It’s Alex. Just your average writer with a penchant for diving deep into literature and weaving tales. Russian lit? Yep, big fan. Between Tolstoy, Chekhov, and the unparalleled emotions they portray, it's hard not to get sucked in.
I’m in the middle of drafting my first novel, Cantus Maris. It's a labor of love, fueled by inspiration and probably too much coffee. I’m eager to share it with you all soon. In the meantime, I've been delving into the works of some formidable classical authors like Virginia Woolf, George Eliot, and Willa Cather. The beauty of their prose, the captivating stories they tell, and the immersive worlds they conjure? Absolutely awe-inspiring.
If you want to follow along on my literary journey or just chat about favorite reads, you can find me on Twitter (@emitridium) and over at RoyalRoad here and AO3 here.
This is a friendly reminder to never, ever publish your book with a publishing company that charges you to publish with them. That is a vanity press, which makes money by preying on authors. They charge you for editing, formatting, cover art, and more. With most of these companies, you will never seen a cent of any royalties made from sale of your book. A legitimate publishing company only makes money when you make money, they will never charge you to publish with them. If a company approaches you and says "Hey, we'll publish your book, just pay us X amount of money," tell them to go fuck themself and block them.
Remember, kids: money should only ever flow FROM your publisher TO you.
Here's a very well-maintained resource by the SFWA (Science-Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association) that lists contests/editors/small presses/etc. with predatory behaviours:
About Us Mission Who we are, what we do, and why. Includes information on how to contact us. Overview and Site Map What you’ll find on the W
Diluc Ragvindir has always embraced solitude, his heart shielded by the walls he's built to keep the world at bay. In his eyes, family ties are a complex web of emotions and obligations, too tangled to unravel. Yet, on a quiet, festive night, a chance encounter with his estranged stepbrother, Kaeya, in a dimly lit bar stirs something long buried within him
Today marks a bittersweet moment in our literary adventure. 📖✨ The final chapter of the year for Tempus Exsanguis has been uploaded, and what a ride it's been! From heart-wrenching twists to those breathtaking moments of triumph, together we've experienced a tapestry of emotions and stories.
But wait, there's more! Mark your calendars because the last chapter of Cantus Maris will be uploaded on December 21, 2023, at 15:00. Get ready for an epic finale that will leave you longing for more as we head into the new year.
As for Tempus Exsanguis, our journey together resumes on January 8th, 2024. I promise the wait will be worth it – with more twists, deeper character explorations, and perhaps answers to some of those burning questions!
As the year winds down, so does our tale… but only for a short while. We're taking a brief hiatus to recharge our creative energies and to bask in the festive spirit of the season. But don't worry, this isn't goodbye, it's just a see-you-later.
I want to express my deepest gratitude for your incredible support, your insightful comments, and for just being the best readers an author could ask for. You've made this story come alive in ways I never imagined.
So, grab your favorite beverage, cozy up, and enjoy the latest chapters. Let them be a warm literary hug from me to you. And in the meantime, I wish everyone a holiday season filled with joy, love, and of course, lots of good books. 🎄📚
Happy holidays, and I can't wait to see you all in 2024 for the next chapter of Tempus Exsanguis and more adventures in Cantus Maris!
Stay wonderful,
Alexander
P.S. Feel free to drop your thoughts, and holiday wishes my inbox. I love hearing from you all! You can find me on Twitter as well under @emitridium
In a quaint town wrapped in the quiet magic of routine, a winter morning unfolds with simple joys, until an unexpected event atop a hill stirs a profound change, challenging the fabric of everyday life and its hidden depths.
The winter morning wrapped the slumbering town in a chilly embrace, its streets whispering with the soft steps of early risers. A delicate frost kissed the cobblestones, shimmering under the pale light of dawn. In the main square, guards huddled together, their breaths misting in the air as they exchanged hushed, casual banter, their words a comfortable murmur in the quiet morning.
Nearby, an old lady, her steps measured and sure, wandered the town’s winding pathways. She was the silent custodian of the dawn, her keen eyes scanning every nook and cranny, ensuring all was as it should be. Her presence was a reassuring constant, like the first light that gently nudged the town from its slumber.
Through the narrow streets, a courier darted with youthful vigor, his bag brimming with letters and parcels. Each step was a promise, a bearer of news and stories from afar, weaving the town into the tapestry of the wider world.
