awful day… and we never went near that house again.
Everything went well until one night of a full moon I heard the creatures voice again.
“Come back… come back…”
And I wondered… had we truly defeated it?
Or had we only made it angrier?
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Based on a true story (Bagged foxes)
The warm embrace of the setting sun radiated across my fur, its golden light filtering between the towering trunks of the redwood trees. I stretched slowly, feeling each muscle loosen as the sunlight threaded through the strands of my fur. Around me, the forest stood in colossal pillars, trees so tall they seemed to reach the clouds. I wandered between them, my soft paws brushing over the soft earth, listening to the whisper of leaves and the lovely chatter of birds above.
Then, the peace shattered.
Footsteps. Not four-legged like a deer or cougar, but two. Heavy, deliberate. And the sound of something long and weighty shifting in the stranger’s grasp.
Before I could react, a deafening BAM ripped through the air behind me. Something small and fast whistled past my ear, splintering into the bark of a nearby redwood. A deep, sharp hole appeared in the trunk. Heart pounding, I glanced at the object, round, pointed, like a stone. Then came two more sharp cracks, echoing between the trees.
My ears pinned flat. Noise makers? I thought.
Through the shafts of sunlight, a dark silhouette emerged, a bipedal creature, bare-skinned, holding that long object aimed at me. There was no mistaking it now. A noisemaker.
I ran.
Branches whipped past as my paws tore across the forest floor. The shadow followed, pounding after me, that long weapon leveled in my direction. BAM! Pain pulsed through my thigh. I stumbled, a cry tearing from my throat. Warm blood spilled down my fur, dotting the ground in scarlet.
Why? My fox mind raced. I’d done nothing to harm it. Why did it want me dead? But there was no time for answers, only the need to escape.
I pushed forward, lungs burning, eyes darting for a hiding place among the redwood roots. Another shot rang out, the projectile striking a tree so close I felt the bark dust scatter on my fur. The thought rose unbidden, am I going to die?
It took hours, or so it felt, but at last, the sound of pursuit faded. I collapsed onto a patch of soft grass, panting, my leg throbbing with each heartbeat. I bent to lick the wound, not for healing, but out of thirst. Night had fallen, the canopy above studded with white stars that glittered against the dark sky. Slowly, my eyes closed, and sleep claimed me.
When I awoke, they were there.
A group of noisemakers surrounded me. These carried no weapons, only large brown sacks slung over their shoulders. Without warning, rough hands seized my injured leg and hoisted me into one of the dusty bags. I twisted and kicked, claws snagging the fabric, but the opening drew shut with a tight knot.
The bag swayed as they carried me away. Through a small tear, I caught glimpses of flashing sunlight and drifting leaves. Their voices, loud, harsh, rose and fell around me. Minutes bled into more minutes until at last, they set me down. The air grew still, and a heavy scent of dried blood drifted up from the ground.
Then I felt it, the slope beneath me. I was in some sort of deep pit. A massive flat stone scraped into place over the opening, sealing me in darkness.
I whimpered, thrashing inside my prison. Above, muffled leaves rustled. No help came. Time lost meaning. I no longer knew which way I faced or how many hours had passed.
Days, maybe weeks, slid by without food or water. My strength ebbed. My thoughts grew hazy. Perhaps this, I thought, was where my journey would end.
But then,light.
The stone shifted, and fresh air poured in. My heart thudded. Shapes loomed above me.Noisemakers again, but this time another scent threaded through the air. Musky, sharp, and alive. A four-legged creature.
I heard the noisemakers barking at one another in their strange tongue. Then the sack opened. I launched forward with every bit of strength left, my hind legs kicking hard against the bag for speed.
I was free.
The forest whipped past in a blur, but my relief was short-lived. Behind me thundered more than five furred creatures, racing low to the ground. Straps of thin brown leather looped around their necks.
They weren’t here to greet me, they were after me.
Panic surged. My only thought was to run, though my wounded leg burned with each stride. The world narrowed to pounding paws, hot breath, and the snapping of branches. My chest heaved like it had when I was a cub chasing shadows.
An idea sparked. Dangerous, but my only chance. The river.
I veered toward the remembered route, weaving through the undergrowth. The sound of rushing water grew louder, a promise and a gamble all at once, as the creatures came closer, their feet seemingly making the ground shake entirely
The river came into view, a ribbon of silver flashing in the sunlight. I gathered my strength, pushed off with aching muscles, and leapt. Air rushed past my ears.
Then, impact. My paws hit the far bank. I stumbled but stayed upright. Behind me, the pack skidded to a halt at the water’s edge, pacing, barking, but not crossing.
A joyous yip escaped me. I bounced on my paws, tail high, as they glared across the river. Then, with a final flick of my ears, I turned and trotted back into the shelter of the redwoods.
Soon later, I found a patch of dried leaves scattered on the dirt floor. i slowly bent down and laid there, resting My eyes drifted closed, and sleep washed over me.
Birdsong stirred me awake the next morning. The forest was quiet again. Then a sound. A yip.
From my right, it came again. I rose, ears pricked, and followed the call.
Through the trees, I saw it. A female fox. Standing still. Watching me.
And in that moment, the forest felt whole again. I slowly took one step closer to the fox, nervous as I took one more step. She suddenly darted her eyes behind her as my ears pointed in that direction, curious and cautious. And after a few seconds she sprinted away and jumped over the river like I did to escape the other creature. I looked back and there was a thick scent of smoke coming from the direction she looked from.
“Fire?” I thought in my head.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Fedrick’s first time staying in a hotel by himself was a nightmare. He was nineteen, on his way to college, and he stopped in the night at a hotel called “The Maldron Hotel’’.
When he barely went to the counter, a man at the desk looked tired and sweating, barely speaking as he passed him the key. “Third floor, room 352’’. He followed the row of the door, noting the number climbing steadily. “ 347, 348 ,349’’. Then he froze when he saw the next door after room 351 was stripped of it’s number, silent and blank. The door numbers had been scratched off. He hesitated, but his key still worked. The dorr was unlocked with a groan. When he went inside the room, the room was cold. Not air conditioned cold. Wrong cold. The room smelled stale, it’s pale walls blotched with age. The television was dead, and a spiderweb crack ran across the bathroom mirror. On the nightstand, faint stratches formed a simple message. It says “Don’t look in the closet.’’ Fredick laughed nervously. Probably someone was messing around. Still, he left the closet door shut.In the midnight, strange things happened. He kept waking up. 3:04 AM. Without missing a beat. The first time, the lamp flickered to life on it’s own, casting long shadows despite him memory of switching it off. And the second time, the steady drip of water echoed from the bathroom, the faucet left running without explanation. Also the last time, a faint scratching noise came from the closet soft, deliberate, and just beyond the door. A low scraping, like fingernails on wood. He started at the door. It hadn’t moved, but he could feel something behind it. Breathing and watching.Without looking back, he fled down the hallway, still in his pajamas. At the front desk, the new clerk looked suprised when he handed the key. “Room 352?’’ he said. “ We don’t put people in that room’’.
Fredick started. “ But I was in it. You gave me the key.’’ The clerk checked the book, frowning. “No , look. Room 352 ’s been closed for over 3 years. Ever since that girl went missing’’ he said. “ What girl?” Fredick asked. He looked uneasy. “She checked in. Never checked out. When the maid went to clean the room, they found her clothes… her phone… and the closet door open. He handed him a receipt. As he turned to leave, he added, “ By the way, what happen to your neck?”
Fedrick touched his neck quickly. It felt sore. Like something had pressed hard against it. He rushed to the hotel bathroom and looked into the mirror above the sink.
There were three long, red scratches across his neck.
His hands shook. He didn’t remember anything touching him. He had only heard the sounds… from the closet.
He splashed cold water on his face and tried to breathe slowly. Maybe it was from his collar, or maybe he scratched himself in his sleep? That made sense, right?
But deep inside, he knew the truth.
He left the hotel without saying another word. Outside, the morning sun was bright, but Fedrick still felt cold. Not from the air—but from something else. Something still near him. Watching him.
He got on the next bus to college, trying to forget the whole thing. But the ride was quiet, and his mind kept returning to the room. Room 352. The closet. The sound. The girl who never checked out.
That night, at his new dorm room, he told his roommate, Jack, about it. Jack laughed at first. “Sounds like you had a nightmare, man.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Fedrick said. “It was real.”
Then Jack looked at the scratches. “Okay, that’s weird.”
They dropped the subject, but Fedrick couldn’t sleep that night. At exactly 3:04 AM, he woke up again.
His dorm lamp was on, even though he remembered turning it off.
Then—drip… drip… drip…—water began to fall from the bathroom sink. He hadn’t used it.
Fedrick sat up in bed, heart racing. His roommate was snoring quietly, unaware of anything strange.
Fedrick got up and turned off the tap. As he came back to bed, he saw it.
On the closet door in their dorm room, a message was written in faint letters, just like the one in the hotel.
It said:
“Don’t look in the closet.”
Fedrick froze.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…”
He backed away slowly. The closet door was closed, but now he was sure. Something had followed him. From that room. From that closet. He didn’t open the door.Instead, he left the dorm and sat outside all night on a cold bench. He watched the sunrise, tired and scared.Later that day, he went to the school library and searched the internet for “The Maldron Hotel Room 352.” He didn’t expect to find anything.
But there was an old news article.
“Local girl missing at Maldron Hotel.”
It showed a picture of the girl. She was young, maybe twenty, smiling in the photo. The article said she was last seen in Room 352. No signs of her were ever found—except her clothes, her phone, and scratch marks on the inside of the closet.
Fedrick stared at the screen. His hand went up to his neck again. Later, Jack found him still in the library, pale and silent.
“Dude, you okay?”
Fedrick looked at him.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think it’s over.
He froze. His hand went up. And he felt it three long, ice-cold scratches. That night, as he tried to sleep in his dorm room, his phone buzzed.
“ UKNOWN NUMBER, ONE MESSAGE. 2:13 AM.” The message says, “ Don’t look in the closet.’’
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Amin stood at the dusty, run-down bus station, his school bag slung over one shoulder and his heart weighed down by guilt. The bus to Kuala Lumpur was late, as usual. Around him, people rushed to get somewhere, but all he wanted was to go back in time to this morning, before he had shouted at his grandmother.
It was the first day of the mid-year school holidays, and Amin had been excited to visit his cousins in the city. He had imagined days filled with shopping malls, cinemas, and fast food, a break from the quiet kampung life. But just as he was about to leave, Tok had come out of the kitchen holding a lunchbox wrapped in her favourite floral batik cloth, the same one she always used when he travelled. A tradition she upheld from when he was just a child.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Tok! I don’t need nasi lemak every time I travel. Just let me go!”
Her face had fallen. The sparkle in her eyes dimmed. She looked down at the carefully packed lunchbox and said nothing. Her head rose back, and she turned and went back into the kitchen. That silence followed him now, heavier than his bag, and more painful than any scolding.
The bus finally arrived with a screech and a cloud of exhaust. Amin boarded, found a window seat, and placed the lunchbox beside him. He didn’t even want to look at it. His excitement about going to the city had vanished. All that was left was regret.
The journey stretched on with the endless blur of palm trees, wooden houses, and sleepy towns. Amin tried to distract himself with games on his phone, but the guilt sat stubbornly in his chest. The memory of Tok’s disappointed face wouldn’t leave him alone.
After about an hour, his stomach started to grumble. With a sigh, he reached for the lunchbox and slowly unwrapped it. The familiar scent immediately filled the air, fragrant coconut rice, spicy sambal, crispy anchovies, and a perfectly boiled egg. The banana leaf was slightly warm and soft, as if it had been packed with love.
Tucked between the rice and the cucumbers was a small, folded note. Amin opened it and read the words written in Tok’s neat but shaky handwriting:
“Eat well. Stay safe. I know you’re growing up, but you’ll always be my Amin. Love, Tok.”
He stared at the note, the words blurring as his eyes filled with tears. He hadn’t even said goodbye properly. He had just left angry, impatient, and careless. The thought of Tok sitting alone on the wooden steps of their kampung house as he walked away made his chest ache even more.
He closed the lunchbox gently and didn’t touch the food. He wasn’t ready to eat it yet. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, not after what he had done. It didn’t feel right.
When he arrived at his aunt’s apartment in Kuala Lumpur, the noise and energy of the city hit him immediately. His cousins were excited to see him. They hugged him, joked with him, and pulled him into their fast-paced lives.
The house was full of sounds: the TV blaring, phones ringing, everyone talking at once. At first, it was fun. But as the hours passed, Amin felt a strange emptiness inside. It was as if he were in the middle of a crowd, yet still alone.
Dinner was served: ayam masak merah, vegetables, and rice. It was delicious, but not the same. The flavours were stronger, the sambal was different, and everything felt a little too rushed. He missed the way Tok cooked, slowly, carefully, as if each meal was special.
Later that night, while his cousins were watching a movie, Amin stepped out onto the small balcony. The cool night air touched his face, and the city lights sparkled in the distance. He took out his phone and stared at Tok’s contact name.
He tapped “Call.”
It rang. Once. Twice. Then -
“Amin?” Her voice was soft, calm, and familiar.
His throat tightened. “Tok… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted. I didn’t mean it.”
There was a short pause, then a warm laugh.
“I knew you’d call. I kept another banana leaf ready just in case you forgot to eat the one I gave you.”
He smiled through watery eyes.
“I haven't eaten it yet,” he admitted. “It didn’t feel right without you.”
The next morning, Amin told his aunt he wanted to go home early. She looked surprised but didn’t stop him. She asked if he was alright, and he just nodded and said, “I just miss Tok.”
She understood. He then packed his things and took the next bus heading home.
The ride back felt peaceful. The further the city slipped away behind him, the lighter his chest felt. The buildings grew smaller, and the green fields opened up in every direction. He saw cows grazing, trees swaying gently, and birds flying across the wide blue sky. It all looked familiar and comforting.
The ride felt fast, like time was rushing him to get back. When the bus finally reached his hometown, the sun was beginning to set. The kampung air was warm but calm, filled with the scent of grass and firewood. As he stepped off the bus, he saw Tok in the garden, feeding her chickens just like she always did.
She looked up and saw him. She didn’t look surprised, like she knew what would happen, only full of quiet love.
Amin ran toward her, his school bag bouncing behind him the faster he ran towards her.
“I missed you,” he said, throwing his arms around her, tightly embracing her.
Tok held him close and patted his back. “I know.”
That night, they sat on the veranda, just the two of them. The stars lit up the sky, and the sound of crickets filled the silence. On a small rattan table between them sat two plates of nasi lemak. Tok had made a fresh batch, and this time, Amin didn’t hesitate.
He took a bite and smiled.
It tasted like home.
They talked a little, but not much. Most of the time, they just sat there, enjoying the night, the food, and each other’s company.
“Like the old times,” he thought.
Amin looked at Tok’s face in the dim light. There were more wrinkles now, and her hands looked thinner than before. But her eyes still had that same gentle glow, full of care and kindness. The kind that she would use with him.
It wasn’t just about the food. It was everything behind it, the small things Tok always did that showed how much she loved him. The way she used banana leaves instead of plastic because “it lets the rice breathe.” The way she remembered he didn’t like too many peanuts, or how his sambal should be “just a little spicy.”
Each detail was filled with love. Each meal was a message: You matter. I care.
As he took another bite of nasi lemak, Amin felt something shift inside him. He had spent so much time trying to grow up quickly, chasing city life, independence, and new adventures when the real meaning was right in front of him. The taste of home.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
No one could remember when the lantern first arrived in the town. Some swore a weary traveler abandoned it, muttering that its glow kept him awake at night. Others said it was hammered under a comet’s tail, an artifact of atonement rather than craft. Truth, like all solitary facts in the marketplace, had been tucked between gossip, old debts, and the scent of fried jackfruit. To most people, the only detail that mattered was this: whenever the Lantern of Counting Light stood on the stall in the square, truths slipped free of shadows — at a price.
The lantern’s frame resembled a ribcage of brass, its panes forever smudged, as though fogged by breath from another world. When lit, the flame wrote its own script across the glass, tallying the deepest truth a person longed to know or feared to face. But the flame did not offer revelation for free. To gain truth was to surrender memory — a lullaby, a name, a first love, a warning once hard-earned. The lamp was no oracle of mercy. It balanced ledgers in fire.
Maya had never meant to inherit it. She was a tinsmith by habit, her life modest, her hands calloused by mending leaking pots and cracked teapots. But when Rahim, the lantern’s longtime custodian, found his hands trembling like loose coins, he pressed the brass cage into hers.
“Keep the light honest,” he rasped. “The town will test it.”
And test it they did.
Within days, Noor appeared at Maya’s stall. A mother hollowed by grief, Noor’s son had drowned in the river five years earlier. Officials had called it an accident, a slip on the riverbank, an unlucky current. The town’s records were tidy, compensation quietly dispensed. But grief had sharpened Noor until her presence was a knife against silence.
“Let the lantern tell me,” she whispered. “Accident or not.”
The flame flared blue, letters etching themselves across fogged glass. The words burned stark: He was pushed. The rope was cut on purpose.
Gasps rippled through the market. A handful of townsfolk shifted uneasily, those who had once handled flood relief funds paling visibly. Noor’s mouth trembled, though she made no sound. And then, as the lantern’s law demanded, her memory unraveled in payment. She lost the sound of her husband’s voice, the melody of a lullaby, the exact tilt of her boy’s smile on a rain-streaked morning. Grief remained, but it became faceless, detached, almost cruelly anonymous.
The revelation tore through the town. Old suspicions bloomed, accusations flared, and one alderman — once in charge of flood safety — denied everything. “The lantern is trickery,” he spat. “It trades stories for nonsense!” Yet his eyes betrayed him: he could no longer meet Noor’s gaze.
After that day, the stall was never empty. People queued to barter with the lantern: lovers uncertain of each other’s fidelity, merchants accusing rivals of theft, children desperate to know if parents truly loved them. The flame wrote relentlessly, feeding on secrets. Sometimes it healed. More often, it fractured. Neighbors shouted in alleyways; two brothers came to blows outside the fish-dryers. Families fractured over lines of light carved by flame.
Maya kept a ledger in a leather folio, inscribing each bargain: the truth revealed, the memory taken. The folio grew heavy, though its pages remained few. Each entry smelled faintly of incense and ash, as if conscience itself had left residue.
And yet, not all revelations destroyed. A baker learned his apprentice had not stolen flour but had given it to hungry orphans; he embraced the boy and doubled his wage. A blind old woman traded the memory of her youth for knowledge that her daughter had not abandoned her, but had died saving villagers in a storm. She wept, relieved. The lantern could carve mercy as well as pain — but never gently.
As weeks turned, pressure mounted. The alderman whose guilt the lantern had hinted at began rallying others, claiming the flame was chaos disguised as wisdom. “Do you want every secret gutted?” he thundered in the square. “Families ruined, reputations destroyed?” Some nodded. Others argued that only through the lantern’s glow could justice breathe. The town split into camps: those who craved truth at any cost, and those who feared the cost itself.
Maya, caught between, grew weary. She had thought herself custodian, not judge. Yet each night she lay awake with the flame’s afterimage imprinted on her eyes, words she wished she had never read pulsing like embers.
One evening, Noor returned. Her voice was strangely calm.
“I want to forget,” she said.
Maya frowned. “The lantern does not restore what it takes.”
“Then let it take the rest,” Noor replied. “If truth has made me hollow, let it make me clean.”
The flame obeyed, swallowing what fragments of her son remained: the feel of his hand, the sound of his laughter, the grief that had anchored her. Noor left lighter, a ghost of herself. Maya’s stomach twisted. Perhaps some truths were not meant for light.
The following dawn, the square erupted. A young man had demanded the lantern reveal who betrayed his family during the famine years. The truth emerged: it was his own uncle, a merchant respected by all. Rage turned to violence; stalls toppled, knives flashed. By nightfall, the town was bruised, split wide.
Maya realized then: the lamp was fire in a dry house. Truth was not neutral; it was an accelerant. If she left the flame unchecked, the town would consume itself. Yet extinguishing it would mean burying voices like Noor’s forever.
She carried the lantern to the river. The flame burned steadily, untroubled by wind. She crouched by the reeds and whispered each name from her folio, each memory surrendered, each truth revealed. The river took the words and murmured them into current.
Maya hesitated. Should she cast it in, let the waters drown its fire? Or keep it, privately, as Rahim once had, available for those who truly needed it?
She pressed the brass to her chest. It felt warm, almost alive. And then she understood: the lantern was neither blessing nor curse. It was mirror, scalpel, blade. Its danger lay not in its existence, but in how publicly it had been wielded.
So she did not drown it. Instead, she buried it beneath reeds, where only she could find it. From then on, the lantern’s glow no longer blazed in the square. But in whispered nights, villagers came quietly, bartering not for spectacle, but for private reckoning. Some left lighter, some lonelier — but all left changed.