Meanwhile, secluded in the tender shadow of her abode, a lone woman leaned against her window sill. The cool glass was a stark contrast to the warmth of her skin, as she drew in a deep breath of the crisp morning air. She exhaled a sigh, long and forlorn, her eyes distant and longing. In her heart, a silent yearning echoed, a fervent hope for a letter from her distant lover. It was a wish whispered to the quiet town, a secret shared with the breaking day.
As the town slowly stirred to life, these early moments of the day unfolded, each a small, unremarkable miracle. The morning held nothing out of the ordinary, yet in its simplicity, it was a canvas of life, painted with the hues of routine and the quiet magic of everyday existence.
Nestled amidst the tranquil embrace of slumbering woods and perched atop a gentle hill that offered a sweeping view of the town below, there stood a grand palace. Its once resplendent white walls, now tinged with the patina of age, bore silent witness to the relentless march of time. Each window, framed by shutters that had long ceased to dance with the breeze, was veiled by curtains that kept the secrets of the mansion hidden from the world outside.
The balcony, jutting out proudly over the hill, remained perpetually deserted, its doors forever sealed, as if guarding the memories of grandeur that once filled its spaces. Where there had once been vibrant flowers, now only withered remnants clung to their pots, a poignant reminder of a beauty that had faded into whispers and echoes.
The passage of time had etched itself into every crevice and corner of the palace. The pristine white of the walls, once a beacon of splendor, now showcased a tapestry of wear and tear, each crack and crevice telling a story of years gone by. In one corner, nature had begun to reclaim its dominion, with vines creeping up from the earth, slowly, almost tenderly, entwining themselves around the structure. They climbed with a quiet determination, enveloping the corner of the mansion in a verdant embrace, as if to soothe the weary bones of the grand edifice.
This palace, once a symbol of opulence and grandeur, now stood as a solemn monument to the inevitable passage of time, its silence resonating with the echoes of a bygone era. It was a hauntingly beautiful relic, a testament to the enduring dance between man’s creations and the inexorable forces of nature.
As dawn’s tender light crept over the horizon, the town square gradually awakened from its nocturnal repose, stirring to life with the rhythmic cadence of daily routine. Stalls, arrayed like colorful jewels across the cobblestones, opened their shutters, revealing treasures of crafts, foods, and wares, each telling a story of local tradition and artisanal skill.
The morning dew, which had delicately adorned every surface with its glistening mantle, began to retreat under the gentle caress of the rising sun. This sun, though bitter in its winter crispness, bathed the valley in a warm, golden glow, a faithful sentinel greeting the town as it had done unerringly – yesterday, the day before, and promising to continue in all the tomorrows to come.
Amidst this serene awakening, the air was soon filled with the jubilant laughter of children. Their voices, pure and uninhibited, wove a melody that seemed to dance through the streets, a playful antidote to the lingering chill. The joy in their laughter held the power to soften the edges of the coldest morning, infusing the air with a warmth that transcended the mere touch of the sun.
The guards, steadfast in their duty, continued their vigilant patrol, their presence a comforting constant in the ever-changing tapestry of the town. The old woman, a figure of quiet resilience, maintained her diligent walk, her eyes reflecting a deep knowledge and love for every brick and stone of the place she called home.
Meanwhile, the moment the town had been silently holding its breath for arrived. The courier, messenger of news and harbinger of joy, delivered the long-awaited letter. In a secluded corner, the woman, who had leaned against her window sill with a heart full of longing, now embraced the letter with an ecstasy that radiated from her being. It was a simple piece of paper, yet in her hands, it transformed into a priceless treasure, a tangible connection to a distant lover, an embodiment of hope and enduring love.
In this small, vibrant square, life unfolded in its beautifully ordinary splendor, each moment a thread in the rich tapestry of daily life, woven together by the simple, enduring rhythms of the town and its people.
Whether it was a Sunday or a Saturday seemed inconsequential in the flow of this moment, as the town square, pulsating with the simple joys of everyday life, continued its harmonious symphony. The distinction of days faded into irrelevance, overshadowed by the immediate, vibrant reality of the here and now.
This peaceful tableau, however, was abruptly shattered by a sudden cry. “Smoke!” The word cut through the air, a sharp, jarring note in the morning’s gentle melody. A man stood, his arm outstretched, his finger pointing towards the grandiose palace perched on the hill. The crowd’s gaze followed his indication, turning as one to witness an unexpected sight.
There, behind the dignified silhouette of the palace, a plume of black smoke began to curl into the sky. It rose slowly at first, an ominous serpent slithering upwards, then gathered momentum, billowing into a thick, dark cloud. The palace, once an emblem of stoic beauty and the slow passage of time, now stood starkly against this backdrop of urgency and alarm.
The people in the square, moments ago wrapped in the cocoon of their daily routines, now found themselves united in a shared concern. The laughter of children faded into uneasy silence, the clatter of the market stalls quieted, and even the routine patrols of the guards paused, as all eyes were fixed on the unfolding drama.
As the black smoke continued its relentless ascent, the townspeople remained frozen, a tableau of varied reactions painting the square. Some stood with mouths agape, their expressions a mix of disbelief and fear, as if they were witnessing an apparition rather than a tangible crisis. Others turned away, hands shielding their eyes, unwilling or unable to confront the scene unfolding before them. And amongst them, a few closed their eyes, lips moving in silent prayer, seeking solace or intervention from a higher power in the face of this unexpected turmoil.
The man who had first alerted the town to the smoke, a figure distinct with his non-local accent, tried once more to rouse the onlookers. “There’s smoke coming out!” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with urgency. He began to suggest action, “Let’s go help-” but his words trailed off, his call to action dissipating as he surveyed the crowd. He lowered his arm, a gesture of resignation, as he realized the stark truth.
Nobody moved. It wasn’t just a lack of physical motion; it was as if the very notion of action had become foreign to them. The townspeople, usually a tight-knit community quick to aid their own, now appeared disconnected, lost in their own thoughts and fears. The man’s plea, despite its earnestness, fell on ears that seemed deafened by the shock of the situation.
“Why aren’t you moving…?”
The man’s frustration was palpable as he muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the crowd with a mix of disbelief and disappointment. He saw children, their faces etched with fear, seeking shelter behind their parents. The adults, meanwhile, stood rooted to the spot, their gazes fixated on the thickening smoke, as if in a trance, waiting for a divine intervention that seemed unlikely to come. It was a scene of eerie stillness, a stark contrast to the urgency of the situation.
The notion that even the lord’s guards, those entrusted with protection and action, remained inert, sparked a bitter realization in him. Could it be that even in times of dire need, the expectation of divine or noble intervention overrode the impulse for personal action? This thought gnawed at him, his mind grappling with the apparent apathy that had gripped the town.
Driven by a sense of duty and perhaps a touch of naïveté, he clenched his teeth in determination. He couldn’t stand idly by while the palace, a symbol of the town’s history and grandeur, was consumed by flames. With resolve fueling his steps, he pushed through the crowd, his coat flapping behind him as he made his way towards the palace.
The smoke had grown denser, a sinister cloud that seemed to swallow the sky. Flames now visibly devoured the curtains of the palace windows, a ravenous dance of destruction that was both terrifying and mesmerizing.
As he weaved through the onlookers, he almost collided with the old woman, a familiar figure in the town. But today, her expression was uncharacteristically jubilant. Her toothless smile, broad and seemingly out of place, sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. It was a jarring sight, her apparent delight amidst the unfolding disaster.
Shaking off the unsettling encounter, he refocused on his mission. With renewed urgency, he sprinted out of the square, his feet pounding against the dirt road that led to the palace. The once-distant fire now loomed larger, a beacon of destruction drawing him closer.
In stark contrast to the town’s unnerving silence, the forest that bordered the path to the palace was alive with the ominous symphony of the fire. The crackling of wood under the ruthless embrace of the flames created a haunting melody, punctuated by the occasional groan of stone and timber succumbing to the inferno. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of burning wood and stone, a tangible reminder of the destruction unfolding just beyond the treeline.
As the man cast his gaze towards the palace, his vision was obscured by the billowing smoke, dark and impenetrable. It was a daunting sight, one that made his heart race with a mix of fear and adrenaline. The reality of the situation began to weigh heavily on him. The enormity of the fire, the potential for loss, the danger – all these factors coalesced into a single, paralyzing thought: he couldn’t save everyone.