The market steadied, scars visible but healing. The alderman resigned in disgrace, retreating into bitter prayer. Noor reopened a stall weaving baskets, strangely gentle with children she had once shunned. Rumors of the lantern persisted, but without spectacle, curiosity softened into myth.
Years later, children playing by the reeds claimed to see faint gleams under water. They told stories of a lantern that counted not coins but hearts, of a keeper who decided when the world was ready to face its own reflection. Sometimes, they said, if you listened closely, you could hear a lullaby rising faintly from the river — a memory the flame had once consumed, still humming in the dark.
Maya, older and silver-haired, kept her folio in a drawer. At times she opened it, fingers resting on names, remembering the weight of choices. She had not destroyed the lantern. She had chosen something harder: to live with it, to decide when revelation should rise and when silence should shield.
The lantern’s flame still dreamed beneath the reeds, counting patiently. The town carried on — mending, quarrelling, forgiving — but always with the faint sense that truth, like fire, could return at any moment.
And perhaps that was justice enough: not a roaring blaze that consumed all, but a hidden light reminding them that nothing — not guilt, not love, not loss — could stay buried forever.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The walls of Veritas Academy of Integration were painted cream, but to Ace, they felt grey. Every corridor was spotless, identical, unnaturally still—where footsteps echoed louder than voices and silence wasn’t peace, but pressure. Here, silence was the rule. Obedience earned rewards. Emotion was something to erase.
Three months in, Ace had already learned how to fold himself into the system. He wore politeness like armor. He kept his head down. His classmates monitored each other like unpaid security cameras, whispering reports to the prefects. Teachers spoke with smiles that didn’t reach their eyes, never repeating a question, never lingering long enough to notice who was struggling. His parents only called when report cards came in, their voices polite but distant, as if affection was conditional on achievement. He existed quietly, and alone.
Until the night he flipped over the mattress on Bed 7, the one no one used—and found a journal wedged beneath the frame. The cover was cracked, its pages yellowed and fragile. A name had once been written on the first page, but it had been scratched out so violently that the paper tore.
He didn’t care who had owned it. He just needed a place where he could speak without being punished for it. So he wrote.
“I hate it here.”
Just three words, scrawled quickly, then the book was shut and locked in his drawer. He hadn’t expected anything.
But the next night, the journal was open on his desk. Below his words, new ink had bled into the page—sharper, slanted, unfamiliar. Ink he didn’t own.
“I remember the silence.”
His chest tightened. No one else had touched it. The drawer had been locked. The handwriting wasn’t his. His fingers trembled as he flipped through the pages. Nothing else. But something had answered.
He wrote again.
“Who are you?”
No reply came until after lights-out. When he checked the journal the next morning, the response was waiting.
“Someone who didn’t make it out.”
That day, something shifted. The air in his dorm felt colder. The lights above his bed flickered briefly and then stayed steady. That night, he woke up gasping, a weight on his chest that wasn’t quite physical. The window slammed itself shut despite the stillness outside, and yet none of the other boys stirred.
Over breakfast, Ace asked his roommate, Faris, about the student who used to sleep in Bed 7.
Faris’s face went pale. “No one,” he said, too quickly.
“But I found—”
“I said don’t,” Faris snapped, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.”
When Ace returned to his room that evening, the journal was waiting again, open and undeniable. The new message was clear:
“They said I ran away. I didn’t. I broke.”
From that night onward, the pages filled faster. The ink seemed to soak into the paper like it belonged there, like it had always been there. The voice in the journal was steady, aching, angry. The writer—Adrian, though Ace didn’t yet know the name—described the slow erosion of hope. The exhaustion of being perfect. The quiet punishment for being human.
I screamed until my throat bled, one entry read. They called it drama. I just wanted someone to listen.
Ace felt those words like they were his own. He replied.
“You feel it too, don’t you? That ache behind your ribs, like you’re fading.”
And in black ink, beneath it: “Yes. I feel it every day.”
The silence no longer felt neutral. It breathed. It hovered in corners and crept into his thoughts. The shadows near his bed twitched when he blinked. He jumped at whispers that weren’t there. Once, in the bathroom mirror, his reflection blinked a moment too late.
He told himself it was stress. Sleep deprivation. But deep down, he didn’t believe that anymore.
That Sunday, when the librarian stepped out for lunch, Ace slipped into the archive room. Most records were digital now, scrubbed and clean. But the old yearbooks remained—dusty, locked behind a cabinet. In the 2017 edition, he found a class photo. One student stood off to the side, half-turned, half-shadowed. His face was smudged, almost erased. The nameplate beneath had been scratched out.
Back in his dorm, Ace whispered into the dark: “Is that you?”
The journal had already answered.
“Adrian. My name was Adrian. But they erased it. You know what that means, don’t you, Ace? It means you could be next.”
From then on, Adrian’s presence thickened. Ace barely slept. He flinched at every creak of the walls, every twitch of the light. His grades dipped. His eyes grew hollow. One day, when a prefect accused him of “attitude,” he snapped—and got a warning slip.
“You look exhausted,” his teacher said later, with a patronizing smile. “Sort yourself out. This school has no room for dramatics.”
Dramatics.
That was the word they’d used for Adrian, too.
That night, a new message waited for him in the journal.
“Promise me you’ll speak. Speak loud enough for both of us. They buried me under polished speeches and silence. Don’t let them do it again.”
Ace didn’t reply. He stared at the ink long into the night. Then he looked around the dorm, at the rows of beds, at the boys who all seemed fine—except when they thought no one was watching. Who else was close to breaking? Who was just better at hiding it?
The next morning, he couldn’t stay silent.
In the middle of the dining hall, surrounded by clinking trays and quiet conversations, Ace stood up. His hands shook, but his voice was clear.
“Adrian Lim. Class of 2017.”
Forks dropped. Heads turned. The room froze.
“You erased him,” he said, lifting the journal. “You let him fall apart, and then you pretended he was never here. You called it discipline. I call it cruelty.”
Prefects rose from their tables. Teachers stared. But Ace didn’t stop.
“He asked for help. You silenced him. You nearly did the same to me.”
He placed the journal on the floor. Its pages flared open under the cafeteria lights. The final message shimmered:
“Thank you for remembering me.”
They pulled him from the room. He didn’t resist. The suspension letter arrived later that evening. Emotional misconduct, it said. His parents were called. The headmaster’s voice, as always, was smooth.
“We’re handling it internally.”
But something had changed.
Whispers bloomed in the halls. A name began to resurface. Students lingered outside the old counseling room. Someone left white flowers on the floor. Someone else etched a small A behind a library shelf. A paper note was found beneath a locker door. Just one sentence:
He wasn’t invisible. We remember.
No one admitted it out loud.
No one had to.
When Ace returned to his dorm a week later, the journal was gone. The drawer where he kept it was empty. He checked under the mattress, behind the floorboards, even in the walls.
It had disappeared. It was as if the ghost had finally let go.
That night, he lay in bed beneath the same cream-grey walls, beneath the same silence, but now, it no longer felt empty. It carried something. A memory. A presence. A promise.
He turned over, eyes drifting toward the underside of his bunk.
There, faint but unmistakable, in black ink:
Live loud enough for both of us.
– A.
Ace smiled.
And for the first time in a very long time, he slept through the night.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
I study the black old camera my grandmother gave me, turning it over in my hands. I wonder if my sweet old granny is searching for me, but as the thought becomes increasingly unbearable, my eyes sting with tears, I shove it away.
Today’s going to be a good day, I think. Because every day here has been brighter than home.
Then a fancy woman walks by, and I cry out; “Hello, Miss! Do you want me to take your picture?” She shakes her head and hurries off. Maybe she thinks I’m one crazy boy. Shoulders slumped, I sit back down on my favorite bench near the fountain. I don’t know why I feel this sudden ache, but when a joyous married couple approaches, I realize it’s actually loneliness.
“Excuse me, dear boy. Do you mind-”
I nod before she finishes. Is that rude? Dad would slap me if I’m rude. But the couple seems pleased, so perhaps it’s fine. They pose by the fountain, smiling, perfect, the water sparkling behind them like the rings on their fingers, and I take a shot.
Click! The polaroid slides out. I ask if they want me to write something on it.
“Edward and Cynthia,” says the man. “And your name, champ.”
Champ. Do all fathers call their son that way?
I chase away the bitter thought and cling to the joy of someone asking my name. Nobody has asked me that in years. I write it down carefully, and when I hand the picture back, they kiss my forehead and leave with smiles as bright as mine.
See? It’s a good day.
* * *
“Dad, let’s take a picture here! It’s beautiful.”
“No. I hate photos. And I don’t have my phone.”
“Please…”
“Pardon me, I can help,” I say, stepping forward. The boy beams. The grumpy man sighs but agrees.
Such a good father, I think. At least he didn’t hit him-
Click! I ignore the noise inside my head and snap the photo.
The father approaches me. “Thank you, that’s a great help. What’s your name, lad? Aren’t your parents around?”
I ignore the last question, savoring the second time today somebody asked my name. I write it down alongside theirs, Richard and Ryan Something.
The boy runs off with the photo, giddy. And when I see the faint smile tugging at Mr. Richard’s lips as they walk together, I think;
It’s a double good day!
* * *
“Oh my gosh! Look at this cute little thing, Nath!” A radiant college girl squeals, squishing my cheeks. Her calm friend sighs.
“Please stop that, Erna, you’re hurting the boy.”
“Oops! Sorry, sweetie.”
I smile shyly at the beautiful girls. “May I take your picture?”
Nathalie blinks in surprise. “That’s very kind of you, honey.”
People sure call me lots of things. It’s nice.
“Wait! I want him in the picture too!” Erna exclaims.
What? Me? My heart races. I’ve only been in a photo once.
“He’s not a mascot, Erna,” Nathalie scolds. But then, seeing our faces fall, she softens. “Unless… the boy agrees?”
“C-can I?” The words slip out before I know it.
“Okay then.”
“Oh Nath, you’re my soulmate!” Erna beams. My heart warms at their exchange. I want a friend too! After the photo, Erna hugs me. Nathalie pats my head gently before they wave goodbye with a cheerful “See you again!” and I know:
This is the best day of my life!
* * *
“Are you alone, little one?” Questioned a young man. I nodded.
“Well then, shall we take pictures together? That way you’re not alone. At least in the photos. And they stay eternal, you know?”
“Hmm… Okay.”
* * *
I spot Edward again at the park. He’s alone now, no Cynthia, just sorrow.
“Did something happen, Mister?”
His stiffens, then softens when he sees me. “Ah… you. And you still remember me.”
I tilt my head.
“You’re in my camera. Photos never forget,” I say innocently. He almost smiles, but it fades. “We got a divorce. She left.”
“Oh…” A sudden sadness claw at me.
“D-do you… still have the picture?”
“I… burned it.”
I swear he sees the frustration on my face. “Don’t you love it? That moment?” I ask him. He stares at me with a gaze that means I do, so much it hurts, and I flick through the hundreds of shots in my camera, find his, and hand it to him. When he refuses, I plead;
“Please keep it, Mister. Because in here, you’re both together. Forever in love. Isn’t that all you ever wanted?”
* * *
I see Mr. Richard again, this time pushed in a wheelchair. When I call out to him, he asks back, “Who are you?”
Ah… Did he… forget?
“I took a picture of you and your son once,” I remind him. He stares.
“What? I… I don’t have a son.”
That makes me sad. Real sad I think I might wail. I stare into his pusher’s gaze, desperate to find answer, and the lady averts her glassy eyes. I recognize her uniform. The Care Home. I pull out the photo of him and Ryan and hold it out to him. When he looks at me questioningly, I reply;
“He might not be with you, and you might have forgotten, but the photograph remembers the both of you together.”
* * *
Erna wanders at the park alone, and I know that her Nathalie is gone.
Did they break their friendship? Did Nath leave her? Betray her?
Erna comes to a halt when her gaze lands on me, haunted eyes widening. I tug her sleeve, and she forces a smile.
“Hello there. We meet again. Need anything?”
“Do you still keep the photo with you?”
Her dark, gloomy eyes shine, and when I realize it’s tears, I hug her leg and she freezes.
“H-hey… What’s wrong?”
She’s acting strong.
“The photo. I want to know.”
“I lost it.”
I think she means misplaced, but she goes on.
“The memory in the photo, it was buried with her.” Her voice cracks, and my heart sinks. I curse myself for assuming they broke their friendship, because how could they? I remember seeing their handwriting under the polaroid: Until death do us part.
Not knowing what else to do, I can only whisper in attempt of easing her agony;
“I bet you still have the photograph, and in there, the memory is never gone. It’s alive. She’s alive. Forever with you.”
* * *
The ‘young man’ who is not quite young now sits on his chair reading a newspaper. On the radio placed on top of a coffee table, Ed Sheeran sings:
We keep this love in a photograph…
He turns the page then freezes.
We made this memory for ourselves…
A precious boy he recognizes stares back at him. Beside him the headline reads;
BOY FROZE TO DEATH
The following shows;
Ten years old Andra Harrison was found dead on a bench at a community park. Forensic suggested the cause to be mild hypothermia due to the winter. Andra’s grandmother stated that he had not came home for days after his father’s crashout-
The man could no longer read with tears blurring his vision. The song plays on, whispering;
Where our eyes are never closing, hearts are never broken, time’s forever frozen still…
And his sobs break the silence.
* * *
The boy studies the black old camera his grandmother gave him. He knows he’s dead, and that the people in his photos will forget him.
Bhe’s still there.
In photographs, the scrawled signature of his name beneath frames. Happy, alive, eternal. Like love. Like memories Like the dead.
All remains.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
I. THE INTRODUCTION
Let’s just say life didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for me. Right after I was born, my mother passed away in what people called a “tragic” accident, as if the word could ever make it easier. My father, the human embodiment of a thundercloud, didn’t last much longer. Losing her broke him. He started throwing things like vases, cups, insults—mostly at walls, sometimes at people. He’d curse at strangers just for walking too slow. Life annoyed him. Eventually, he stopped fighting it and let himself fade away.
That left me with my only remaining family, Uncle Sora. He was barely an adult himself and rarely around enough to pretend otherwise. He’d vanish the second I got home and return like a raccoon rummaging through the fridge at 3 a.m. So, I grew up early. Learned how not to feel much. It wasn’t a superpower, just survival. By thirteen, things got worse. Our apartment? Think of a closet, but sadder. It smells like wet socks, expired milk, and whatever Uncle drinks to forget. Studying in that mess is like trying to do algebra in a swamp. Nobody could focus in that.
Now I’m three months into Sriwanusorn Academy. It’s school. People stare at the name sewn on my shirt— “Akkarin Sirirak.” Sounds bold, right? “Akkarin,” the so-called winner. Hilarious. The only thing I win is how many times I’ve been caught snacking in class or drooling on my notebook mid-lecture. I see their faces when they read my name—expecting someone who walks with confidence, maybe a trophy or two hanging off his backpack. Then they see me: hair like it lost a fight, eyes like I haven’t slept since birth.
I get it. I’m not what they imagined. But hey, nobody warned me that life comes with a script. So, I improvise. Badly, but with style.
II. TEENAGE NIGHTMARE
I never had friends when I was little, so the idea of having them in high school felt about as realistic as owning a pet dragon. Sure, it sounds cool—but let’s be honest, not happening.
My teenage dream was basically a greatest-hits album of every high school movie ever made: top grades, instant popularity, a killer sense of humor (that people actually laughed at), and maybe—just maybe—a girlfriend who didn’t live exclusively in my imagination. That was the fantasy. And I really thought I was on my way. My mom, being the wise woman she was, once told me to write down my goals every day. So I did. Religiously. One goal a day after school, like a motivational calendar that never actually motivated anything. What she didn’t mention was the part where you actually have to act. Like... do stuff. I somehow missed that footnote.
Then came my first semester results. Let me set the scene: dramatic silence, expectations sky-high. And then—boom. Reality check. Horrible. Terrifying. TORRIBLE. (Yes, I invented a word. That's how bad it was.) I dropped to my knees like some tragic anime protagonist, clutching the report card like it was my death certificate. I stared at it in disbelief, half-expecting the numbers to rearrange themselves out of pity. Spoiler: they didn’t.
I genuinely thought I did well. I showed up to class! I… sometimes paid attention! I even borrowed a pen once, which felt studious. But apparently, effort isn’t measured by vibes. Who knew?
Turns out, writing “Get good grades” on a piece of paper doesn’t actually get you good grades. Absolutely shocking. But hey, at least now I can say I’ve mastered the art of academic disappointment with flair.
III. CATS AND DISAPPOINTMENT
One thing my father passed down to me wasn’t his jet-black hair, his slightly tanned skin, or even his straight nose. No—he gave me something far more intense: a deep, burning hatred for cats. From as early as I can remember, he made it his personal mission to educate me about the “menace” of felines. “They’re rude, always knocking things off shelves for no reason,” he’d grumble, like he’d been personally betrayed by one. I didn’t really question it. I just accepted it like it was part of the family legacy.
One day after school, I was exhausted. Like, the type of tired where you forget your own name. Uncle Sora was "busy", so I had to drag my half-dead body home on foot. I shuffled along the pavement like a zombie with homework, my backpack weighing me down like guilt on a Sunday night. That’s when it happened. I felt something soft brush past my leg—sneaky, and way too alive. Before I could even think, I instinctively stepped down... on it.
What followed was not just a hiss. It was a screech so dramatic, I swear I heard it echo in another dimension. The cat launched itself backward like I’d stepped on its family tree. I stood there, face twisted in disgust. A cat. Brushed past. My leg. The betrayal. The horror.
But then—guilt. Like a surprise guest at a party I didn’t plan. The cat bolted, and suddenly I found myself chasing after it, calling out some weird apology I didn’t even understand. I lost it within seconds, because of course I did. I sighed dramatically, like I was in some indie film, and kept walking home.
When I finally reached the apartment, I was hit by something worse than guilt: the smell. Or worse—fermented. Uncle Sora was passed out on the couch, TV blaring, looking like a melted candle. The source of the stench? Our kitchen. I didn’t dare look. I just accepted it, like a true Sirirak—wounded, smelly, and just trying to make it to bedtime without another crisis.
Uncle Sora, in all his glory as the reigning champ of Careless and Clueless Guardians, had apparently decided to host a horror show in our kitchen—starring an open stove, expired food, and zero adult supervision. When I walked in, my jaw dropped so hard it might have cracked the Earth’s crust. The smell hit me like a freight train full of rotting gym socks and despair. I gagged so hard I felt like a pregnant woman in her ninth month, morning sickness level: boss battle. And there it was… the crime scene: a half-burnt sock (whose?!), fossilized instant ramen, and dino nuggets that looked like they’d seen war. I couldn’t even look directly at it. Then—because this day wasn’t dramatic enough—I smelled something burning.
Yup. The sock caught fire.
At first, it was a cute little spark. I almost applauded. But then it exploded into a rage-fueled inferno like it had a personal vendetta against the stove—and the house. I bolted outside, heart pounding like a cartoon character, only to remember that Uncle Sora, the human sloth, was still passed out on the couch like life was a vacation.
I sprinted back in, shook him like a maraca, and yelled until he came to life. Dragging him out felt less like saving someone and more like parenting a teenage raccoon. We plopped down on the pavement, clutching my phone with post-apocalyptic urgency as I called the fire department. Uncle Sora just sat there, looking completely unbothered, like we hadn’t almost become barbecue. I stared at him, then at our slowly toasting apartment, then back at him—and had to resist the deep temptation to slap the “meh” off his face.
As the flames danced in the windows and the sirens wailed in the distance, I just sighed. Maybe this was a nightmare. Or maybe this was just life with Uncle Sora.
IV. THE DOWNFALL AFTER A LIFE OF DOWNFALLS
After life gave me the biggest punch in the gut—an apartment that turned into barbecue, an uncle who couldn’t care less, and a slow development in personality, I now feel like giving up.
“But wait, Karin, it’s still too early to give up!”
Hoho... Yeah no. This is where I’m serious about being angry. So utterly angry, I felt like burning everything and maybe—everyone to smores. Expectedly, my uncle was sent to jail after I reported to the police about his ignorance, and now I live alone. Soon, Monday came close and that Sunday night, I knew I had to make a change. For myself.
I focused on completing homework that I understood, and the rest to... Embarrassingly ask the teacher. I felt a growing doubt, what if I will get is just shame, shame and shame? I shook the thoughts away and put away my homework and closed my night light. (Yes, the police let me stay in a rented apartment).
As the morning rose, I got myself ready for school—physically, mentally and spiritually. How would my life be, if I had felt this spirit—every single day? I smiled softly to the ground with newfound hope and I.. felt good.
As I walked to school, full of energy and my newfound spirit that felt like a new item so valuable that I had obtained—I came across the same cat I stepped on in the past. I crouched down and started speaking in baby.