Self-doubt crept into his mind, slowing his once determined stride to a hesitant shuffle. Who was he, after all, but a mere writer? A man in search of inspiration, not a hero carved out of the tales he so often penned. The romantic notion of rushing into danger, of being the savior in a moment of crisis, crumbled under the heavy burden of his own limitations.
The smoke ahead seemed to mirror the fog of doubt in his mind, obscuring not just his view but also his resolve. The realization that he was not the protagonist of a heroic tale, but a human being faced with a situation far beyond his control, was a sobering one. As he grappled with this internal struggle, the fire continued its relentless destruction, indifferent to the hopes, fears, and doubts of those who watched from afar.
The sharp bite of his tongue against the stillness of his doubt served as a jarring, yet effective catalyst. It broke through the fog of his hesitation, bringing a stark, painful clarity. He refocused, his gaze locked onto the billowing smoke that now seemed like a dark beacon in the sky, casting ominous shadows that stretched over the ground and loomed over the town.
As if in response to his renewed determination, a gust of wind swept through, its force nudging him forward, as though nature itself was urging him on. Embracing this sign, he broke into a run once more, his boots striking the cold, uneven ground beneath him. The terrain was rough, a wild contrast to the orderly cobblestones of the town square, but he pushed on, weaving through the dense underbrush in search of a shortcut to the palace.
The forest around him was alive with the sounds of the disaster unfolding at the palace. The relentless crackling of wood being consumed by the flames created a harrowing soundtrack, punctuated now by the sharp, distinct sound of glass shattering. The noise echoed through the trees, a stark reminder of the destructive power of the fire and the fragility of what it consumed.
With each step, the urgency of the situation pressed upon him, propelling him forward. The writer, once lost in doubt and self-questioning, now found himself driven by a singular purpose. He was no longer a passive observer in search of inspiration; he had become an active participant in a real-life drama, one where the stakes were tangibly high and the outcome uncertain.
In the throes of his instinctive dash, the writer’s mind was a blank slate, driven purely by the primal urge to reach the palace. His limbs, acting of their own accord, propelled him through the undergrowth, until a hidden branch caught his foot, sending him tumbling to the ground. The cold, winter earth met him with a harsh welcome, the sparse grass offering little cushion against his fall.
Wincing, he quickly scrambled to his feet, his eyes immediately seeking out the palace. The sight that greeted him was one of catastrophic beauty. Flames voraciously consumed the once grand structure, erupting from the shattered windows like the breath of some mythical beast. The smoke was a dense shroud, obscuring the sky, while the grand dome that had crowned the palace lay sunken and destroyed. The once majestic doors were now mere fuel for the inferno, and the walls, those silent sentinels of history, were marred with the scars of the blaze. The roof, having fought a valiant battle, finally succumbed, collapsing inwards with a final, defiant roar.
As he stood, a witness to this destruction, his eyes widened in shock. His mouth hung open, a silent testament to the overwhelming power of the scene before him. And there, amidst the chaos and the fury of the flames, stood a man on the palace steps. This figure, set against the backdrop of devastation, was an enigma - his posture one of confidence, his arm extended in a gesture that seemed to challenge the very flames that raged around him.
The statues that had once graced the facade of the palace, now charred and disfigured, stood as solemn spectators to this surreal spectacle. The flames, in their relentless dance, cast a fiery glow on the polished stone of the steps and courtyard, painting the scene with an eerie, otherworldly light.
This tableau, amidst the destruction and chaos, was one that seemed to transcend reality. The figure’s defiance, whether born of madness or courage, was a stark contrast to the natural order of things. For the writer, this moment was a frozen slice of time, a scene that would be etched in his memory forever.
The writer’s perception of the figure standing amidst the flames shifted abruptly from one of awe to urgent concern. Regaining his footing, he struggled to find his voice, a voice that seemed insignificant against the backdrop of the roaring inferno. “Get out of there!” he yelled, his voice laced with a mix of fear and desperation.
The man on the steps turned, his gaze locking onto the writer. His eyes were fierce, a reflection of the voracious flames that engulfed the palace, a mirror to the destruction that unfolded behind him. This intense gaze rooted the writer to the spot, a silent confrontation amidst the chaos.
“Why?” The man’s voice, calm and eerily composed against the cacophony of the fire, carried a weight that held the writer captive.