Maybe, life isn’t so bad after all.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The world is a big place,
If I found you once,
I can find you again.
“This is how you do it,” the young girl hung the bait on the fishing rod. “You put in the food”, she threw the rod into the river, “You wait…” (she was shaking the fishing rod impatiently, making the teenage boy beside her chuckle) “And wait…”
So they waited as the pigeons flew by, as eagles dove into the river and flew back up with dead fishes. But no fish visited the girl’s bait. He was waiting with her too, had his left hand wrapped around her gently, her head laying on his shoulders. He reminded himself that she had no one, no family but only him to lean upon, while she told herself that it didn’t matter if she could catch no fishes, because she had a “superman” beside her — all would be well.
After an hour, she was just about to give up. As she stood up, the young boy shook his head, asked for her rod, and threw it further. It did not take long for him to feel a force pulling the bait down, and as he rolled the rod up…there it was — dinner.
She squealed, “I’ll get the fire ready!” The weather was calm and not rainy. In the warmth and with her belly fully, she felt drowsy, and wanted to sleep under the starry sky, shining like diamonds.
“Kai, will you ever leave me?” The question took him by surprise. “I can’t fish as well as you, and what if I drown?” Oh, it was an attempt of hers to make him stay longer in the forest. “I can’t swim! I’ll need your help.”
“Then I’ll teach you,” Kai carried the girl, who responded by yelling as he tickled her. “I’ll make sure you can fish anything, do everything. And I’ll never let you drown, let alone let you swim without me in the water.”
“Because I love you, Pipes. And when you grow up and I’m not here anymore, you can find me. I’ll be in the city, just say my name and I’ll come to you.”
-
When Piper reached her 5th birthday, in which Kai taught her how to paddle and swim in the river without goggles, and how to read maps, Kai wished her a happy and fulfilling life. He had packed his bags, for he needed to head back to the city for “work”. When he looked at those pearly shaped eyes, he realised he loved her as a sister.
He didn’t promise that he would come back, only that when she grew up and memorised the maps of the forest to the city, she could find him.
Kai was 13. It was only when Piper grew to that age and went to school, that she learnt the “work” Kai had referred to was the city’s army. Kai was away to fight for Kricklits and she was more than aware that 8 years had passed, and Kai was probably dead.
Just say my name and I’ll come to you.
She was in a classroom studying history, her teacher talking about Kricklits’ brave warriors’ sacrifices. “Kai,” she whispered, the truth too raw to be processed. “Kai.”
No one came to her.
She memorized more maps, and started a collection of protein bars, plus a fishing rod that she stuffed in her sack for her journey. She imagined her pinky on Kai’s, a person who had taken care of her and an idiot who chose war over her, and she silently swore, “I’ll go everywhere, not just anywhere. You better be there, dummy.”
Kai had warned her about wild animals lurking in the streets when the day reached night. So she shot an arrow, aiming for the apple on a dummy’s head. Perfect shot.
Behind the determineness of this young girl, a heart of will to search for this missing brother of hers, there are fountains merging circles in her eyes. She forced them to stay inside, because brave girls don’t cry. Crying won’t get the things you want.
Because she cried for a long time, but she didn’t get Kai back.
-
A philosophy teacher once asked the classroom, “Do you believe in the power of love?” Half the class had raised their hands, most of the answers being yes. Their arguments would be about parental love and its sacrifices beyond price tags. Kai had once said something like that to her too. Maybe when she was 3 years old she would care. But these sentences of “love” did not matter anymore, because Kai wasn’t here anymore.
In that essay, Piper had answered no. Because love was just an existing knowledge, but it could not change reality. If a person were to die from pneumonia, love could not cure that person’s destined death. She had received the highest grade, but the teacher suggested for her to change her viewpoints.
Love can be a driving force too. A pressure to the pedal that speeds you forward.
Piper desperately needed to believe that now. So she did. Regardless of the weight on her back, she knocked on every single army agency’s doorsteps. “Do you know a soldier named Kai?” They would ask for his last name, because many Kais existed in this world. She shook her head — perhaps he never wanted her to find him.
Find me, he always said. But he never gave her the information needed. Memorise the maps. She did. That left her nowhere, did it?
Then at night she slept in the library, not before checking the published letters of soldiers dying in battle. Arguably, whenever she reached the section of K first names, she swept through it as fast as possible. The librarian asked what she was doing. “Checking,” she replied. No, it was lying, she was chasing the world but it was too big.
The librarian blew the oil torches off. Piper slept on the benches, knowing the same routine would repeat again tomorrow, and the only thing fueling her passion of finding the impossible is that maybe…maybe that routine would change.
Why not? Love was hope, the other students said. And hope, can make you do unimaginable things.
-
Piper’s schooling days weren’t the first that she had walked through the streets of the city. A long time ago, Kai brought Piper to the candy store in town.
Piper had taken an interest in chemical reactions. “This is a lemon drop,” Kai explained. “You can categorize it as an endothermic reaction. This reaction absorbs heat from its surroundings, causing a cooling effect. So when you suck the candy, it will fizz in the tongue. This fizz is carbon dioxide, and — ”Piper had snatched a paper bag and a ladle to scoop the sweets.“ — Piper, are you listening?”
“Endothermic, carbon dioxide, blah blah blah,” she replied, her eyes blinded by the various colours of sweets stacked against each other, and children treated it like they were normal. The only colour she has seen in the forest is silver, the scales of the fishes she caught. She stopped a worker, whom she recognized by the worker’s tag, “Miss, how much can we fill up the bag to?”
Piper was so joyful, giggling, not caring about a single judgement around her. Not caring if the world around her were in suits and ties while she was in rags. Kai told her, smiling widely but acting strict, “You do know I may not be able to pay for all these.”
“You’re my superman. You can do anything.”
“You’re my sidekick. Do you know what that means? It means you can do anything for me and you, as long as you believe.”
“So, Pipes, what do you think about filling a bag for me?”
-
Love made her ask the old bitter man by the bay for a boat. Lemon drops in her tongue told her she had to row harder, harder, and even harder, if she was going to chase the entire world for him.
Besides a fishing rod, there was also a paper bag of candies in her bag.
She would give it to him, in the condition he found him. And she would find him, in the condition that she believed Kai — her superman — existed in this big world.
She yelled, “Kai! I’m here!”
The lights at the lighthouse shone and blinked twice, then thrice. First, she thought it was morse code, but it meant nothing. She shrugged the disappointment off, not escaping the watchman’s attention. The water reflected fewer stars but a rounder moon.
“Girl, why are you sad?”
“I cannot find my brother.” My brother. Her brother. “I have lost him to the army.” She raised her voice louder, this was her brother, she did not travel from the forest, the entire city to the lake to be weak. “My brother’s name is Kai! He is 18 years old this year, and he is very brave!”
The watchman chuckled. “Young one, you left home months ago to find him, just like how he left to find you.”
Piper gasped, it could not be. All this time she was so far but he was so close.
Puddles splashed as she ran across the woods, to find a not-so-young teenage boy on a stool by the river, fishing. “Hi, Piper.” Kai said before leaping and hugging her so tight that it should have been suffocating, but it was so comforting.
She had been chasing the big world, not knowing that in this big world, love brought her back to their home.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
They told me I was too young to remember her, but I did. I remebered the way she smelled like strawberry and sun. I remembered her humming while brushing my hair. I remembered losing her like falling into a dream I never wanted to wake from. I spent my childhood wishing for one thing. Not a toy, not a wish on a candle; just her. I never imagined the wish would come true.
I sat on the cold surface of the worn out wooden benched. The paint peeled away like memories, slowly, in silent flakes as if time itself was trying to forget. The sun was soft that morning, just enough to kiss my skin. I stared at the envelope I in my hand, fingers grazing its rough edges. I took a deep breath, trying to surpress my emotions as I opened it. A single tear slid down my cheek. The air was thick and hard to breathe. Inside was a photo that sent a sting into my chest.
It was our first photo together. She looked ethereal, strawberry blonde hair falling to her shoulders; strands of it unkempt and covering her delicate face. Thousands of different emotions; grief, denial and an empty kind of joy flooded me. Death took her away before I even understood what it meant to lose someone.
As I longed for her, a gleaming caught my eye. Time wrippled. In a blink, I was in it. My gaze wondered around the unfamiliar surrounding, staring at people in old clothes. And then, I saw her. The same figure who held me close when I was terrified of the monsters. The same figure who read me fairy tales before bed. The same figure who once shared an unbreakable bond with me. My mother.
Tears welled up as I approached her soft figure slowly, afraid she‘d vanish. She was reading quitely outside a cafe, sunlight kissing her pale skin and hair. I gently sank on the chair across from her, unsure if this was real. Her presence wrapped around me like a lullaby.
“I love fairy tales. My favourite was Beauty and the Beast,” I said.
She smiled. “You do? I love reading fairy tales too. I’ve read hundreds, but this one stayed because it was my number one.”
We talked for hours, about how she wanted a love story like the ones in books, how she dramed of a small, warm family. She was not yet the figure who raised me alone; she was just a young woman with hope in her voice.
It had been weeks since time began folding in on itself, and our bond drew nearer like dawn to the waiting sky. At the amusement park where my mother and I once shared a cotton candy and carousel dreams, I waited again; this time not as her child, but beside the younger version of the woman who would one day become my mother.
My eyes lit up as she walked towards me with the same smile she wore when i brought home my first report card. The same smile she had during her last few seconds on earth. The same smile that struck me with bittersweet longing.
Suddenly, the air shifted. I locked eyes with a man; a poison in my life.
“Amara, meet my fiancé, Theodore” she said.
Fiancé.
“Hello, Amara. Nice to meet you,” he said, smilling as he extended his hand.
I shook it without a word.
We started with the carousel. It was the same one from before, chipped paint on the horses, gold poles slightly rusted, but still spinning like it had something to prove. She picked the white horse with yellow roses around its neck, the same one I used to beg for when I was little. I said nothing, just climbed onto the one beside her. The music started. Slow and sweet. I held onto the pole as we rose and fell in rythm. I let myself close my eyes, and for a few seconds, I was a little girl again. And she was still my mother, laughing beside me, not a woman who thought I was a stranger that shared the same interest as her.
We walked through the park, her laughter filled the air. She talked about how the rides felt magical. My chest ached. I excused myself to the restroom, trying to breathe. But when I came back, I froze.
Theodore was lashing out at her. A scene that felt too familiar to me. Her fragile figure flinched when Theodore raised his hands; his eyes filled with fume while hers wide with fear.
I stepped in between them, pulling her close. I locked eyes with the man I knew by heart. The man would become my ‘father’ in the future.
‘Don’t you dare lay your filthy hand on her,” I said.
He stared at me like I had struck a match inside him, then with a harsh sigh he walked away. We sat on a bench far from the rides, away from the world. I held her small figure carefully, afraid she’d break. She broke in my embrace, pieces falling one by one. She breathed in my arms like she used to feed the fire of my hope when I was a child.
“I’m sorry you had to go through this. You don’t deserve it,” I whispered.
The stabbing pain on my chest had found its way back; this time, stronger. I realized I had changed the past. I took my mother away from the monster that kept her in the darkness.
Time crawled by, digging its nails into my skin. My condition worsened, I could barely walk without feeling like fainting every second of the day. I checked the calendar, October 12th. The day where everything changed. The day she got into the accident that would left her with irreversable wounds, emotionally and physically.
I found myself infront of the library where I first met my mother. The usual blue sky was painted grey; as if it was warning me. Then, I heard her.
“Amara!”
She was crossing the street towards me, unaware of the speeding car headed towards her. She kept walking towards me, cancelling the loud voices that warned her.
Without hesitation, I rushed towards her. I pushed her figure out of the way and in the next breath, I was no longer on the ground. The brutal force launched my body to the air like I was a rag doll. Our moments played back in soft, aching loop; each one a quiet ache stitched with love. The fragments of my mother and I drifted through my mind like old film reels, flickering and fading.
Before I knew it, everything went black.
“Amara, wake up,” a voice echoed.
My eyes fluttered open like wings trying to remember how to fly. I had fallen asleep at school. My breath fell from me, thick with silence.
My body remebered what my mind tried to bury; I was back to where it all began. Our house. From where I stood; half hidden by the trees lining the quiet street, I could see her through the window. Laughing, her head tilted back, her smile soft and real in a way I barely remembered. She was cooking, humming to herself, and a tiny silhoutte wrapped around her, soft and urgent. A man walked in and kissed her on the cheek. Not him. Not the man who used to shout until the walls shook. This one smiled with his eyes.
I should’ve felt joy. Relief. Gratitude.
Instead, I felt like I was mourning her all over again.
She doesn’t know me. Not anymore. Not in this life. I’m just another face in the crowd now. A stranger standing in the shadows, watching a woman who once held me while I cried, who stayed in a broken home just so I wouldn’t have to grow up alone. She endured so much; the yelling, the bruises that weren’t always visible. She stayed because of me.
I wanted to run to her and scream “Mum, it’s me. I’m still here,” But that would break everything I gave my life to protect.
So I stayed.
And in that moment, as she reached out to tuck her son’s hair behind his ears; the same way she once did to me. I let myself pretend she was reaching for me.
Just once more.
It struck me then, we were never meant to cross paths. No, fate never had us in its plans. We were like the moon and the sun, perfect in contrast; destined to orbit the same world, but never at the same time. We completed each other from a distance, and that distance was always our fate.
“I died so you could live. Even if it meant you’d forget me. I just hope that in another life, I would be your daughter once again. And maybe in that life, we can change the fate together.”
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
It was a dark, stormy night, and the wind blew as rain fell from the sky. The window rattled for the tenth time.
The only sound that could accompany her. Her fingers were clammy as her skin was pale, her gaze fell to the window, hoping something interesting would happen other than the repetitiveness of rattling.
Other kids her age would probably be running outside, playing in the rain, with nails stained with dirt. Her lips pressed tightly against one another as tears glistened in her eyes. She wondered what crime she had committed in her past life to be granted such a pathetic one in this lifetime.
Unable to leave the bed for a long time, eating away her parents’ wealth just to make breathing easier.
What a waste those 6 months were…
She kept repeating in her head as she cradled herself with her small arms, biting her lips.
Dripdripdripdripdrip. . .
Her attention was stolen by the sound before she gasped loudly at her journal being soaked with the leakage from the ceiling. Instantly, she reached for the book with a rush.
Only a few pages are wet. It could’ve been worse—
“AH!”
Her eyes widened, her gaze fell to the floor, her toes reaching the tiled floor, heels pressed against the coldness of the tiles. A shaky exhale escaped her throat. She swallowed thickly as her gaze drilled through her bare feet.
She stepped forward, thrice. Her legs seemingly wobbled around, but she didn’t meet to kiss the floor. Her lips pressed tightly, eyebrows furrowed before she—jump!
thud!
Her eyes widened with stars twinkling, grinning.
Thud! Thud! THud! THUd!
A giggle echoed in the room as she twirled around happily. “Is this how it feels?” she asked to no one except for her own heart.
“To feel the cold floor on my toes?”
“It’s so weird!” she exclaimed, her heels spinning around the tiles. A bright light bulb popped right inside her mind.
The door was pulled wide open as she dashed out from her room, pulling the handle of the main door open. The soft smell of rain entered her nostrils. She extended her dominant leg, feeling the rain pattering on the tip of her toes, before she shrieked, retreating.
“That’s cold…” she sheepishly uttered as she extended it again before stepping on the soaked pavement. Coarse surface met her skin.
Sage then moved forward, not minding the pattering raindrops as she finally walked out. What an independent girl I am, she thought, inflated with pride.
The gloomy clouds in the sky, street light flickering as the lone girl strolled the street.
A bright box was right across the street. Quickly, she jogged towards it, giggling as she grew more excited. The rough pavement of the road made her wince, so she went faster.
It was a convenience store, her palms planted on the glass window, soft fog staining the clear surface. Glitters in her irises as she feasted her eyes on the many things the store could offer, from confectionery, toys and many more. She swore such a sight could make her salivate—
“I think you should wipe that off…” A voice told her, Sage snapped her head to the side. A girl, probably her age?
“Huh?”
The raven-haired girl gestured to her lips, making a wiping motion with her hand.
“What are you trying to say..?” Sage enquired, her head weighted to the side.
“You’re drooling.”
After the girl’s respond could only then the short haired girl felt the dripping viscous liquid on her chin.
Oh.
Sage quickly wiped it off, laughing dryly as her eyes went somewhere else, cheeks slightly pinkish. “Oh, right, haha…it was intentional,” she said out loud.
“Wow! I never met anyone who drools on command,” the girl spoke out, seemingly piqued in interest.
“W-what?! No–”
“But you just said that you—”
“That wasn’t what I meant! Forget about it!” Sage shouted at her before the silence grew loud.
“Ack–sorry–I didn’t mean to shout,” her head lowered in shame.
“Oh, it’s fine. What are you doing out here, hm?” the girl asked, taking a step closer to Sage, looming despite their similarity in stature and height.
Sage’s eyes widened, as if waking up from a trance. Despite her kind demeanour, Sage couldn’t help but feel almost threatened by her question.
“I…uh..I–I’m with my parents,” she trailed off.
“That wasn’t an answer to my question.”
Sage flinched, lips pressed tightly in worry.
“Do you want to go inside?”
Sage’s heart stuttered at the invitation. She nodded shyly. The girl smiled, dragging Sage along.
The fluorescent light blinded her, and they immediately went to the candy section. Sage touched almost everything she saw.
“See what you like?”
She paused before she glanced left and right. “Nah…do you think they have ice cream instead?”
The girl smiled, nodding as she went to another aisle. Sage followed her like a poodle.
“What other things do you want?”
There were a lot of things she wanted to try, so many that she couldn’t pick.
“Maybe the playground..?”
“Sure,” she said as she picked an ice cream from the freezer and gave it to her.
After half an hour of exploring the store, they finally stepped out.
“Thanks for buying this for me,” she said as she suckled on the ice cream, cheeks warm with happiness.
“You're welcome.”
Sage bit into the ice cream, wincing. “You didn’t buy anything for yourself?”
The girl just smiled, shaking her head as she turned to walk the other way.
“Ah--wait wait—” Sage sucked on her ice cream hastily, hurrying her feet.
The two set out on a stroll under the dim moonlight, and the rain had faded minutes ago.
“So where are your parents again?” The girl asked, and Sage dryly laughed. “Uhm…working probably…”
“Oh? It’s so late, though?”
“It’s normal. I rarely see them.”
“Do they not love you?”
Sage’s step halted as her expression contorted into surprise. “That’s a bold question.” The girl just hummed.
“That wasn’t an answer.”
Sage frowned, throwing the stick into the bin. “Where’s the playground anyway?”
The girl suddenly halted, pointing somewhere.
Sage’s green eyes followed her finger before she gasped with excitement.
A playground!
With loosely attached swings and missing bolts on a few things…
That didn’t stop Sage from rushing towards it to take a shot!
She immediately climbed up the dull tower, chuckling as she crawled to the slide. Her hand almost slipped, but she slid down the slide.
“Ow!” she winced as her butt scraped on the ground. Despite that, her smile was the brightest thing in the broken playground. Her body got a few scrapes from the friction of her slipping and tripping.
She took a spin on the wobbly carousel. She spun it faster until a clink was heard, and the whole thing fell on one side, causing her to collapse.
Sage burst out laughing, despite the ache in her elbow and ribs. Her hand pressed against her temple, choking out from the big laugh she was having.
The girl just stood on the side, smiling before she approached Sage, before she crouched in front of her, brushing the dirt off Sage’s knees as she gently held her calf and lifted it.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re bleeding,” the girl said as she gestured at Sage’s feet. Sage’s eyes widened, folding her leg to check.
Sharp pebbles from the coarse pavement sank into her reddish skin.
“Oh…so that’s why it stings...” she mumbled as she simply brushed her foot casually. She immediately jogged to the swings. The girl’s hand pulled her hand gently, stopping her.
“Hm? What is it? Do you want to join?”
“Are you happy?”
“Of course I am! This is like my biggest dream!” Sage chattered out, her eyes filled with a starry galaxy.
“You need to go back now.”
What?
Sage’s face immediately dropped sour. She pulled her hand away from the girl’s grip, taking a step back with her wobbly legs.
“Why should I?” she gritted her teeth. The girl just shrugged. “You have to.”
“I don’t want to! I have finally gotten a taste of my dream! Why are you taking it away from me? Sage’s eyes became glassy. “I just want to do something I wanted for once. Is that too hard?”
“What if you have to leave your old life behind? Would the dream still be worth it?”
“My old life wasn’t that great anyway!” she burst out.
The girl dryly chuckled, amused. “You’re talking as if your life isn’t filled with love. Was it that terrible?”
Sage’s fists loosen.
Love wasn’t something she ever lacked.
“I’m looking for freedom of movement,” Sage confessed, her fingers pinching the hem of her shirt.
The girl hummed. “For a dream you sought after. Would you part ways with the ones you love?”
Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment before a smile stretched on her lips, nodding slowly.
The girl grinned.
____________________________________________________________________________
The door clicked open as a soft conversation between a husband and wife was heard. Placing plastic takeout on the counter. The father went to his daughter’s bedroom, creaking the door open.
“Sage, we bought food from your favourite restaurant,” he said as he slowly crept in, his hands raised mischievously.
His hand poked her ribs a few times. She didn’t move an inch. He frowned deeply. “Sage?”
He shook her a few times, but she didn’t respond.
He pulled her body to face him, her lips curved upwards.
But her pulse was the opposite of her lips, flat.
What a sweet dream she’s having. . .
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
I don’t expect you to understand the island I came from. Not yet. But if these words reach you, then maybe you’re already standing where I once did. At the island’s edge. At the edge of the truth.
They told us the island was sacred. That the roots gave life, and the Tree watched over us.
But no one spoke of the blood. Or the screams beneath the soil.
It was never the dragons.
It was the Tree.
CHAPTER 1: The Island in the Mist
The sea was too quiet.
Waves lapped without rhythm. No gulls. No wind. Just the heavy drag of mist over wood as Marlin’s wake pushed forward. The five crew members barely spoke, eyes scanning the endless fog.
Alexa tightened her grip on the rail. “We’re off course.”
“Been off course for hours,” muttered Ace, flipping his knife between gloved fingers.
Captain William stood at the helm, jaw clenched. “No stars. No sun. Only mist. Keep eyes sharp.”
From the crow’s nest, Helen called out, “Land!”
The crew exchanged uneasy looks. Ace muttered about “ghost shores,” Izzy spat into the sea for luck.
The fog peeled back, revealing a jagged shoreline. Dark trees leaned toward the sea, roots gripping sand like claws.
Beyond them, rising higher than clouds, stood a colossal Tree. Trunk pale as bone.
Izzy frowned. “That… wasn’t there yesterday.”
Alexa’s chest tightened. No birds. No movement. Just the Tree in the mist. For a heartbeat, the deck vibrated, like something alive shifted below.
She glanced around. No one else seemed to notice.
William’s voice was low. “This isn’t on any chart.”
The mission was simple: chart unknown waters, return with proof. But no one had spoken of a place like this.
“Could be a mirage,” Ace said. No one answered. The Tree loomed too solid, too still.
The fog behind them thickened, sealing the way back.
Alexa’s throat went dry.
They were trapped.
CHAPTER 2: The Island That Waited
They didn’t step onto the island until it was dusk.
What passed for daylight was fading, the mist clinging to the ship like vines.
“Alexa, Izzy, Ace. You’re with me,” William ordered.
Helen stayed aboard. “I’ll keep watch,” she said, her gaze lingering uneasily on the shoreline.
Their boots sank into dark sand, No shells. No driftwood. The air smelled faintly of iron.
Moving inland, the forest closed around them. The trees weren’t normal. Each trunk bent toward the pale giant in the distance. Pale moss hung from branches like hair.
“Did you see that?” Izzy froze mid-step.
A thick root shifted beneath the soil, then went still.
“No wind,” Alexa whispered.
From deeper in the forest came a groan, long and low, like earth waking. For a moment, the ground beneath their boots gave a tremor.
Then the mist thinned, revealing figures emerging from between the trees. Dozens. Cloaked. Barefoot. Silent. Their eyes glowed faintly, the same hue as the roots.
One of them stepped forward. “You’ve come.”
William kept his tone steady. “We’re just passing through. No harm meant.”
“No harm,” the figure echoed, sounding like a lie.
They were soon led between huts crouched under gnarled branches. A bonfire burned in the centre, but gave no warmth. Dinner waited, stew, fruit, fish, too fresh. Not a single fly in sight.
When Alexa asked a question, every villager’s head turned toward her. Not William, Not Izzy. Her.
Izzy leaned in, “How’d they know we were coming?”
“Don’t know,” Alexa muttered. “We rest one night. Then we leave.”
They barely touched the food. Even Ace stopped flipping his knife. When night fell, William returned to the ship while the others stayed in a hut, rotating watch.
Alexa took the first shift.
The jungle whispered. Insects clicked. Leaves rustled. But it all felt… rehearsed.
She stood to stretch, eyes flicking to the pale glow on the horizon where the Tree rose impossibly high.
A faint vibration passed through her boots, there, and gone.
Her eyelids drooped. She shook herself, “I’ll wake Ace.”
Then,
A shadow passed overhead.
A metallic screech tore through the trees. Something massive crashed into the clearing.
Screams erupted as the bonfire was knocked aside.
Black wings unfurled.
A dragon, but warped. Flesh sagged and pulsed, torn in places and breathing like wounds. Glowing spores seeped from its back.
And beneath its claws… the roots twitched, pulsing in rhythm with the pale Tree beyond the village.
CHAPTER 3: The Forgotten Flame
The dragon’s screech split the night.
For one frozen heartbeat, no one moved. Alexa’s mind lagged behind the sound until the answer came in black wings and rot.
She ran, but hands grabbed her from behind. Cloaked. Strong. She kicked and shouted until the figure dragged her upward.
Wind tore past her ears.
She looked down just in time to see a warped dragon slam into huts, scattering villagers. Roots from the tree burst from the ground, tangling its legs. The creature shrieked, shaking free.
Arrows flew, but not at the dragon, at her.
Her captor urged his mount higher. The infected beast vanished into the mist below. Cold air burned Alexa’s lungs.
“Let me go!” she shouted.
The rider didn’t answer.
They dove between cliffs, vanishing into a cavern. Claws scraped stone as they landed. Alexa tumbled to the floor, gasping. For a moment, she just lay there, the world still tilting from terror to silence.
From the shadows,
“Alexa?”
She turned. Izzy and Ace stepped forward, pale but alive.
“You’re safe?” Alexa asked.
“Yeah,” Ace muttered. “That guy… saved us.”
The rider stepped closer, lowering his hood. He was young, soot-streaked, eyes steady but tired. A carved pendant hung from his neck, flickering faintly as he glanced at Alexa.
“The name’s Eryx,” he said.
Ace snapped, “Alright, talk. What’s going on out there?”
Eryx crouched by a fire pit. Behind him, his dragon lay curled in the shadows, dark-scaled, breathing slow.
“This island wasn’t like this,” Eryx began. “They say a god planted a seed here. A gift. But the Tree… grew hungry.”
He stared into the flames.
“The roots feed on anything living. The spores infect anything with a heartbeat. People worship it now. They think the Tree chooses who lives.”
Alexa’s voice cracked. “The villagers…”
“They serve it,” Eryx said simply. “Some willingly. Some because they’re already part of it.”
Izzy swallowed. “That thing out there… was it once a normal dragon?”
Eryx’s jaw tightened. “Or human, or worse.”
He hesitated. “It can sense every living thing on this island. Sometimes… beyond it.”
Alexa froze. “Where’s Captain William? And Helen?”
Eryx looked up sharply. “There’s more of you?”
“They’re still on the ship.”
He stood fast, fastening his dragon’s harness. “If the cult reaches them first, they won’t survive.”
CHAPTER 4: Ashes Of Loyalty
Eryx swung onto his dragon’s back. “I’m going alone.”
Alexa stepped forward. “We can help.”
“It’s too dangerous. I’ve lost enough.” His voice shook. But he kicked off before she could argue.
The Marlin’s Wake was already under siege. Roots from the tree burst through the deck like spears. Infected dragons circled. Captain William and Helen fought with fire and splintered planks, but the roots kept coming. One lashed across the deck, and when William cut it, thick sap bled like warm blood.
Eryx dove.
“Take my hand!” he shouted.
William reached, but a root lashed upward. Soren, Eryx’s dragon, intercepted, claws tearing at it.
A spray of blood.
“SOREN!”
The dragon roared, one wing faltering. Roots climbed higher snaring Helen and yanking her into the dark water. William followed a heartbeat later, pulled through the splintered deck.
For a moment, Eryx didn’t move, still hearing William’s voice, still expecting Helen to be there. But there was only the hole, the silence where they’d been.
The second of hesitation was enough.
More roots surged. Soren fought free and carried his rider back through the fog.
They landed hard in the cavern. Soren collapsed, blood pooling beneath him.
“No… no, no…. stay with me!” Eryx dropped to his knees; hands pressed to the wound.
Alexa, Izzy, and Ace rushed forward, stopping short when they saw the dragon’s eyes.
The glow was wrong.
“Is he… going to turn into one of those things?” Alexa whispered.
Eryx’s hands trembled. “Not him... please…”
Soren’s breathing changed, slower, deeper, with a rumbling hunger. His claws scraped stone, His gaze locked on Eryx.
There was still something of his friend there. But it was fading fast.
Eryx’s fingers tightened around his axe. “I’m sorry.’
For a moment, he just stood, staring into the eyes of the only companion he had left.
Then he raised the blade.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Prologue
The windy breeze roams freely through her skin. In the royal garden, birds chirping peacefully and flowers bloom lively.
Elara, the guardian of the royal court, binds the essence of people’s dreams to their hearts, allowing them to live more fully, feel more deeply. She believed love could heal all things, that love is everything.
Unexpectedly, the royal guards armed in red armour gather around her under the command of her mother, Queen Elsia, to seal Elara’s power with a spell: her heart would no longer be hers to give. Instead, it would be encased in a crimson crystal, protected and locked away, but safe.
Not wanting this to happen with no dignity, Elara implores the guard to make sure her raven’s pendant is sent directly to her child, no matter what.
Unconsciously, as tears of fear fell from her eyes, it created a world-shifting surge of strong energy, whispering changes with every breath it touched.
Love. Wins. All.
Chapter 1:
Kaelen looked at the splintered Raven’s Pendant in his hands. The world around him felt like it would crumble. Yet a single determination pulsed brighter than fear: to the Clock Tower Citadel, a place where mother’s heart, sealed in crimson ice, still beat.
Nyx, his fox companion, curled just behind his ankles. An inked-blacked shape with eyes rich with gold. It was more than a fox, a creature born of light and shadow, capable of slipping through cracks in reality, a master of disguise and trickery. Kaelen knew that without it, he felt hollow like an empty hourglass.
Far across the valley, the Sanctum Noctis held Lyra’s quiet agony. Laid beneath tattered blankets, fever roaming her bones until she slept in a haze of nightmares. Kaelen’s memory of his sister’s once-bright laugh echoed as a fragmented memory. The Reverie Curse had taken her in a long slumber, stealing her from the world, until her mind shattered, and her flesh was cold as winter’s frost.
Once a vibrant town, children now trembled in fear, and traders exchanged nightmares like currency. They whispered about dream-collectors who drank memories dry, people who claimed Elara’s heart sealed reality. A few people carried visions of a crimson cage across broken roads. Every mention of the Morvanist brought sorrow, for Kaelen understood it was not a distant plague; it was his to end.
Kaelen lifted his eyes to the spiralling tower, its windows cracked, and each clock frozen at a different hour. Somewhere inside waited truth. Chest tightened. He whispered: I will free you. I will heal this spell. And I will bring my sister back.
In that silent moment, Kaelen trembled yet resolute, and started walking.
Chapter 2:
Kaelen picked his way through the Whisperwood, where trunks bent toward the path. As if the forest were holding its breath. He told himself the trees were haunted by The Reverie Curse, too. He believes his mother could heal it.
A figure appeared between two oaks. Spotting Kaelen, she bowed, long-haired, holding a lantern, Aeliana.
“I’m walking this road as well,” she said. “Perhaps our goals align?” Trust me. It seems to give a sign like that.
Nyx recoiled. The fox’s gleaming eyes shifted from gold to molten orange as warning eyes. Kaelen flinched. Elara had once praised Aeliana’s loyalty. Mom would not lie. Right?
Aeliana offered stories of “the cruel Queen”: how she cursed the Morvanists’ dreams until their souls cracked; how she spun nightmares across entire villages. Kaelen’s throat caught. She sounded wise, but Kaelen hated it.
They walked together. The path curved backward. Aeliana’s reflection in a pond beneath twisted branches shimmered with a subtle flicker. Nyx jumped to it and slapped his tail against the pool’s surface. The reflection cracked.
Aeliana turned. Orange eyes glimmered where there had been only brown. Leaves floating, like the ones you see in a movie.
Kaelen staggered. “Wha—”
Aeliana laughed. “Do you still bind your mother with loyalty when her heart bleeds your sister dry?”
Kaelen backed away, shaking. “You’re lying-.”
Aeliana’s body blurred—face splitting into two illusions, then a hundred. Whirled, forming a circle around him. Nyx tried to take charge. He tried to focus, but each time he blinked, the forest rearranged. Nyx slashed at the illusion.
Through the haze, Kaelen glimpsed something: An image of Elara, enthroned in crystal and roots. Revealing wide, smiling teeth. Not grief. Not love. But obsession.
Aeliana’s multiple faces whispered: Mother was never your protector. She saved herself. You defended it.
Kaelen dropped. He’d repeated to everyone: Mother is everything. She has always meant love, not ruin. But now, he saw the world bend under its weight. Lyra’s fever, village children; they were a sacrifice.
Nyx bit at the illusion, which then shattered.
When she stopped, Aeliana stood. Her smile was calm, but her eyes were empty.
The path straightened, the forest walls parted, and silence reigned. Nyx padded against his side. In the silences, Kaelen whispered:
Mother is not the cure. She is the broken spell.
Chapter 3:
He’d had enough.
Kaelen’s breath echoed through the chamber of the Clock Tower Citadel. Time trembled here; each clock ticked backwards, and each moment unravelled the next. At the centre of it all, draped in a crimson veil, seated upon a throne made of roots and glass, Queen Elara.
“Ah... so the child comes,” she purred, her voice like a sweet poison.
Kaelen hesitated. His fingers brushed the cold chain around his neck; the Raven’s Pendant. Its pulsing had grown stronger the closer he came to her, like a heartbeat synchronised with power. His mother’s power. The very thing choking the world, twisting the trees, polluting the dreams of the Morvanist.
He clenched his fists. “This ends today.”
Elara rose, her steps soft yet stern. “You’ve forgotten who you are, Kaelen. That’s not your fault. They stole your memories, scattered them like ashes. But I- I have always remembered.”
Kaelen’s mind spins. He had forgotten. Faces without names. Dreams that weren’t his. Even Lyra’s face, once clear... now lost in fog. But her laughter? Her laughter remained.
“My sister,” he voices, cracking. “She’s dying because of the Reverie Curse. Your plague. You did this; you let this happen.”
“She was never supposed to be part of this.”
“And neither was I!” Kaelen snapped.
A blur of silver darted beside him; Nyx the Fox, agile and fierce, hissed through clenched teeth. “She's not going to listen. She’s gone long ago. You know what you must do, boy.”
Chapter 4:
Kaelen’s hand trembled around the pendant. It pulsed faster. The memories. The dreams. The truth. They surged through him like fire. Images of Elara before it all happens; her laughter, her hopes. The night she was betrayed and cursed by her mother. How she’d loved Kaelen once; truly.
But it’s rotted now.
“She used to care,” Kaelen whispered.
“People change,” Nyx replied flatly. “So must you.”
Suddenly, the wind howled—a scream from the balcony.
Descending from the shattered rafters, wild-eyed and laughing, came Aeliana, her blades swinging in rhythm. “You think you can save a world that’s already dead?” she snarled. “Your mother gave me a purpose and showed me the truth.”
Kaelen barely had time to block before Aeliana struck. He stumbled, immediately. Nyx leapt to distract her, shimmering mid-air.
“Go!” the fox barked. “Finish it!”
Kaelen ran toward Elana, who now hovered above the floor, her crimson gown bleeding shadows. The pendant burned against his chest. The closer he came, the harder it was to breathe.
“I loved this world,” she said, her voice trembling. “But they tore it from me. They sealed my heart. They gave me nothing but memory and pain. You, Kaelen; all I had left. I was saving you.”
Kaelen stood before her, "No, you were saving yourself.”
And with that, he tore the Raven’s Pendant from his neck and smashed it against a stone.
The crystal burst into shards. Shockwave rippled through the tower, blowing Aeliana off her feet and cracking the stained glass above. Elara screamed; not a sound of rage, but grief. Her magic unravelled, scarlet threads pulled from the seams of reality itself.
The clock stopped ticking.
Kaelen stumbled, memories pouring back like rain. His father’s song. Elara’s lullaby. Her face before she was a queen. Her smile, her tear-filled face, on the day she gave up her heart.
Elara collapsed.
Aeliana crawled to her side, whispering curses, but the queen is silent now. Her eyes stared into Kaelen’s.
“You betrayed me,” she whispered.
“No, mother... I freed you.”
Epilogue
As the dawn rose over the village, the world began to heal. Twisted trees straightened into forests. Skies once cracked with time, bled gold and blue once more. The people of Morvanist, freed from their cursed dreams.
Kaelen stood by Lyra’s bedside. Her breath steadier smiled brightly.
“You’re here,” she said.
“I never left,” he whispered.
He remembered everything now. Everything.
Even the pain and love.
And that perhaps was,
Enough.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
“You should redo this, Lee.”
“Why? I’ve complied with all the rules for the competition. Ah, and here’s the description for it — I already wrote it too.”
The student hands the teacher a folded piece of paper, but it stays unfolded, the edges still pressed together like they are holding back a secret. The air is cold, nipping at the warmth within her chest every time she breathes in, anxiousness settling in her stomach. Lee Yin can’t understand why her painting is being so heavily discouraged by her art teacher.
A giant canvas leans against the desk of her teacher’s, sitting in the middle of the two; the cause for concern. There is only the low, constant hum of the air-conditioning, a few murmurs from tables away, and the large teachers’ office seems to feel so incredibly small to Yin, who is struggling yet desperately trying to expand her understanding of her teacher’s words. The office feels shrunk to the size of a box.
“It is unsettling,” Mrs. Nadia finally decides to say, but the young girl’s face only contorts into confusion as she stands in front of the seated woman.
Her eyebrows are knitted, nose scrunched, and lips downturned; how can a woman — this woman in her painting — be unsettling?
A sigh leaves the art teacher’s lips. It is past school hours for Yin; the afternoon school session has already begun, and the noisy young students are running down the hallways, their sneakers slapping the tiled floor like raindrops in a storm.
Mrs. Nadia sighs heavily once the small group of screaming juniors finally passes the office, picking up her thoughts.
“The title, Lee.”
What you allow to her, you allow to us.
Once the words leave Mrs. Nadia’s mouth, it is then that Yin realises what her teacher means. Yin just never wanted to believe her teacher would be like the rest of them: telling her not to speak of it.
The artwork is dim for a painting competition with the theme of “Women”. Yin had searched up the same exact title on the internet just weeks prior to even touching her paintbrushes. And they were all the same to her; they all looked so forced. A woman painted in a portrait landscape, a smile on her face, colourful strokes washing over the background like a halo.
Or those paintings of a woman working. A feminine job, a masculine job, or a safe, neutral job. All bright, all pleasing, as they deserve to be. But Yin wanted the world to see something else. Something less forced. Something true.
“You said you asked other teachers for guidance. Did they see your work?” Mrs. Nadia’s voice halts Yin’s long train of thought, but it doesn’t stop the sudden repulsion Yin feels towards the teacher she has always admired, a teacher who mirrors a mother to her.
Mrs. Nadia’s criticism does not stem from misplaced shadows, excessive saturation — a common flaw in Yin’s paintings — or too little contrast. It is nothing about the size of the canvas or a digression from the theme.
A lone woman stands far away in the centre of Yin’s painting, in a room with high, grey ceilings, a concrete floor and walls, her bare feet against the ground, hands clasped together. She is turned slightly to the side but looks straight at the viewer, her eyes heavy with grief, fatigue, and a quiet kind of anger. She wears only a simple dress.
If this subject were painted in a prettier dress, perhaps in a warm setting, maybe one could wonder about her expression. But with the plain clothes, basement-like walls, and cold palette, viewers might be concerned for the painter. And that is exactly what Lee Yin wants.
“Yin…” Mrs. Nadia uses her first name now, a coax, like how a mother would call her daughter darling instead of by name, and it is something the teenager tries not to fall for. She wants this submitted.
“Paint another one, something prettier. You’re seventeen, Yin. This is… depressing. You shouldn’t think like this — it’s too negative for a young mind like yours,” the teacher continues in a soft voice, a tone Yin has always wanted, but in understanding, not in gentle dismissal.
“But am I wrong?”
“About what?”
“About how women are treated.”
Mrs. Nadia blinks, wordless. She glances again at the painting, and still, there is no criticism other than the subject — the woman.