“It’s dangerous!” the writer exclaimed, stating the obvious, yet compelled to speak. His mind raced with concern, “Is there anyone else inside?”
“No, it’s just me.” The man’s response was simple, yet it resonated with a profound solitude, an acceptance of the situation that seemed incomprehensible to the writer.
This exchange, brief as it was, painted a picture of stark contrasts. The writer, driven by instinct and concern, faced a man who seemed almost a part of the inferno, unafraid and resolute in his stance. The scene was surreal, a living embodiment of human confrontation with the uncontrollable forces of nature, and perhaps, with the deeper, inexplicable aspects of human nature itself.
“What are you doing here?” The man’s question hung in the air, his head tilted in a gesture of curiosity as he observed the writer, who was visibly struggling for breath amidst the smoke and the intensity of the moment.
“I was—” the writer began, his words faltering as he grappled with the surreal nature of the situation. “I thought someone needed help,” he managed to say, his voice a mix of confusion and determination. He had come here driven by a sense of urgency, a need to do something in the face of disaster, but now found himself in a scenario far beyond his expectations.
“Well, there’s no one that needs it here,” the man replied, his tone suggesting a finality, as if closing the door on any further inquiry or assistance.
“What are you doing?” the writer asked, a new wave of perplexity washing over him. The scene before him was contradictory to every instinct of self-preservation and logic.
The man remained silent, offering no response, no explanation for his alarming stoicism in the midst of the raging fire. His silence was as enigmatic as his presence there, a riddle wrapped in the inferno’s embrace.
This lack of response left the writer at a loss. He was confronted not only with the physical danger of the fire but also with the incomprehensible behavior of the man before him. The situation defied every narrative he had known or written, placing him in a story where the lines between reality and improbability were blurred. The writer, once an observer and chronicler of human nature, was now faced with its most unpredictable and unfathomable aspects.
The scene before them was a symphony of destruction, the fire’s crackling crescendo accompanied by the slow, agonizing demise of the palace. The walls, once sturdy and imposing, now crumbled under the assault of the flames. The vines, which had tenderly embraced the structure, shriveled and perished in the heat. Amidst this chaos, the two men stood, each lost in their own thoughts, as they witnessed the end of an era, the palace succumbing to a fiery fate.
The writer, grappling with the surreal nature of the moment, sought some semblance of understanding. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice barely rising above the roar of the fire.
“Who do you wish me to be?” the man replied, his answer cryptic, adding layers to the mystery that surrounded him.
The writer’s mind, influenced perhaps by the dramatic scene and the man’s enigmatic demeanor, ventured into the realms of the metaphysical. “Are you the Devil?” he asked, half in earnest, half compelled by the otherworldly atmosphere.
“If that what you wish for me to be, so I will be,” the man responded, a chuckle in his voice that seemed to dance with the flickering flames. His gaze remained fixed on the burning structure, watching as the palace was consumed, its grandeur and history turning to ash.
The writer stood there, a witness to both the physical destruction of a landmark and the symbolic demise of the legacy it represented. The man’s cryptic words and unsettling laughter resonated with the chaos around them, blurring the lines between reality and the surreal. It was a moment that transcended the ordinary, a scene that seemed as much a figment of imagination as a harsh reality.
just got a second official warning for my use of "from the river to the sea, palestine will be free" on the OTW volunteer slack
people are also currently asking board to ban saying that the founding of israel was colonialism—equating this to saying racial slurs—and were complaining about my status back when it was "palestine will be free", too
suffice to say, fuck that place, don't give the OTW your money, and don't fucking volunteer there
(the second screenshot is from the warning I got a few days ago)
In the whispered echoes of a gala night, I linger on memories of an enigmatic gentleman in red, our exchange a dance of flirtation, his invitation a siren's call, weaving a tale of allure and uncharted desires.
“Good evening,” I offered, my smile a well-practiced facade, the glass of champagne catching the soft glow of the room. My words, laced with a feigned interest, floated towards the cluster of guests. “Are you enjoying the event?” The query, a mere formality, barely concealed my profound ennui.
As if rehearsed, their responses chimed in unison, “Of course, it’s marvelous! Have you sampled the cake? The exquisite cuisine? The wine?” Their voices, a cacophony of eagerness, seemed to dance around me, each syllable dripping with the unspoken desire to weave connections.