“I don’t want societal pressure to bend me into what I can and cannot paint,” Yin says quietly, like a confession meant for no one else. “Mrs. Nadia—”
“I’ll think about it, Lee.” There is no more coaxing, no more first names, less gentleness, but a flicker of understanding. Yin nods, accepting her teacher’s words.
“Thank you, Mrs. Nadia,” Yin says, bowing before leaving.
-
Mrs. Nadia is not blind, nor trying to be ignorant. She knows what the painting means; every woman would, every man should. But she also knows it will never win, and may never be displayed. Too bleak, too upsetting, too much, too little — words easy to throw when you have no courage to face them.
The older woman sighs before packing to leave.
She takes Yin’s painting home, hesitating, but handles it carefully, placing it in the back seat of her car. In the quiet, she unfolds the paper Yin gave her and reads the description. The words blur as tears brew in her eyes. Yes. It is heavy for a young mind. But it is also true.
-
Yin has always been a daughter to Mrs. Nadia, reminding her of her own child; a social worker abroad. Fierce, unwilling to back down, quick to defend others. That was what caught Mrs. Nadia’s attention the first time they met.
If anyone asked about Lee Yin, she’d say: “She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Fierce. She’ll change the world one day.”
So she will not stop her. Not now.
The next day, Mrs. Nadia informs Yin she will submit the painting. Relief washes over the girl, and she hugs her. This time, the teacher hugs her tighter.
“Thank you.” The appreciation and affection in Yin’s voice do not go unnoticed by Mrs. Nadia, as she replies: “When I said you’d do great things, this is what I meant. And I’m not going to be the first to stop you. Yin. Your painting’s honest and it’s good.”
-
Weeks later, Yin walks into the gallery with her classmates, expecting to find her work among the official entries. But row after row passes without a glimpse of it.
Her heart sinks until she reaches the far end of the hall. There, in the centre of a small section labelled Honorary Display, is her painting, lit by its own warm spotlight.
Whoever shows up and passes by Lee Yin’s painting, they would see the small collection of words next to it that are meant to describe more about the story of the painting, or the painter themselves. The same words that made Mrs. Nadia cried.
“This painting will not qualify. Those are the words of my mother, and of most people I know. And although those were my own thoughts once, I decided to try anyway. The subject, like many others, is a survivor of hate because she is a woman. I will not say victim — because half the world would be victims — I prefer the word survivor. This work is not to stir your pity, but to remind you: what you allow to her, you allow to us. When you ignore one woman’s suffering, you allow it to continue to the next. You are complicit unless you speak. This is how I will speak.”
Only later does Yin learn from another teacher that Mrs. Nadia had bypassed the rules entirely to have the piece displayed – risking her own standing to make sure people saw it.
For the first time, Yin realises her teacher had been fighting for her all along.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Daphne has a dream.
She loves badminton more than anything else in the world. She loves the competitiveness, the thrill, the adrenaline rush. It means everything to her.
Joining the national team seemed like a snowball’s chance in hell. Regardless, she had a dream. A vision powerful enough to sever the binding chains from dragging her down into a bottomless pit.
Times were hard. Money was tight. Education was the go-to choice for everyone. Doctors, lawyers, engineers were the only options for guaranteed success, not badminton. Daphne felt at loss. She didn’t want to disappoint her parents nor teachers. Fulfilling her goals seemed like reaching for the stars.
With firm determination, Daphne took up the challenge. Balancing studies and sports had never been child’s play. Being the student-athlete she is, training hours were extremely demanding.
Daphne’s parents had to drive her to practice in between classes and send her back to school right after, to resume her studies. They then picked her up after school to rush for the next training session. Her parents supported her dreams wholeheartedly and Daphne felt incredibly indebted to them. The parents who nurtured those talented wings to give her flight. Their sacrifices had driven her to go further, and higher than she had before.
Even so, Daphne was a teenager too.
Feeling pressured from juggling homework and assignments between workouts, Daphne wondered if what she was doing was worth it. She questioned whether this was the right choice. She had doubts and felt herself sinking into the burden and expectations she had brought upon herself.
After losing countless state tournaments, Daphne felt exhausted. She was drained, both mentally and physically. Having fought battles with angels and demons in her head, an echo rung in her mind, she remembered why she had come this far. She remembered the reason behind her determination - her love for this sport was irreplaceable.
Daphne continued to train even harder. One chosen afternoon, she became the state champion and was selected for the national back up squad trial. A man dressed in a sports jacket and track bottoms approached her during the day of the trial.
“Excuse me,” he apologized, trying to steal a moment of her time. Daphne glanced up in surprise.
“A coach from the Badminton Association of Malaysia?” She thought to herself. She bowed politely in the presence of the coach. Her body tensed, unsure of what to expect from him. The man smiled warmly.
“I’ve been observing. You are different from the rest. You are disciplined and hardworking. Your level of skill is simply too exhilarating to not be shown to the world. Be a part of our journey and envision yourself on the world podium with your head held high, embracing your goal set beyond the skies.”
Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.
With that, Daphne grabbed the opportunity and began her new chapter in the national team. Ambition and hope gave her wings. Though the winds were harsh, she never stopped climbing. This was a chance of redemption - and she wasn’t going to let it slide.
At the raw age of 16, she was the youngest chosen into the national back-up squad. Standing side-by-side with players she wouldn’t have imagined fighting along with in a million years, Daphne gave her all in proving her worth.
Sadly, kindness isn’t universal. Being scorned by her teammates for being new to the team, Daphne didn’t have her journey easy. However, being the black sheep of the team didn't pull her down. It challenged her limits. To her, destructive feedback meant more room for improvement. She trained diligently, day by day, following intense routines and harsh coaching without a single complaint.
Her efforts soon blossomed as she was selected to represent her mother land, Malaysia at an international game. The joy she had felt back then was irreplaceable. The way her name was called out, cheers from the audience, and that feeling - that moment, was hers and hers alone.
You might think the story ends here. Well, here’s your happy ending!
…
Unfortunately, life had other plans for Daphne.
“Match point, 20-19!”
With the opponent getting the upper hand in this match, Daphne was losing her nerves. In the last seconds of her rest, she calmed herself.
I will do my best, all the way, till the end!
Reopening her eyes and readjusting the momentum of her breathing, Daphne believed in herself when nobody could. Moving swiftly around the court, every stroke counted, every single move critical. The shuttle flew up. This was her chance! Daphne spread her wings and jumped with faith. She struck the ball with all her might, winning the point. The scores were tied.
Loud cheers erupted from the stadium. Daphne felt her confidence seeping back. She felt composed. But a wave of fatigue washed over. That could only mean that her adrenaline was fading. Then it hit: an excruciating pain in her right heel.
Daphne crumpled to the ground in agony. The court fell silent. Quiet murmurs were circulating the stadium. Daphne couldn't hear a thing. Her mind was blank. She couldn't think clearly.
No, no, no. This can’t be. Not now! Not now!
Time stopped in its tracks. Everything was in a blur.
Her wings were cut off when they were needed most.
Daphne couldn’t recall what happened next.
She was on the hospital bed, when reality hit her.
She had ruptured her Achilles tendon.
All her effort had gone down the drain. What was to become of her? What was she going to do next? With ragged wings hanging on her back, Daphne couldn’t find any spark left in her. There was nothing left the moment her badminton career had reverted to square one.
It took her hundreds of hours to accept her fate and get hold of her emotions. The fog cleared, and her mind whirred to life.
Then it occurred to her. Let’s start fresh. Back to square one it is!
The one unwavering quality remained by her side: her fighting spirit ignited. Amid a world of darkness, she alone shone the brightest. Her eyes brightened. The world around her showed its vibrant colours. With fresh eyes, she saw everything in a new light, where it was once filled with grey.
Daphne explored new things. She found passion for coaching. She found the ability to help students and give back to the community rewarding; to be able to help students find enthusiasm in the sport she loves most.
She co-founded a professional badminton academy, its sole purpose is to inspire children to bring out their best. Coaching was never an easy route. Failures, rejections and unreasonable scoldings broke Daphne in many unimaginable ways. It was only due to the constant support from her family and friends during those dark times that her hand hasn’t slipped from the cliff. Steadily, she found her way up and charged forward.
However, Daphne’s work has its limits. To be able to delve into someone’s mind seemed impossible. She felt helpless, seeing her students break down crying in front of her. She couldn’t do anything to help them. She simply couldn’t understand the philosophy behind someone’s thought process.
Why are they so affected by something they can’t control?
This curiosity acted as fuel for Daphne to pick up her studies. She wanted to help those children recover mentally and physically through sports. Pursuing a PhD in Sports Psychology, she could read her students' minds better - perhaps understand them to a certain extent and guide them to walk on the right path.
She gave the students hope to grow their wings. To provide not just flight, but freedom. Wings lift someone towards a goal, providing them with a sense of accomplishment whilst fighting fiercely to achieve a milestone for themselves.
During her long and tiring journey, Daphne made many friends along the way. By using the power of connections and networks, Daphne was able to make a name for her academy, while fulfilling her studies at the same time. She felt elated and accomplished for being able to assist people in their odyssey to success, at the same time creating a better version of herself.
It took Daphne at least a decade to achieve the dream she had longed for, even if she had to make an abrupt rerouting while she was closer to her goals than ever. The hardships and obstacles life threw at her shaped her into who she is today.
Taking one step at a time, Daphne crafted her own wings. She left the cuts as they were - a reminisce of her past. She tied those wings back on and soared into the sky, aiming higher than ever.
After all, she had to sever her wings and weave them back with threads of her blood, sweat and tears.
As the Japanese Proverb goes,
Fall down seven times, stand up eight.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The grassy fields that stretched for a few yards out welcomed the commotion of elves and pixies alike, and then there was me. Elara Tremblaine. A human, a clear mistake, the odd one out. In a world of pointy ears and pearly skin, I’m born with ears so round and skin ever so leathery, I feel obscure to live with them. Nevertheless, I’ve forcefully adapted myself to the hushed whispers and snickers that sprawl my back wherever I go.
Today was no exception. Even though I’ve been trapped in Faerien for as long as I can remember, the presence of a non-slave human will remain the strangest thing the Fae have ever seen—it’s annoyingly exhausting. The swordsmanship coach, a broad shouldered treefolk with the grace of a swan, clapped once. We all scurry to him, I could smell the eagerness of everyone around me, the way their clawed hands clasped together in awe as Coach Tairen exhibited some new form of swordplay. For a fabled world that promises tranquil forests and peace-loving, magical creatures, it never fails to surprise me at how common violence is used at everything.
Moments afterward, Coach leaves us with a list of assigned partners chosen at random, and a petite, blueish hued nymph reads it aloud. As each pair gets shouted out, an invisible rope pulls them together, joining them at the hip. Waves of laughter erupt as new pairs bound to each other before heading to grab the wooden playsword to fight. I’m too busy talking with a pixie before my waist was brutally grabbed by an invisible hand, my scream halfway out my throat when my hip bumped into my supposed partner.
An absurd wave of silence washed over the scene as I turned to look at who it was. My heart sank lower than my stomach as that pathetic face turned sour. Kael Balderkin. Famed for his amber eyes and nearly human-like skin, the literal heir to the Faerien throne as soon as his dad steps off. And the most self-absorbed elf I have ever met, second to his twin brother, Tamlin, who was cooing at us from afar.
“Kael Balderkin.” I say, as if savouring the way it’s rolling off my tongue so uncautiously. “Hope you fight as good as you drink.”
“You mortals shouldn’t speak to your future King in such ways,” Prince Kael coolly mutters, testing the wooden sword in his clawed hands. “Especially the ones who don’t seem to listen.”
We didn’t speak after that, we fought under the blanket of silence. Kael’s jaw tensed at every slash of my sword, barely missing his beautiful face. My hand on the sword was firm and unwilling to let go, this fight could prove my worth if I succeed in having him lose his calm exterior.
Our fight was simply glorious, every move was perfectly calculated, my attacks were relentlessly repelled by his simple gestures that even I couldn’t comprehend. Bruises blossomed at my sides as he roughly jabbed the sword’s blunt side into my skin, leaving me momentarily dumbfounded before he strikes again, knocking me to the ground with the hilt. I yelped helplessly as my bottom hit the soft ground, and I realized for a moment that we had everyone’s attention, they watched us strike and blow from a small hill like we were some gladiator fight going on. Kael looked down at me, I wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but one of them had to be pure, rotten joy.
For a moment, it looked like I would let him take the crown of my dignity, but it was obvious I wouldn’t let that slide. My leg shoots up and kicks at his chin, knocking his head upwards and hearing a faint crunch that sounded a lot like an insect getting crushed. I could hear my classmates exclaiming, my gluttenous pride only was fed even more. A faint exhale of breath leaves me as I use this brief moment of vulnerability to my advantage, I swung my legs over his neck and brought him to the mossy ground. Hearing him thud to the ground was the most satisfying sound I’ve ever heard.
Before I could catch my breath, a brief mutter of words came from behind me as invisible coils bound my arms together so tight I dropped the sword. Not even a second later, my throat tightened painfully, I was squirming for air like a fish out of water. I’m trembling with fear and despair as I feel my body being lifted off Kael’s body, before being dropped on the ground like some unwanted trash. I flailed around as laughter echoed in my ears, muffling out my desperate cries. Then, I saw him, an elf just like Kael, except for the long, embedded scar slashed across his face. Tamlin.
“Jinx this pathetic mortal to death.” The last sentence I heard from him.
>>>~<<<
The faint buzzing in my head wanes as I warily blinked my eyes awake, welcoming the gnawing of my blossoming bruises. The blue sky wasn’t there to accompany me, this time, the dingy ceiling of the sickbay stared down at me— at least cotton sheets are more comfier than mossy earth. I sat up in an awkward position, a hand on my side to cradle the wound as I let my gaze wander around the empty room. It falls on the bedside table, where a few torn pieces of parchment were left for me to read, possibly taunts or some foolish mockery.
The stone door creaks open and I see a tall figure make its way to my bed, since there was no one else in here. I lay in bed, unable to move both physically and mentally, my mind clears to make way for the wave of undisputed torments and abuse. When the light catches on a pair of coppery eyes, I’m taken aback slightly. Why would he be here, out of all people?
Kael’s tall figure loomed over me, it may appear intimidating but he didn’t look threatening at all, he looked pleased. Possibly pleased his brother jinxed me to near death that’s why. I briefly noticed a large wad of cotton and some ointment was stuck to his chin, a small whirr of pride stirs in me but I remain silent about it. I dare not say a word before he does, for once, I know how to shut up, it pains me.
“I’m guessing you’re wondering why I’m here.” He says in the most unbothered way, it sets my guts into a broil.
“So you aren’t going to humiliate me in the worst way possible? That’s a start.” I snorted, ignoring his arm resting on the edge of my bed. “Never knew you fancy elves did anything else than kill or get drunk.”
“You’re avoiding my question, mortal.” He lifts a brow, his forehead creasing.
“It wasn’t even a question, I guess you should pay more attention in class rather than make someone’s life a living hell.” I retort back, surprised I even have the energy for this.
“Strange, you’re the one getting yourself into trouble.” I can taste the mockery in his tone, I relish it. “I do hope you're not blind to how your kind is treated here.”
Blind, he says. I’ve seen everything, seen too much, seen things that haunt me to this day, that I had to swallow down were in fact normal or simply fair in their violence-tainted eyes. I really wish I was blind, so I could keep believing being obedient was the key to survival here.
“I’ve seen enough, and I don’t ever plan on stopping any time soon.” I replied tautly, allowing my eyes to meet his frustratingly cold gaze.
He blinks at me, as if taking in every word I say into his daft mind. I hope it knocks some sense into him, because it’s apparent he doesn’t have any.
Out of the blue, he laughs. Not an infectious one, but definitely a laugh. It rumbles through my soul like an earthquake, and I’m surprisingly drawn to it.
“You fascinate me, Elara, you and your undying perseverance.” He, for the first time I’ve seen it, grins. “I’m not mocking you, I’m interested. On what things you have in mind.”
My puzzled face must’ve been too obvious, for he smirks even wider. I’m both scared yet enthralled by his show of emotions, for someone I thought lacked them. He dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a delicate pendant with a pale pinkish gem coiled in tiny chains.
“Wear this, jinxes won’t work on you from then on.” Kael drops it onto my lap before turning away. “Keep this up, you might find yourself much more useful once I’m King.”
He vanishes through the door, leaving me cradling the uncomfortable weight of knowing something that feels forbidden. Strangely, I’m intrigued by him. It frightens me to think how much things might change from now on. For once, I’m scared.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
“I am not afraid to die.”
I’ve looked at her several times over the months now. Ms. Eleanora Young.
My beloved literature teacher. The woman who nurtured my love for reading, the woman who proofread my stories even when they were just drafts. She’s much older now, having changed over the years. Yet what remains the same is the twinkle in her eyes as she speaks and the way she laughs at a joke.
I try to keep my voice from cracking. “Why not?”
She laughs, patting me on the hand. “Because I have said everything I have wanted to say. If I must go tomorrow, I will leave with no regrets. That part is important.”
It hurts. To know that in a few months, she won’t be here to hold my hand or to laugh with me anymore. In the most selfish way, I want her to stay with me. To make up for all the time we’ve lost. To apologize for not keeping in touch. But I won’t say that, because I cannot undo what I have done.
Our meetings began in September.
The café had been awfully chilly that day. She had shown up with my old notebook, laughing as I asked her to burn it, shamefully. “It’s a good treasure,” she chuckled. “From an amateur to an actual writer, look how far you’ve come. The word ‘amateur’ comes from Latin.” The leather of the book digs into my palms as she slips it into my hands. “It’s a verb. ‘Amare’ means to love. To be an amateur is to love intensely. You have loved far more that you think, child.”
“Ms. Eleanora, I…”
“Teach. Call me Teach. Just like the old days.”
I pause. She smiles sheepishly.
“Teach, you told me before that writing isn’t muscle memory,” I tap my nails against the wood, “It’s passion. How so?”
Leaning forward in her seat, she grins. “Reading is breathing in, writing is breathing out. Every writer was once a reader. Once you have devoured all the books you can and still crave for more, write. Write the book that you would like to read, not a book that you want others to read. Never be good at what you hate doing. It is better to be terrible at something you love than to be good at something you hate.”
I glance at my old notebook, with its pages torn out and ink smeared over the pages. When did I lose this spark? When did writing become memory and not passion?
I left the café with more questions than answers that day.
October comes in a blur.
I’m sitting in the café again. The blank cursor on my document blinks like a bomb. I don’t know what to write. What do I write? My hands feel like lead, unable to move. I don’t notice the tremors in my body until I feel her squeeze my hand.
“Calm down. Close your laptop. You cannot force an idea; you must let it flow.” Rubbing my eyes, I snap it shut. The recorder doesn’t come out of my bag this time.
“….do you ever feel like your creativity isn’t enough? That whatever you write will be rubbish, just like everything else you have done?” Words are spilling out of my mouth before I realize. “A fake. That’s all I am, Teach. How am I a writer if I can’t even write?”
Ah. I’ve done it now. I’ve said something I shouldn’t have. My teacher’s eyes look at me questioningly. “Yes, you’re right. Creativity isn’t enough.” I sink lower into my chair at her words. “But it doesn’t mean that it is any less important. Creativity comes from the soul. It does not come from the mind, but from the heart. And your heart is in the right place.”
I don’t remember replying. All I can remember is her warmth as she hugged me, like she did when I was a child. Maybe that’s all I really want. A hug.
November smells like maple and rain.
I’ve started showing up with sweets. The kind Teach would hand out to us, the ones that tasted like custard with too much sugar. Our usual table is occupied, so we shift to a bench.
As I fiddle with the wrapper of the candy, her voice has already begun to speak.
“I’ve decided where I want to be buried.”
My hands go numb, the candy slipping out of my grasp. I had already forgotten. No, I wanted to forget. I wanted to forget that she was dying. I wanted to forget that in a few months she would already be a memory. A bittersweet memory.
I force myself to speak. “Where?”
“Under that oak tree on Magnolia Road. It’s got a nice view; don’t you think?”
The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why not at your house?”
She sighs. “What is a house but a place where one lives permanently? A house is not a home. Home is wherever you make it. A person could be a home. The rain of life may rage on, yet you will forever feel safe in their arms. That is a home.”
Turning to me, she pats my head. “Come home and visit me when you can. I will always be listening.”
It’s then I realize I don’t want her to go. I don’t want to lose my home yet.
December is harsh and unforgiving.
The hospitals smells like antiseptic and something haunted. I’ve always hated hospitals. To me, you always lose something in a hospital. Teach is smiling, even when she’s in pain. I hold her hand, like she had always done for me.
“You know,” her voice croaks. “I’m glad I got to have those last few classes with you.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. “Don’t cry when I’m gone. Promise me that. My meaning in life has already been found. It was to be a good teacher to you. When you’ve found your meaning, never go backwards. Always move forward.”
She squeezes my hand thrice.
The next time I’m holding her hand, it’s cold. And I wish it wasn’t.
Spring came early in January.
I didn’t go to Teach’s funeral. If I did, I would have cried. And that would be breaking my promise to her. Her family honored her last wishes to be buried under the oak.
I met her daughter a few days later. Lauren hugged me, and didn’t let go until I pulled away. We ended up in the same café where my last class was.
“Why didn’t you come to the funeral?” Lauren’s tone was questioning, but I felt no malice from her.
“Because I refuse to let my last memory of Teach be one where she is in a coffin. I will remember her as the woman who encouraged me to pour my soul into my writings. Not a sickly woman but as my teacher.” Tears are spilling down my cheeks now.
Lauren says nothing. Her eyes are glassy, mirroring my own. We have both lost our mother.
There are flowers at the roots of the oak now.
Irises, Teach’s favorite. Symbols of hope.
I think I’ll grieve her for a long time.
But what is grief but love persevering?
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Never.
Never would I bring myself back to the fluvial slope—the steep-sided valley eroded by running water. Never would I hear her cheerful laugh echoing through the dark oak trees. Never would I dare set foot into a forest. But there won’t be a “never” because I had no one else, and maybe, just maybe, being haunted by that memory is the reason I still remember her clearly.
I was only eight when I lost my twin sister, Helen. We were at our usual spot—the forest behind our home. We always hung out there during the summer holidays. We were having a picnic near the crystal-clear water and under the lush trees, where the gentle breeze was caressing our cheeks. We watched the sunset's orangey-pink hues and then decided to go home before it got dark.
“The last person to go home is a rotten egg!” Helen grinned, already sprinting.
Those were her last words. Everything else was a blur. It happened in mere seconds. We were racing home, her laughter echoing behind me. I turned back and saw her trip near the ravine’s edge. I went running to her, outstretched hand—but I was too late. The ground crumbled beneath her. Her scream pierced the air, followed by silence.
I remember flashes—my parents shouting, someone calling an ambulance, sirens wailing in the distance. The red and blue lights were blurred. My hands trembled. It felt unreal, like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. My only thought was: Was this all my fault?
Thereafter, I stopped crying. I felt nothing except grief and regret. Her side of the room stayed untouched, as if she might return. Watching siblings play at school felt like the world was mocking my misery. I stopped talking, locking myself in my room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if life was still worth living when the person I loved was gone.
Loneliness drove me to create an imaginary friend—Adrien. He laughed at my jokes, comforted me when I cried, and understood me in ways no one else could. He helped me through two years of my life… before I eventually forgot him.
I may be fourteen, but deep down, I am still that eight-year-old who has never gotten over my sister’s death.
One Saturday, I decided to take a stroll to the park. The house felt suffocating because every nook and corner reminded me of Helen. I was walking alone, as usual, as I didn’t have many friends around the neighbourhood.
“Hey, did you drop this?” A croaky voice sounded. I spun around.
That was when I saw her—an old woman in her seventies, dressed in a frayed black embroidered cloak, silver hair tied in a loose bun. Sallow cheeks were folded in wrinkles, and dark bags hung from her eyes. One shriveled hand held a walking stick; the other a faded drawing. She thrust it into mine. My jaw clenched.
“I-I… Where did you get this?” I choked out, my voice trembling.
It was the drawing I’d made when I was nine—Helen, Adrien, and me on yellowish paper. How did she have this? Who was she? Was this even possible? I looked up, questions racing through my mind, but she was gone. I searched the park frantically, yet it was nearly empty.
A tear slid down my cheek as I folded the drawing and slipped it into my jacket. My fingers brushed against something else—a small antique golden pocket watch on a pearl chain. Inside, one side showed a digital timer counting down from 24:00:00; the other held a golden button engraved with the word ‘memories'.
Curiosity burned through me. I pressed the button—and in an instant, I was standing in a playground. It felt familiar, though I couldn’t place it. The timer had already begun.
I stood up and scanned the peculiar surroundings. That was when I noticed another person. I ran over to him, eager to ask the many questions bursting in my head. Perhaps he could tell me where I was, help me find my way back, or explain what was happening. There, on a bench, sat a boy with toffee-brown hair, dressed in a striped red t-shirt under a dark blue hoodie and cargo pants, and he had glowing green eyes.
“Hey!” I sat down next to him. I didn’t expect him to talk first.
“Hi Aveline, do you, er… remember me? Remember this place? My name’s Adrien,” he smiled at me and pulled me into a tight hug. I found myself blushing, which was wiped away when it suddenly hit me. Adrien…
That's when I recollected everything. This playground was the one I always envisioned playing in with my sister. We had created an entire imaginary world. The sweet aroma of candy drifted through the air, just like Helen and I had spent hours discussing various sweets and candies in an imaginary shop. The sky matched the exact shade of glaucous that Helen had coloured with her broken crayons. There was the treehouse we designed and the lush green field of wildflowers for Mother, symbolizing the power of nature that she loved. And most importantly, Adrien—the boy who I owed everything to, the one who was there for me from the start. I snapped out of my daze.
“B-b-but how?” My voice trembled. “This place—doesn’t exist—i-i-it isn’t real.”
“But it’s real now, so why not explore it?” He looked down at the pocket watch clutched in my sweaty palms. “You do have 18 hours left.”
“Wait, what? I swear it was just 24 hours left a few minutes ago.” My jaw almost dropped. Had time passed that fast?
“Time here isn’t like Earth time. It’s like Narnia, only the opposite. It passes really fast, and the fact that your pocket watch time is based on Earth's timing means we have very little time, so let’s go,” he said, his eyes glowing with excitement.
Before I could speak, Adrien took my hand and led me toward a glowing archway at the far end of the playground. When I peered through it, my breath caught—inside, I saw my old bedroom, exactly as it had been when I was eight. Helen was there, lying on her bed, talking like the incident had never happened. The moment looked so real, I could almost hear her voice again.
“These are your memories,” Adrien said quietly. “Step through, and you can live them again.”
The portal glowed, as if beckoning me to enter.
I stepped into the portal, and the world bent around me, and seconds later, I found myself in another place. I knew exactly where it was.
The forest.
That day.
Helen was in front of me, grinning over her shoulder, her voice ringing out: “The last person to reach home is a rotten egg!” My body moved before I could think, sprinting toward her, willing my legs to be faster this time.
I witnessed the moment—her trip, the stumble by the river’s periphery—and I lunged forward, my fingers brushing hers. Still, the earth gave way. Her scream echoed through the air. My hand was still closed on nothing.
I went into the portal again, and I was back at the starting point. My chest heaved. I tried to stop her from running, but my words just fell on deaf ears. No matter what I did, the ground always gave way, and my efforts were futile.
By the eleventh time, I collapsed to my knees, tears spilling freely.
“You can’t change it,” he said softly. “Some things… you have to let go of.”
Tears blurred my vision. “But I never said goodbye.”
“You still can.”
I realized the portal wasn’t giving me a chance to save her or change the past—it was giving me a chance to finally move on. I went back for the last time. This time, I didn’t interfere; I just hugged her once more before we headed home. When she fell, I simply waved goodbye, the weight I’d carried for six years finally lifting. Before I knew it, I was with Adrien again, my heart lighter, free—free from guilt, pain, and sorrow.
“I did it,” I gasped, tears streaming down my face.
Adrien stepped closer, his gaze steady, fingers brushing mine as if anchoring me in that moment, as if he wanted to do something; I leaned in—but the watch hit zero.
Then the world dissolved, and I was back in the park, the pocket watch cold in my hand. Helen was gone, but for the first time, my heart wasn’t weighed down. I had finally said goodbye. I had learned that holding on doesn’t keep someone alive—love does.
Maybe I imagined him. Perhaps I dreamed it.
But if that world was ever real—even for a second—
Then I know what it felt like…
When imaginary was real.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
My mom has always been a fanatic. Not in a dangerous way. Just… lost in her own world. She collects strange and antique things: chipped dolls with missing eyes, rusted music boxes that play off-key tunes, lace curtains yellowed with time.
I never understood the appeal.
But her obsession stretches into every part of the house — even my room.
Victorian curtains that don’t match. Heavy hand-carved furniture that leans at odd angles. Clocks that tick out of sync. The cupboard, overstuffed with cracked porcelain and things that feel like they’re watching.
But strangest of all is the mirror.
It’s huge, a full-length slab of glass and framed in tarnished bronze. Symbols etched along the border — curling unintelligible. Some ancient script. Or maybe just the artisan showing off.
Either way, it unsettles me.
Not that my mom ever notices.
-
I’m five the first time it happens.
I’m twirling in front of the mirror, showing off my new periwinkle dress. Laughing. Giddy. But when I pause – my reflection freezes a beat too late.
My heart skips. I stare at my reflection, hard.
I still look like me: round cheeks, soft golden hair, light brown eyes. But something is… off. Not the shape of my reflection. Not the way my dress swishes. Just… the feeling.
Like I’m being watched from inside the glass.
A chill runs down my spine.
I run to my bed, burying my face in the pillow. Count to a hundred, slow and trembling.
When I peek again, the reflection looks normal. Still, I don’t go near that mirror for weeks.
-
I’m nine when it happens again.
First day of third grade – I stand in front of the mirror, trying to smile. Trying to convince myself I’ll be okay, that I’ll make some friends this year.
But – the girl in the mirror smiles wider.
Too many teeth.
Too sharp.
Not happy. Hungry.
I stop smiling.
She doesn’t.
Her mouth stretches, slow and deliberate, revealing points that gleam like knives.
I stumble back. Blink. Hard.
Gone.
Just nerves. Just a trick of light.
Mom calls from downstairs, distracted and humming. I grab my bag, not daring to glance at the glass again.
I walk faster than usual that day. And I don’t look at myself in mirrors for a while after.
-
I’m thirteen and my reflection has honey blonde hair instead of the golden strands on my head.
I rub the glass.
The hair doesn’t change.
I ask my mom if we can move the mirror. Maybe just shift it to the hallway. She hums vaguely, flipping through an old magazine about antique auctions.
“There’s no space anywhere else,” she murmurs. “Besides, that mirror’s an artifact. It’s special.”
I want to push. I want to tell her how it makes me feel. But her eyes are distant, focused on things I can’t see, and there’s no use talking to her.
So, I let it go.
Sleep with the mirror in my room, though I pull my blanket up higher to avoid the chill I get from the mirror.
-
I’m fourteen.
The face in the mirror isn’t mine.
It’s too sharp, the cheeks too high and the eyes inky-black, bottomless voids.
I turn away. Wait a moment. Look back.
Still wrong.
I snatch a blanket from the bed and throw it over the mirror. My heart’s pounding.
Even with the glass covered, I feel the weight of its gaze.
I turn the mirror around. It takes all my strength, but I twist it until the reflection faces the wall.
Only then do I rest.
And for the first time in years, I rest easy.
-
Mom finds the blanket a few days later. She frowns, distracted, gently pulling it off with murmurs about discoloration.
“I just don’t want to damage it,” she says, more to herself than to me. She strokes the frame like it’s something precious, something to be treasured. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I want to scream. I do scream at her. Bur mom doesn’t notice, just drifts towards the cupboard, dusting the porcelain pieces within.
Later, when she’s gone, I see it again.
The reflection smiles.
Long, sharp canines. Ink-black eyes.
Then, with a single clawed finger, it writes against the fogged glass:
I won’t hurt you.
I freeze.
Then another message appears:
I only want to listen.
Pause.
It’s so quiet here.
I’m lonely.
Something in my chest twists.
Maybe I’m pathetic, but those words sink into me. I’ve been lonely too. For as long as I can remember.
Mom always busy and dreaming.
Kids whispering and jeering.
Adults judging and avoiding.
So, instead of doing the sane thing and running or screaming for help, I sit down. And whisper, “Would you like to talk?”
-
I’m fifteen.
I talk to the mirror now. To it — to her.
Mira.
Her presence is like a pulse behind the glass. She doesn’t tell me about herself, but always listens.
People laugh at me at school. Say I’m turning into my mom.
I don’t care.
I don’t care. I have Mira now – the only one who’s ever stayed. Who’s ever cared.
Finally, I’m not alone anymore.
-
Sixteen.
I stop sleeping in bed. I make a nest of pillows in front of the mirror. I don’t tell anyone.
I talk to Mira for hours. About my fears, my insecurities, my wishes, my dreams.
Sometimes, she replies with a claw forming words in fog. Sometimes she doesn’t.
But I know Mira always hears me. She has to.
She’s all I have.
-
Seventeen.
She asks me to touch the glass.
Just once.
I lift my hand. A voice inside me — faint, weak — tells me to stop.
I ask, “Why?”
Mira doesn’t answer. Her eyes simply stare into mine, dark and unblinking. Then she turns and disappears.
Gone.
I collapse, hollow, like a marionette with its strings cut.
“Mira,” I whisper. “Please come back.”
Nothing.
I press my forehead to the mirror. “I’m sorry.”
Still nothing.
“Come back. Please. I need you.”
My palm finds the glass.
And something cold touches back.
-
When I wake, I’m sprawled on the floor.
My body aches, like it’s been dunked into ice cold water. My breath comes ragged and shallow -each one painful, like being dragged through glass.
I push myself up, knees trembling. Look into the mirror.
My reflection looks back. Not Mira. Just me - pale, shaking.
Alone.
“Mira?” My voice scrapes out.
There were no clawed hand scrawling words in fog. No too-sharp teeth bared in a smile, too-black eyes staring back at me.
The ornate symbols are dull.
Dead.
“Mira,” I gasped again, my voice cracking. No answer.
She was gone.
Gone.
She promised she wouldn’t. She told me she listened. That she cared.
But she left me. She left me, just like everyone does. And now I’m all alone again. And then—
Crack.
I curl forward, clutching my chest as agony blooms in it — not sharp like a knife, but deep, like something was being ripped out.
Something’s wrong.
I try to scream. Nothing comes out.
I look in the mirror. Mira’s still not there, but cracks spiderwebs across my torso like lightning. Skin splits. Crimson oozes between the lines in trembling, thin threads.
My fingers jerk with sickening pops. My hands twist and deform. My legs spasms and shatters. My skin begins to chip, flakes of flesh curling and falling like ash, clinking as they hit the floor.
I see myself — not in the mirror – but on the floor beside me.
Pieces of cracked skin. Spattered blood. Strands of broken hair. One glassy brown eyeball. A broken tongue.
I look down and see hands, pushing past the cracks in my torso, gripping the sides pulling. Ripping me into two. A broken, formless noises rise in my throat – terrified, animalistic – mouth agape in a silent scream.
Then — I’m looking up at myself.
No, not me. A beautiful stranger – Mira. Whole. Beautiful. Wearing my skin like a coat.
No seams. No flaws. Just better.
And me — nothing but broken parts. Shattered face. Splintered bones. Voice in shards.
She looks down at me, lips curling in a smirk.
“Poor thing,” she whispers. “You were always so desperate to be seen.”
She crouches; her eyes voids of cruelty and something arcane.
“You thought I cared for you. Fed me all your hurt. Your needs. Your dreams.” She smiles, wide and sharp. “But I was just waiting. I couldn’t come through until you let me in.” “And you did.”
Even my voice was now hers, sounding more right coming from her mouth than it ever did from mine.
“You were broken long before I touched you,” she hums. “Now, I’ll live your life. Make it more worthwhile than your pathetic one ever was.”
Then she stands. Lifts her foot.
I look through my fracture vision and see that beneath her heel — there was something red and still pulsing.
My heart.
The last bit of me. The only part–
Crunch.
Everything shatters.
Glass.
Bone.
Voice.
Me.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The bus coughed a final, rattling breath before grinding to a halt. Eighteen years—sharp words, silent judgments, feeling like a ghost in my own home. That was enough. Silverlake, a quiet town I’d only seen on a map, beckoned with promise. I stepped onto the curb, my duffel bag feeling lighter than the invisible weight I’d carried from Hooders.
A bistro job paid the rent for my cramped studio. It was enough. My neighbor, a gravel-voiced woman, once pointed to an alley behind our building. "There’s an old house back there," she rasped. "Been empty for years. Falling apart."
The next day, after my shift, her words tugged at me. An abandoned house. I pictured crumbling walls, shattered windows—mirroring my own desolation. Curious, I pushed through the alley, which opened onto a neat cottage with a vibrant red door and spilling geraniums. It looked…lived in. And yet, something about it called to me.
The door was ajar. “Hello?” I whispered, stepping inside. Warm air, cinnamon and earth, greeted me. Sunlight danced through lace curtains. Dust motes shimmered. A worn armchair, a stack of books, fresh flowers. This was no abandoned shell.
“Anyone here?” I called again. Only the ticking of a grandfather clock answered. My gaze caught a framed photo near the door—blurred figures, strangers, yet a strange familiarity tightened my chest. As I leaned in, a floorboard creaked upstairs. Thump. Thump. Heart pounding, I spun and bolted outside.
That night, the image of the warm house haunted me—the scent, the dust. The next day, I returned, hesitant. Knuckles hovered over the red door. Tap. Silence. Tap again. Still nothing. I was about to give up when the door swung open.
An elderly woman, her face lined but her eyes lively, looked out. “Oh, my goodness!” I blurted, cheeks flushing. “I’m so sorry—I was here yesterday, saw it wasn’t occupied, and… I just went in. Please forgive me.”
She chuckled softly. “Abandoned? No, child. This place has more life than a hive in spring.” She beckoned me inside. “Come in, come in. I was just about to make tea.” She led me through the living room, the same room I’d explored in fearful haste yesterday, into a sun-drenched kitchen.
“So,” she began, pouring steaming amber liquid into the cups, “what brings a young woman like you to Silverlake?”
I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic. “I just turned eighteen. I… needed a change. Moved out of Hooders. Got a job at the bistro downtown.”
She nodded, stirring a spoon of honey into her cup. “Hooders, you say? That’s a good ways from here. Must have been quite the journey.”
“It was. I just… my family. It was too much. The arguments, the comparisons. I felt… invisible, most of the time. Like nothing I did was ever right.” My voice, to my surprise, wavered.
She reached across the table, her hand, soft and warm, briefly covering mine. “Ah, the tangled threads of family. Always a challenge, aren’t they?” She took a sip of her tea, her gaze steady, understanding. “Well, you’re welcome here, dear. Whenever you need a quiet moment, or a cup of tea, just knock.”
And I did. Every day after work, a strange, undeniable pull drew me back to the door. Each time, she was there, her smile a familiar comfort. Each time, a fresh cup of tea, different blends, different scents, always served with a quiet understanding.
“My family just… they never saw me,” I confessed one afternoon, the words spilling out, unbidden, as I stirred sugar into my Earl Grey. “Not really. It was always my older brother, the perfect one, or my younger sister, the adorable one. I was just… there. And the fighting. It never stopped.”
She listened, her expression unwavering, her eyes reflecting a deep empathy. “Sometimes, dear, the people closest to us are the ones who struggle most to see us clearly. It doesn’t mean the love isn’t there, just that it’s buried under a mountain of their own worries.”
“You remind me so much of my own grandma,” I said, a sudden warmth spreading through my chest. “Not in how you look, but… the way you listen. The way you just are. She was like that. She died when I was sixteen. I called her Amma.” A bittersweet ache bloomed in my chest.
A soft smile touched her lips. “Then Amma I shall be for you, too.”
We talked for hours, about everything and nothing. But always, gently, subtly, she steered the conversation back to family.
“Running away, my dear,” she mused one afternoon, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from her cup, “it’s like trying to outrun your own shadow. It might feel like escape for a moment, but the shadow always catches up.” She looked at me, her eyes holding a deep wisdom. “No matter how you perceive it, family love… it’s a root, a foundation. It’s worth fighting for. Worth mending.”
I scoffed. “You don’t know my family, Amma. They’re beyond mending.”
She just smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Are they, dear? Or are you just afraid to try?”
Her words stirred something in me. What if she’s right? The thought haunted me, yet offered a strange hope.
One evening, I knocked at her door. No answer. Tried the handle—locked. Peered through the window. No glow, no scent of cinnamon. Silence. “Amma?” I called softly. Only emptiness.
The house remained dark and silent. Each day, I returned, but Amma was gone. Her absence left a hollow ache but each night, her words echoed: Running away is like trying to outrun your shadow. But family is a root—worth fighting for.
The doubts grew. What if I’d misjudged? Or..what if Amma was right. Maybe I needed to try. I packed my duffel again, heavier this time. The bus trip back home was a blur of thoughts and nerves.
My dad’s car pulled up to our house. The porch light was on. I hesitated, then knocked.
The door swung open. My mom’s eyes widened, then filled with tears. “Dani!” she cried, pulling me into a fierce embrace I hadn’t felt since I was five.
“Oh, my baby,” she sobbed. “We were so worried! We searched everywhere.”
I stepped inside to find my brother, sister, and dad—all visibly relieved. Their expressions—so different from what I’d imagined—made me realize how much I’d missed their love. Amma was right.
They listened as I poured out years of feeling unseen, unheard. They apologized, tears flowing, regret in their eyes. The arguments, neglect—I’d built walls, but they’d been lost in their own worries.
Later, on the sofa, my mom stroked my hair. “Now that everything’s out,” she whispered, “would you like to move back? No hard feelings. We just want you safe here.”
I hesitated. Independence still called, but warmth and home held sway. “Can I stay tonight? I’ll decide tomorrow.”
The next morning, the choice was clear. I’d return to Silverlake. My dad drove me to pack my things, then to Amma’s house.
We approached the alley. The familiar house was gone—derelict, boarded up, a hollow shell. A sinking feeling clenched my stomach. “No,” I whispered, voice trembling.
I got out and stepped inside. The air was cold, damp. No cinnamon scent, no dust motes—just emptiness. The living room was bare. In the kitchen, on a grimy counter, sat a delicate floral teacup and a folded note with my name.
I unfolded the letter, trembling:
My Dearest Dani,
I knew you’d come back. I knew you’d find this. It was always meant to be this way.
You called me Amma, just like your grandmother. I am your Amma—your grandmother.
When you ran, my heart broke. Seeing you so lost, convinced love was a cage—I had to find a way to bring you home. The house was a place of safety, a reminder of family.
My purpose is fulfilled. You are home, where you belong. Your family loves you more than words. The tea, the talks, the warmth—they were real, just like my love.
Live your life, but keep your family close. I’ll always be with you—in every memory, every cup of tea, every brave beat of your heart.
With all my love, always,
Amma.
Tears, hot and stinging, blurred the words. My real Amma. She had come back for me. I headed out of the desolate house.
As I passed the front door, my gaze fell on the wall where the framed photograph had been. There was no frame now, just a faded, discolored rectangle on the peeling plaster. But in my mind’s eye, I saw it clearly: a picture of my grandmother, her face crinkled with laughter, holding a five-year-old me in her arms.
I got into my dad’s car. “Ready?” he asked, pulling away from the curb.
I nodded. “Ready, Dad. Let’s go home.”
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The sea in Minato Village always smelled of salt and summer, even in the middle of winter. The scent clung to the air, to the wooden planks of the pier, even to the cloth of the fishermen’s sleeves. On quiet days, the water lay flat and still, mirroring the cliffs and the crimson torii gate that stood at the edge of the bay like a silent guardian. On stormy days, the waves roared so loudly they seemed to shake the sky itself, and the clouds hung low over the fishing boats like heavy curtains about to fall.
Mitsuki used to love both kinds of days. When the sea was calm, she would sit on the pier beside her father, dipping her bare feet into the tide as he mended nets. The rhythmic pull of the thread through the hemp was soothing, and he would hum the old fishing song in a deep, steady voice, one that blended with the sea breeze. Between verses, he would tell her stories about the guardian dragon who lived beneath the waves, a mighty spirit named Ryūjin who kept the village safe. When the sea was wild, she would watch from the shore, her heart thudding in time with the waves, as he worked against the wind to bring the boat home. She always believed he would return.
But that was before last spring, when his boat never came back.
Now she kept her distance from the pier. The horizon, once a line of adventure and promise, now felt like the edge of the world, and looking at it made her chest ache. Even the song her father used to hum seemed to catch in her memory, stuck halfway through the melody.
One afternoon, her grandfather’s voice called from the shed, where coils of rope and fishing tools hung from the walls, smelling of salt and tar. “Mitsuki, bring the twine. The nets need fixing before the first catch festival.”
She carried the bundle over, the rough scent of hemp clinging to her hands. The first catch festival was held every year when the fishing season began. Villagers would gather at the pier with offerings for Ryūjin, the sea dragon said to protect Minato. They would leave rice wine, fresh fish, and sprigs of pine on the water, asking for calm seas and safe journeys.
Grandfather’s hands moved with practiced speed as he tied knots in the netting. His eyes, though lined with years, still held the clear brown of the shallows. “You know,” he said without looking up, “Your father believed Ryūjin was real.”
Mitsuki kept her gaze on the net. “If he was real, why did he not save him?”
Grandfather’s hands slowed. “Some storms cannot be fought, Mitsuki. Even dragons have limits.”
She said nothing. The words seemed to sink inside her and sit there, heavy and unmoving.
That evening, the village square was touched with the smell of grilled squid drifting from a food stall, the scent curling upward into the darkening air. The sky turned orange as the sun sank toward the horizon, its light spilling across the water in broken shards. Mitsuki found herself walking along the shoreline without really meaning to. Her sandals sank into the damp sand; the grains cool against her toes. The tide whispered around her ankles, each wave a sigh that seemed almost human. She tried to imagine her father’s voice hidden inside the sound, but all she heard was the restless wind and the creak of the torii gate ahead.
She paused near that old gate, its vermilion paint faded and peeling from years of sea spray and sun. A gull wheeled overhead, crying sharply before disappearing into the vast sky. That was when she noticed a flicker in the water.
At first it was faint, like the glint of a coin turning beneath the surface, but the light grew brighter until it shimmered like molten gold. The glow rose higher, the water trembling around it, and the surface broke with a ripple.
From the water emerged a head, long and sleek, with scales that caught the dying light and shimmered in shades of pearl and jade. Two horns, shaped like the antlers of a stag, curved gracefully from its brow. Silver whiskers trailed in the current, stirring gently, and its eyes were as deep and calm as the ocean on a windless day.
Mitsuki stumbled back, her breath caught in her throat.
“You are Mitsuki,” the creature said. Its voice was low and smooth, carrying the rhythm of waves breaking on a quiet shore.
She stared, almost afraid to speak. “You.. you are Ryūjin.”
The dragon inclined his head, water streaming down the smooth arcs of his horns. “I have watched over your village for many years. Your father was a friend to the sea. Many times, I guided his boat home when storms tried to claim him.”
Her chest tightened. “Then why did you not save him?”
Ryūjin’s eyes darkened like a tide turning before a storm. “The storm that night was older than I am. Some tempests are born from the grief of the sky itself. No creature, not even I, can still their rage.”
Mitsuki’s hands curled into fists. “That is not fair.”
“No,” Ryūjin said softly, “it is not. But love does not vanish with the body. Your father’s love for you is in every wave that touches this shore, and in the wind that carries the smell of the sea to your home.”
She blinked rapidly, unwilling to let the tears fall. “That is just words.”
The dragon lowered his head until his snout touched the water before her. Between his teeth he held a pearl the size of her fist, glowing with a soft blue light.
“This holds the sound of the sea your father loved,” he said. “Listen, and you will hear him.”
Mitsuki took it with trembling hands. The pearl was warm, as if it had been held in sunlight all day. She pressed it to her ear, and at once the rush of the tide filled her mind. Beneath it, faint but certain, she heard her father’s voice.
“My little Mitsuki.. live fully. Smile at the sea for me.”
Her breath caught, and her shoulders shook. She clutched the pearl tightly; afraid the voice would slip away like the tide.
When she looked up, Ryūjin was already sinking back beneath the waves, his scales flashing once before disappearing into the depths. “Will I see you again?” she asked quickly.
His whiskers stirred in the breeze. “As long as you stand by the shore with an unclouded heart, I will be here.”
The water closed over him, leaving only widening ripples that soon blended into the sea.
The next morning, the festival began. The narrow streets of Minato were strung with red and white lanterns that swayed gently in the sea breeze. The smell of sweet bean paste buns mixed with the sharper scent of grilling fish. Stalls lined the road, selling everything from carved wooden charms to bright paper fans. Children darted between the adults with paper pinwheels spinning in their hands, their laughter rising above the steady beat of the tMitsuki drum.
Mitsuki walked beside her grandfather toward the pier. His steps were slow but steady, and in his hands, he carried a lacquered tray. She held something of her own the pearl, wrapped carefully in a piece of pale silk.
When it was time for the offerings, villagers stepped forward one by one, placing cups of rice wine, slices of tuna, and sprigs of pine onto small wooden trays. Each tray was set gently on the water to drift out into the bay, a gift for the guardian of the sea. The crowd’s murmur quieted as the tide took the offerings, carrying them away in a loose circle of ripples.
When her turn came, Mitsuki stepped to the edge. She placed a cup of rice wine on her tray, along with a sprig of pine and a slice of fresh tuna. For a long moment she held the pearl in her hand, feeling its familiar warmth, and then she set it gently among the other offerings.
The tray floated slowly away from the pier, the tide carrying it toward the open sea. The water was calm, the surface only slightly dimpled by the breeze, and for the first time in a year, her heart felt calm too.
The crowd began to sing the old fishing song, their voices weaving with the sound of the waves. Mitsuki lifted her gaze to the horizon. Far out where the sunlight danced on the water, she thought she saw the arch of a silver back breaking the surface before slipping away.
And she smiled. Not only for the dragon, but for her father, and for the sea that would always hold both of them.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
At last, the moment had arrived—the most awaited part of this spectacular dance performance: the grand finale, the dazzling climax that never failed to leave the crowd breathless.
Estrella, the celebrated dancer of Aertherwyn, was renowned for her mesmerizing grace and otherworldly charm. A dancer of celestial beauty, she moved across the stage like starlight—fleeting, radiant, untouchable. Her name, meaning "shooting star," was no mere coincidence; she embodied it in every step, every motion. Her performances captivated hearts—but it was in the final moments that her brilliance truly blazed.
What made her dancing even more magical was the way she wove into it one of the rarest—yet most scorned—powers in all of Aertherwyn: solarkinesis, the art of bending and shaping light, even sunlight itself. Once dismissed as frivolous—useful only for lighting corners or adding flair to street shows—solarkinesis was considered a novelty in a world where magic healed wounds, forged mountains, and tamed storms.
But Estrella changed that.
In her hands, light became language. It became emotion, rhythm, and story. She didn’t just brighten the dark—she turned it into art.
Unlike ordinary stadiums, Aertherwyn's magical arena was a marvel of living design. Guided by telekinetics, its upper tiers floated and curved inward, forming a grand oval dome above the crowd. At its apex, a perfect circular gap remained—framing the moon like a crown jewel—its silver light pouring down onto the stage, just in time for the final act.
Estrella stood at the wing, poised for her entrance. But a thought unsettled her—not the roar of the crowd, not the pressure of perfection. No. It was him.
Across the stage stood the man who had shared every spotlight on this tour—her partner. A dancer of equal renown. A performer she had trusted, admired... maybe even something more.
They had made a deal at the beginning: strictly business. No emotions. No entanglements. They never thought they'd fall.
But fate, as always, had its own choreography.
As soon as the first beats of the music echoed through the stadium, he acted. With his umbrakinesis—his power over shadows—he extinguished every spotlight, plunging the arena into darkness.
The audience erupted in rhythmic claps, echoing like a heartbeat through the blackened space. They knew. The climax had begun.
Then the beat dropped—and Estrella blazed.
She ignited the stage with her light, roaring through the dark like a comet tearing through night. She danced not just with grace, but with feeling—like a girl lost in darkness, aching to be seen. To be loved.
Then he appeared.
Dancing like a boy who had lost something he never understood. Wishing he knew. Wishing he could.
They met at center stage. Their movements intertwined—vivid, emotional, raw. It was more than a performance. It was a confession.
A story neither of them had the courage to speak aloud.
They danced to each beat, crafting new emotions with every step: longing, yearning, aching, loving.
And through it all—they completed one another.
Where his shadows fell, her light followed. Where her light faltered, his darkness carved the path. Together, they moved like two halves of a soul—guiding each other through the void, like a lighthouse in the storm, like moonlight threading through endless night.
His steps were sharp, haunted—like a man chasing something just out of reach. Hers were sweeping and searching, as if trying to find what was already slipping away. He spun her, caught her, lifted her—but it wasn’t just a choreography. It was desperation masked as grace. He held her like a man afraid to let go. She leaned into him like a woman aching for answers.
In one breathtaking moment, she reached toward him, light cascading from her fingertips like falling stardust. He caught her hand mid-air—his shadows wrapping around hers, swallowing the glow. For a heartbeat, they simply stood there. Frozen. Breathing. Shaking.
It wasn’t just art. It was everything they had buried.
Her mind drifted—to the night they ran away from rehearsal and found themselves dancing under the open sky, in a field of wildflowers. No costumes. No stage. Just music from the wind and the steady rhythm of hearts in sync. That night, he showed her something she’d never seen before: moonlight was sunlight, reflected. It was softer, gentler—but still light. And that night, with his laugh echoing in the grass and the stars above them, she realized she could bend it too. He had looked at her like she was the moon itself.
And she fell for those dimples.
Now, in the grand finale, she bent the moonlight pouring through the open dome, weaving it into a breathtaking scene—where darkness met light, and stars shimmered across the stage. A dance as if nothing else in the world mattered. Just them.
The audience roared.
They had never seen anything so beautiful.
But memory is cruel. It brought back his words—that it was all business. That he never cared.
Words that shattered her.
But she didn’t cry. Not a single tear.
She stood taller.
She remembered who she was. A woman who could turn magic into meaning. A girl who needed no words to show her soul.
He once told her, “Actions speak louder than words.”
So she danced. And so did he. Their final duet—a masterpiece.
But with every beat, Estrella realized something deeper: She was more than the pain. More than a boy who used sweet words as a shield. More than what they almost had.
As the music slowed, they stood close—closer than ever. She could feel his breath near her ear. One move closer and they would have kissed.
But Estrella knew better.
The final note rang out. The lights vanished. Silence fell before the arena exploded into applause.
She took a single step back. Turned. And walked away—leaving him alone on the dark stage.
Leaving him wishing he had spoken the truth. Wishing he hadn’t used cruel words to protect them from a love he was too afraid to keep.
What she never knew... was that he had lied.
Not because he didn’t care. But because he cared too much.
He believed the future would tear them apart—not with heartbreak, but with silence. With schedules, fame, miles between cities. He feared a love that would slowly starve, unnoticed. No arguments. No betrayal. Just the slow drift of two stars on different paths.
So he made the choice.
He never told her. Never explained. Because he knew—if she reached for him, he’d cave. She’d find a way. She always did. And he’d stay, even if it meant their love might rot quietly behind the scenes.
So he left first. Quietly. Gently.
Not because he didn’t love her— But because he did.
And as the curtain fell and the crowd screamed for an encore, he stood there in the dark, her light still flickering on his fingertips, wishing he had stayed just long enough... to tell her the truth.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The sun crept through the window, its bright glow illuminating Claire’s golden blonde hair as she awoke. As she rubbed the sleepiness from her eyes, she pondered for a moment. It had been ten years since she had inherited the Hero’s blade, Ausrotter, and had been granted a home in the king’s palace. She stared as the crimson blade illuminated ever so slightly in the afterglow of the sun. Claire sighed as she got up, sheathing the newly sharpened blade in preparation for today’s quest.
Walking out of her room, she was greeted by the king’s messenger, who handed her the quest acceptance letter.
“Best of luck today, Madam Holt; the country is counting on you to slay this rogue demon.”
Claire nodded and smiled at the messenger before leaving the palace doors for the stables, her armour clanking with every step. She gently tousled the hair of her steed, Rumpeln, before mounting her, setting off to the last known village that had been attacked. Her mind raced with thoughts of how she was to approach this foe.
As she rode towards the capital gates, various townsfolk showered her with adoration and cheers, some even stopping her to provide her with rations and supplies to support her on her quest. She graciously accepted all gifts, thanking each citizen personally, no matter how inessential. The support of the townsfolk meant more to her than anything, and she intended not to let their faith in her go to waste. No matter how nervous she was about the upcoming foe.
Claire looked around in dismay; the charred remnants of what was once a thriving village were all that remained. She inspected the area, hoping to find any hints as to where that vile demon had escaped to. As she rummaged through the rubble, she couldn’t help but be brought back to her memories as a child. The terror she felt that day. She brushed away those thoughts and refocused on the task at hand.
All of a sudden, she heard heavy wheezing coming from a nearby home. Claire dashed over to the burned-down home. There, lying in pain, was a teenage boy who looked to be a few years younger than Claire herself. His body was badly disfigured, the smell of charred flesh filling the air. She rushed over to his side.
“S-stay with me, kid! I’ve got a healing potion; maybe it will help heal some of your injuries until we can get back to the capital!”
As she was about to pull out the potion, the boy weakly held her arm.
“It’s alright miss, I’m afraid it’s far too late for me to be saved.”
“No, don’t say that. I can still save you! Please, just let me help.”
Claire pleaded, but the boy only gave her a soft smile,
“Please, if you truly want to help me, then listen to me. The demon that attacked us is headed to Neuling, it’s a few hours’ walk from here. You’ll be able to catch up to it on your horse.”
Claire nodded at the boy’s words, holding his hand tight as he took his final breaths. She wiped away her tears as she headed off towards Neuling, vowing to avenge the village.
“Help, someone help me please!” shouted a child cradling his injured mother’s body as a giant looming amalgamation moved closer towards him. Its heaving breath was visible through its loosely stitched mouth. It silently raised its blade higher, ready to strike.
“Stop right there, you foul creature!”
Before the demon could even turn around, it was sent flying by a tackle from Claire. She rushed towards the child, ensuring he was safe before turning her attention back to the demon. Her fist clenched as those memories flushed back into her mind, memories that served as her purpose, her drive.
Claire’s ears rang, the deafening screams making her ears bleed. Her body was bruised and battered as she lay amongst the rubble of her home. The bodies of her neighbours surrounded the area, her mother’s glassy eyes staring back at her as she watched this creature of pure darkness loom towards her. It’s twig-like hand reaching out to her face. She closed her eyes, prepared to accept her fate, when she heard a loud thud. She opened her eyes to see the creature’s head roll onto the ground in front of her as a figure clad in armour stood above her, extending his arm.
“Hello, young lady, I’m Christopher.”
His warm smile sent hope into her body as she was carried to safety by the hero, a crimson blade with the name Ausrotter swinging by his side.
Claire pointed her sword towards the disgusting demon before her.
“Go, get to safety! I’ll handle the creature, just make sure you get as far away from here as possible!”
As the townsfolk fled, Claire maintained full attention as the demon began to get back up. Without a word, Claire charged once more, slashing its leg before twisting to strike its neck when –slam– she was sent flying by a backhand. She wiped the blood from her nose as the creature let out a deafening roar, dragging its blade across the ground, seething with rage.
She quickly regrouped herself, charging right back at the demon, their blades meeting with a loud clang. Desperate to kill this demon, Claire tried her best to push against the demon but ultimately was overpowered by its otherworldly strength. The ground cracked beneath her as she was forced deeper. If she couldn’t think of something soon, she’d be crushed.
She began to mutter under her breath,
“Blade of destruction, unleash your crimson blood upon those tainted by your mark.”
Suddenly, the scar upon the demon’s leg burst into flames, the momentary distraction giving time for Claire to get herself free before slashing the demon’s chest, leading to that scar bursting into flames as well.
She gripped her sword tightly in one hand as she gulped down her healing potion, the effects giving her a boost of strength and adrenaline to push herself to her limits. She was going to slay this demon no matter what.
Try as she might, Claire just couldn’t get a direct hit to the demon’s chest. Using its strength and size, every attack to the heart had been deflected to hit elsewhere, and yet no matter how many times she struck each limb, the creature continued to be relentless in both its defence and attack. She knew it was only a matter of time before the fatigue would start to get to her. Claire had to think fast. How was she supposed to kill this thing? She couldn’t fail; everyone was counting on her to slay this demon. If not her, then who?
Through gritted teeth, Claire cried out with fierce passion,
“It doesn’t matter what I have to do, I’ll make sure I kill you even if it kills me!”
Claire continued to charge with everything she had left inside her, slashing at any limb she could as the demon screeched in pain. Adrenaline pumping in her veins, she brushed off the heavy hits towards her, despite her armour slowly becoming bent and broken. With every broken rib and scar fuelling Claire to remain defiant in slaying the demon. With a wild swing, she cut clean the stitches of the demon’s mouth. A howling roar shattered her eardrums as the demon screamed in agony. Claire was certain that now was the time to strike. With a heavy breath, she gathered all her leftover strength and stabbed the demon in its heart. She’d done it; she finally won.
Claire fell to her knees with a thud. She could finally rest. Her sword still in hand, she tried to get up but couldn’t, her knees buckling each time. As the adrenaline wore off, she began to truly realize the extent of her injuries. She let out a pained shriek as all the pain began to flood into her, each broken bone, each scar, each bruise, all the agonizing pain came at her at once. Tears in her eyes, she desperately searched for a healing potion, but to no avail. She had used up all of them in the fight. With tears in her eyes, she agonizingly crawled towards a nearby tree, leaning against it. Her vision slowly began to fade as her breathing grew heavier.
“Claire, it’s time to go home.”
Said a familiar voice to Claire as she opened her eyes to be greeted by her mother. She looked exactly the same as the day she lost her.
“You have done well, my sweet child, but it is time for you to come home to me.”
Her mother extended her hand towards her. With tears in Claire’s eyes, she nodded, grasping her mother’s hand and walking with her away into the sunset.
Thus, the hero Claire Holt’s body was all that remained, gripping her sword tightly with a smile on her face, as she died doing what she believed in, defending those too weak to defend themselves, no matter what.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
On that night, no cast of moonlight was to be found. A harsh sound of rain hammered against the rooftop, as it was a confession from the sky that poured its heart out helplessly.
The dorm 401 was dimmed with lighting, the atmosphere too heavy for a kid in a crooked gown and messy black hair. The little boy stood not far from the door, the piece of wood the only thing shielding him from a truth he didn’t understand.
Though, he could hear them. Not properly, of course. Just the way the voices were muffled, probably with those fake smiles as tears hid in the corners of their eyes.
There were a lot of unfamiliar words. Coronary, gaseous exchange and things he couldn’t pronounce. A specific sound made the little boy freeze in place, an itch covering the back of his throat.
The itch wasn’t the type of tickle you could simply cough away. Instead, it burnt and stuck warmly until your eyes felt the pain. His footsteps were small and uncoordinated, guiding his back to hit the metal guardrail of his hospital bed roughly.
His breath came out like it was choked. His lungs flared as if oxygen was never meant for him to breathe. A small hand travelled up, clutching the hospital gown at the part where his heart was.
He was but a small boy with burdens larger than his body. A boy.
The sound of the machine beeping was ruthless—harsh, inconsistent and loud that felt like a mockery to the six year old boy.
Kurosawa Kazune, the Japanese boy with a heart disease, could only hope to have a healthy life.
And he passed out.
—
03:06 AM.
The clock on the table glowed, signalling another day the boy didn’t think he’d survive. His eyes were numb when he awoke, breaths sounded unclear through a new oxygen mask placed neatly against his face.
There was a small toy put on his bed, a small dinosaur stuffed animal along with a radio that he told his mother not to buy even when his eyes glowed at the sight of it.
A small, childish grin craved onto his boyish face. Cheeks puffed out and dimples deeply engraved. He hugged the items to his chest, a small giggle escaping.
The door creaked, closed as abruptly as it opened. Kazune froze on his bed, eyes travelling up to meet another boy around his age.
He had freckles, brown hair and a chocolate stain on his mouth. He held his hands together in desperation.
“Hide me, please.”
I blinked, unsure. “From..?”
“The nurse. She’s trying to poison me.”
Before Kazune could speak, the boy with freckles had already ducked under the bed. The door creaked open soon after, the young nurse peeking her head into the room. She caught Kazune’s eye and gave him a gentle smile before leaving.
Kazune then whispered softly. “She’s gone.”
And so the boy emerged from the floor, giggling and laughing in content.
“I’m Shirane. I don’t like medicine.”
The boys stared at each other for a moment before smiling at each other. They intertwined their pinkies, promising to meet when the moon wakes up again.
—
The sun trespassed the window, seeping through the thin blanket prepared by the hospital. The boy with black hair was currently in his bed, fingers writing away in a journal his mother had gifted before leaving for work.
The paper was thin, the pen was gel and heavy with ink. Just like Kazune preferred.
A gentle knock travelled in the air, a noise that Kazune had found himself waiting for. The door opened, revealing Shirane who was now taller, hospital gown less crooked, and another chocolate stain on his cheek. Again.
The freckled boy took a few long, happy strides towards Kazune’s bed. He was radiating, really.
They were now chaotic kids, at least that’s how the nurses referred to them. Nine and causing troubles. Stealing puddings, making fun of nurse’s hair, singing songs that Shirane made even though they’re terrible.
“Today, I want to.. eat the jelly in the fridge!” Shirane exclaimed, a fist raised in declaration.
The black haired boy rolled his eyes, agreeing nonetheless. It wasn’t jelly. Just a frozen cough syrup.
He sulked for two entire hours. Kazune gave him a piece of coin, and Shirane immediately cheered up.
—
Spoilt Milk
I’ve mustered a new thought out of the blue. Unhinged, unexpected and irrationalised from the amidst of my mind.
When a person lies, I swear, they will slip some truth and some lies.
The combination— it brings an energy. A negative one that makes me fall into a deep hole of thoughts.
It’s like spoilt milk.
Each word drank, an uncomfortable feeling would soon twist your stomach.
Doubting a person is rare, and you’ll delude yourself that the milk is delicious.
-
“... Milk? What’s up with that?”
Shirane’s fingers ran through the thin paper of the journal, his heart dropping ever so slightly as he furrowed his eyebrows. The journal entries written by his friend had never made sense to him, and yet he’d always try to understand.
Shirane, dressed in a school uniform and an untied tie, was sitting on Kazune’s bed. His skin was brown-ish, an effect of hanging out under the sun. He had promised that he’d visit everyday, though he could only do it every four days maximum.
Now, an art school student with an acoustic guitar.
Kazune sat next to him, expression unamused as he watched the teenager read his journal as if it was a code to be deciphered.
“What’s up?”
“You entries suck,” The freckled boy mumbled, nudging the paler boy in a joking manner. The latter only snorted, retorting barely a second late. “Not as bad as your songs.”
After a very dramatic gasp slipped from Shirane’s mouth, his hands reached out to tickle the male. The boys ended up in a tickle battle and thus falling off the bed, only to resume their laughter.
-
The days blurred out, completely uncounted as the teenagers goof around. They’d laugh until their cheeks hurt, stomach tight and eyes watered. Every few days, Kazune’s eyes would wander. His smiles became softer, quieter. The seasons passed without either of them noticing.
It was now spring, and Kazune had not gotten out of bed much. The flowers danced across the air, the delicate smell of cherry blossom filling the land pleasantly. In the dorm of 401, two teenage boys were having a banter of who could get the last piece of chip.
As Shirane held the chip up high, Kazune tip-toed and reached for it with ease. A wide grin decorated his soft features, raising it back in the air triumphantly.
“I, Kurosawa Kazune, may be the most talented male to exist.” The teenager declared with a lack of shame, then imitating the laugh of a historically accurate king.
The freckled boy chuckled, shaking his head in slight disappointment of losing. His gaze upon the paler male was tender, his heart calming down ever so slightly at the sight.
Kazune was wearing fewer tubes on his arms. His smiles were livelier and he even hums to himself whenever he thinks no one’s listening.
“Hey, Kazune.” The teenager called out with a calm voice, slowly walking towards the shorter male.
Kazune’s impromptu act of royalty snapped, his eyes glancing back towards his friend. He hummed in response, head tilted as his black hair fell upon his soft features.
“When I become an artist one day, I’ll write you a song. A full album.” The male stated, his tone somewhat too tender than usual.
Instead of pointing it out, a wave of boyish laughter filled the air. “Okay. Only if it doesn’t suck,” Kazune spoke, his eyes shining with glee.
They started to plan various activities for when Kazune gets discharged. Ranging from shopping mall trips to first class tickets to Shirane’s future concerts.
They really thought they had all the time in the world.
Shirane would often extend his visit past the visiting time, conversations prolonged without a reason nor purpose. Sometimes, Kazune would laugh. Most, he’d smile softly while the machine beeps slowly...A little too slowly.
And so Kurosawa Kazune, the Japanese boy with a heart disease, took his last breath during the first week of winter.
—
23 December, 03:06 AM.
Today, the door labelled with number 401 was knocked ever so gently.
The air felt like a penny. Familiar weight, unfamiliar value. The freckled boy chuckled softly, knees dropping onto the cold hospital floor.
His breath hitched. An album shakily put onto the hospital bed.
“Seems like we don’t meet every time the moon wakes up then?”
“. . .”
The sun hit against the album, the cover titled as Music Patient.
He may never be able to revive his friend Kazune. Though he will always, always, carry a piece of him everywhere.
“Thank you. Thank you Kazune.”
And so he cried.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
Elian Thorne was a young court scribe in Caelor. He lived simply and quietly. By day, he made an honest living as a royal scribe due to his gifted memory and humility; using that gift of recollection to pen the edicts of kings while copying out prose at night. His mute was armor, the promise he gave his father when he stopped questioning one king with his own life. The reality that Elian had managed to pass by unnoticed was a double-edged sword, because he carried the secret in his heart of it.
Malrec, ruler of the kingdom on the border, where prosperity rots beneath the shadow of his Pyramid. Truth was dangerous and speaking out against the king was punishable by death. As a quiet observer, Elian witnessed everything. One stormy evening, he arrived early for a meeting between the king and General Ardyn, settling behind a crimson curtain in the war room's waiting area. He expected another dull decree.
Instead, he heard an order that jolted him to his core.
“We’ve found the insurgent’s concealment,” the general said, his voice deep and growling
.
“Destroy it,” the king replied, his tone relaxed and cruel. “With everyone inside. Children included. If you cut the root, the tree doesn’t grow again.”
Elian’s hand trembled on the hilt of his hidden dagger. The safehouse was in the old weaver’s quarter, a place he knew well. He thought then of Liora, a wizened tale healer in his village who had been kind to him only weeks before. She had brought light to a dark city, and now that light was being threatened. He had never done anything before to keep his silence, but the mere mention of Liora dying sparked something within him that was fighting to be let out.
The tempest raged that night, mirroring Elian's turmoil within. By the time dawn came, his decision had been made. He stealthily left the palace with a vital scroll, a formal order for the raid. He navigated through foggy alleys to the weaver’s quarter, arriving just as the guards prepared to attack. Inside, he found Liora, focused on wrapping a sick child's head with a cool cloth.
“You need to run,” he gasped, breaking his silence. “Now. They’re coming.”
Liora’s surprised eyes narrowed with realization. “You knew. All this time. Imagine if I had discovered this a while back, I might have been able to prevent all of this chaos. I long to hate my fate, even spite it for what has transpired, and frantically cast my sight away from any window I may find but precious instant of each day begs the change that might have been in vain. What remains, a bitter thought of yestertime unsung between the bars.”
“I apologize” he muttered. “No,” she said, clenching his hand firmly. “Tomorrow will bring a chance”
“Even as the horizon fades from view and whispers of closure slither through the air I will not give up. For the hourglass, we know, has not yet run dry, nor fate written its final decree. Still, a path remains unspoken for the hand brave enough to set this path in stone. But it is not my master, and so long as breath occupies this husk I will find the pathway.”
She shouted commandingly, “I won’t waste another breath on this nonsense.” She grabbed the child and gathered the others. Twelve families of children and elders had fled through a hidden back passage of the house just before guards came and torched the place. Elian caught a glimpse of the building being swallowed by flames, an emblem of his ruined silence.
The next morning, the king's anger hung heavily over the palace. “Tell me why the river has not delivered the dead,” he boomed. “A mole,” General Ardyn replied through clenched teeth, scanning the court. “One of our own.”
The palace gates were locked down. Every maid, every scholar, every guard was questioned. Yet, Elian walked through the corridors, his face a calm mask of innocence. Inside, however, the embers of the safehouse fire burned steadily. He started to collect evidence against the king. He gathered letters hidden under desks and noted the names of men who had compromised their integrity. He carefully recorded every piece of corruption he found in a special ink that only he could read. He concealed the records in the walls of the archives, sealing them like a father closing a child’s grave. Week after week, he walked a fine line, each breath a lie, until finally, someone whispered his name.
One night, the inevitable came. Liora didn’t meet him as usual. Instead, two concealed figures took a grip of his shirt and yanked him to the cage, their clutch potentially had a horrific fate ahead.
Marred and belaboured, the guards made him kneeling before King Malrec. “You’re clever,” the king said, circling him with a slow, cruel smile. “But foolish. A rat does not challenge the lion.”Elian, tasting his own blood, looked up at the king. Then he did something that went again his nature, he spoke.
“You're not even a deadly scorpion that stings to death” he rasped, his voice raw but steady. “You’re a laborious.”A collective gasp swept through the court. The king laughed, a hollow sound. “Then let history record your endmost words.” He raised his hand to signal the executioner.
But a strong voice interrupted, “Enough.”
It was Liora. Behind her stood dozens of rebels, faces filled with defiance and hope. They were joined by a small group of palace guards who had turned against the king, their armor now symbols of loyalty to the people. They had read Elian’s writings, the truths he had written down. The real story had finally come to light.
King Malrec’s trial was swift and decisive. Elian’s work, a product of his perfect memory and years of silent observation, was shared for everyone to see. Families shed tears as the righteous were liberated and the deceitful were chastened. The king was extradited and his proponents scattered.
Soon after the war ended Caelor changed. The walls that separated the ultra-wealthy from ordinary workers came down. The city that was wounded let the light in, and though it pained its brightness showed all of its darkest corners as it pieced itself back together. In acknowledgement of his courage and tenacity, Elian was given a place on the new council.
He shut it down. All people are get a bombshell but know his reasons of choice. Liora, now part of the new council, recognized the wisdom behind it. She knew he had spent his life watching from the shadows; forcing him into the harsh light of politics would undermine the skills that had saved them all. Elian’s true strength lay not in creating laws, but in preserving the truth behind them. Liora did the same, settling into new holts, transmogrifying away from the Beforeplaces as he had. Council debates and knitting the broken city back together as a community, whereas he found himself on the edge of cliffs. Out there, the salt air in his face and gulls overhead calling, he started writing on that paper.
His works became living histories. He talked to weavers, fishermen, dockers. He weaved together tales of ordinary people who had abandoned all caution and the minute rebellions that gave them strength. His scrolls were open, not veiled and secretive; they were being read in the streets, being passed around from mouth to hand telling their communal tale. This was his council, his form of governance: making sure the tales of ordinary people, not just the powerful, were recorded in Caelor's memory.
“I've had my say,” he said. “Let others have it now.”
So, each morning, he returned to the cliffs and wrote, not for kings but for the people. He chronicled the true history of Caelor, a history born of broken silence and revealed truths.
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
The last ferry of the night awaited her. Mak Jah heaved a sigh, then stepped aboard, bones still aching from all the babies she delivered during her shift. She couldn’t wait until the Penang Bridge was finally completed. Then, she would be able to get home in half an hour. Maybe then she’d finally be able to have enough time to cook a proper meal for herself and not scrape the bottom of yesterday’s pot for leftovers.
The low hum of the engine blended with the English-Hokkien chatter of the other midwives from her shift accompanied her thoughts as Mak Jah cast her gaze out onto the open sea, watching the pier shrink behind her.
“One of the fathers I dealt with was so drunk just now, I swear I saw his hands shaking like mad when he held his newborn. What a lousy man he is!”
Mak Jah could only smile to herself as she knew she had seen worse. Men who refused to hold their daughters, mothers who bit back screams because their husbands thought noise was shameful, relatives who argued over omens while the woman bled. Her occupation had taught her that people were at their truest when life first arrived, and not everyone’s truth was pretty.
She rested her arms against the railing, letting the sea breeze cool the sweat from her temples. The ferry’s motion was steady, the night quiet if not for the drone of the engine and the rise-and-fall chatter of her colleagues. Somewhere beneath it all, she could hear the soft laps of water against the hull.
Then, something in the stillness triggered an ancient memory.
“Jah, remember not to play by the sea when the moon is gone. Later, you will bring bad luck on yourself. Nasib buruk.” Her mother’s voice rang in her head. Shuddering, she glanced up into the night. Indeed, tonight’s sky brought a bulan mati, but babies did not wait for lucky days. Mak Jah hadn’t thought of her mother in years, much less spoken to her since the night she passed when Jah was still in primary school.
Her mother had died during the birth of her fourth child, her breath leaving her as her baby took its first cry. Whispers from the kampung aunties claimed that her mother was an unfaithful wife and the spirit world had claimed her in labour as payment, but Jah knew deep down that her mother’s heart had never strayed, only her breath had escaped her.
The ferry swayed gently. Exhaling, the woman pushed unhappy thoughts of her past deep into a corner of her mind and lowered herself into a seat, content in watching the water’s black surface glide past. The plastic bench was cold and slightly wet to the touch, but she welcomed the quiet. Twenty minutes to rest her aching legs before she boarded the bus back home.
Without warning, the boat lurched forward. The young midwives’ conversation stopped mid-laugh for them to nervously exchange glances. Their eyes darted around before their gossip restarted with a hushed tone. A prickling sense of dread and unease slowly crept up Mak Jah’s spine. Years of rushing in and out of rooms mixed with blood and tension had told her to trust such feelings, and now every single bone in her body was telling her that something was wrong.
She stood up slowly, slightly trembling. Mak Jah would’ve liked to say that the shakiness of her legs was due to the hours she’d spent on her feet but she knew there was a different weight pressing on her now—one that had everything to do with the peculiar stillness of the seawater. The deck felt different under her soles. Less solid, as though something beneath the hull was alive and breathing.
A faint wind whispered across the deck, bringing with it a smell she hadn’t known since her childhood by the sea: salt, damp earth… and the cloying sweetness of jasmine. The hair on her arms rose.
Her mother’s warning came back to mind: Jah, listen to Mak’s advice….
She swallowed, keeping her eyes fixed on the water’s surface. A ripple moved against the current, slow and deliberate—and that was when she heard it.
A thin, reedy voice floated over the wind. A haunting melody.
Nina… bobo…
Mak Jah’s grip on the railing tightened until her knuckles ached. Her blood turned cold.
Oh nina… bobo…
She turned her head sharply, trying to find out where the song seemed to come from.
Kalau tidak bobo, digigit nyamuk.
The voice was soft and tender, yet it curled in her gut like spoiled milk. She hadn't heard that lullaby since her mother passed, but this song was wrong, and it was coming from the back of the boat. The sound was faint, almost like someone humming through a smile. Mak Jah cautiously made her way over to the source of the voice. It came from behind a stack of wooden crates down at the rear of the ferry, leaving just enough darkness to hide a person.
She inched her way closer. Her sandals scraped softly against the deck. The air thickened with the smell of jasmine flowers.
Mak Jah’s throat went dry. “Siapa itu? Who is that?”
The song stopped.
Mak Jah’s heart pounded as if it were in her throat.
“Please. Who is that?”
Silence rang against her ears. Then, a head appeared from behind the crates. Her jet black hair was curled against the floor, her kebaya a shade of shimmering green. Skin as pale as a vampire’s, and her mouth curved into a smile too big for the face she wore. Her eyes—wet, glistening, and unforgettable. Mak Jah knew what creature she was: a langsuir. Her friends back at her kampung bullied her relentlessly when they found out her mother was deceased because they believed her ghost would turn into a langsuir, a mother who had passed during childbirth.
Mak Jah locked eyes with the woman, too stunned to let out a scream. She stumbled back.
“Look at my baby,” the woman smiled.
She held a swaddle of cloth in her arms and gently rocked it from side to side.
“Look at her. I haven’t seen my other children in so long. They must miss me greatly.”
The bundle squirmed. The cloth fell away from its face, and Mak Jah’s stomach lurched. It was no infant, but a mass of wet black feathers clumped together, a beak jutting from between them, its glassy eyes rolling toward her, almost as if it was begging to be saved.
“Help me rock him to sleep,” she whispered. “Bantulah. You are a midwife… aren’t you?”
Mak Jah’s knees buckled. She wanted to run, to call for help, but her tongue was heavy and her legs felt like they were nailed to the deck.
The woman came closer, the bundle pressed to her chest. “You wouldn’t let me die alone, would you?”
The words sank into her bones like cold rain.
Mak Jah’s breath hitched. She knew that voice. Not from the market. Not from her neighbours, but from the narrow, sweating room back at her own kampung years ago, where a young woman, eyes wide with fear, had bled and bled while Mak Jah’s hands shook uselessly. She had been too late that night.
The bus had been delayed. By the time she arrived, the woman’s cries were close to silent, her newborn already cold.
“I…” Mak Jah’s voice broke. “I tried. Aku dah cuba.”
The woman’s smile deepened, hair plastered to her cheeks. “But you didn’t save me.”
The lullaby began again, low, the wrongness of it pulling at Mak Jah’s chest. The bundle twitched, feathers rustling beneath the cloth.
Mak Jah stumbled back, but the crates blocked her path. The jasmine scent thickened until it drowned out the salt of the sea.
The woman stepped closer, her shadow swallowing Mak Jah whole. “Then you will help me get back to my children now.”
When the others finally noticed her absence, they found only the crates, the coiled rope, and a trail of wet footprints leading to the edge of the deck, vanishing into the black water.
And in the distance, barely carried on by the wind, the lullaby floated back to them.
Nina bobo, oh nina bobo…
- THE END -
(This story is unedited.)
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