The music, a solitary redeeming feature, filled the air with a vivacity that contrasted sharply with the undercurrent of superficiality. The chandeliers, dimmed to a soft, golden hue, cast a gentle light over the scene, their glow reflected in the lively bubbles of my champagne. I brought the glass to my lips, the effervescence teasing my tongue before giving way to the familiar, underwhelming taste.
In this grand charade, every smile, every gesture was a calculated move in a game of unspoken alliances and veiled intentions, set against the backdrop of an evening that promised much yet delivered little more than gilded emptiness.
Each time an invitation landed in my hands, adorned with the words “To our distinguished…”, my eyes couldn’t help but roll in silent cynicism. Despite the reluctance that gnawed at me, I found myself accepting these invitations, knowing full well the predictability that awaited. The events, regardless of their veneer of exclusivity, were always populated by the same faces – familiar smiles, tired camaraderie, each interaction a thinly veiled attempt to curry favor. The gatherings were a tableau of old men accompanied either by their wives or conspicuously younger companions. The monotony of it all was stifling.
Lifting the champagne to my lips once more, I welcomed the brief respite its effervescence provided from the stagnant air of pretense. Yet, even this small pleasure was marred by the lackluster flavor of the drink – a disappointment that mirrored the event itself.
The dance floor, now opened, presented a scene that might have been captivating to a newcomer. Elegant dresses and sharply tailored suits graced the figures of those who moved across it, their attire speaking of a fashion that was just a step ahead of the current trends. The younger attendees, mostly ‘plus-ones’, gravitated towards the dance floor with an enthusiasm that contrasted sharply with the more seasoned attendees. These younger guests frolicked to the orchestra’s tunes, their movements light and carefree.
In stark contrast, the older couples seemed almost anchored to their tables, confined within their select social circles. They engaged little, their interactions limited and guarded. The divide was palpable – the vibrancy of youth on the dance floor, the entrenched solemnity of the older guests at their tables – each group ensconced in their own worlds, separated by unspoken yet deeply ingrained social norms.
The waiter, a silent sentinel amidst the sea of revelry, approached me with a tray of champagne glasses. Each glass sparkled with the promise of effervescence, a fleeting allure. His gaze, though fixed on me, seemed to pierce through to some distant point, devoid of genuine interest. It was a reminder that, like me, he was merely playing a role in this grand charade – he to serve, I to partake, both of us bound by the unspoken rules of this gilded masquerade.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, almost mechanically, exchanging my empty glass for a full one. My eyes lingered on the waiter as he weaved his way through the tables with an effortless grace. His form was a study in physical perfection, each movement fluid and poised, reminiscent of a river carving its path with serene certainty. There was a certain elegance in his simplicity, a stark contrast to the ostentatious display that surrounded us.
Was there a tinge of envy in my observation? Perhaps. In his motion, there was an authenticity that this room, with all its finery and forced gaiety, sorely lacked.
I raised the glass to my lips once more, the initial fizz of the champagne giving way all too quickly to the familiar taste of disappointment – a fitting metaphor for the evening. The bubbles, like so many things in this setting, promised much but delivered little, mirroring the hollow exchanges and superficial smiles that filled the room.
“Where’s your plus one?”
The voice that cut through the din of the crowd held a resonance that tugged at the edges of memory. It was a sound both distant and intimately familiar, like an echo from another time. I turned, my gaze settling on the source: there she stood, a glass of champagne in hand. The liquid inside was a paradox in itself, half full or half empty depending on one’s perspective, much like the expressions that played across her features – a mixture of distaste and amusement.
“I don’t have one,” I responded, my words succinct, free of the usual pretenses.
Her reaction was theatrical, an exaggerated gasp that held no true surprise, only a flair for the dramatic. “Oh, I’ll enjoy this night then,” she declared, a playful chuckle escaping her lips as she brought the glass to her lips. The taste of the champagne, bland as it was, didn’t seem to diminish her spirit.
“Yeah, yeah. Savour the moment,” I replied, a hint of dry humor in my tone. Her presence, an unexpected deviation in the night’s monotonous proceedings, brought a certain liveliness, a spark of genuine interaction amidst the sea of feigned pleasantries. In a setting where authenticity was as scarce as a nuanced flavor in our champagne, her candor was a refreshing, if slightly jarring, interlude.
“How come you came?” she inquired, a hint of curiosity lacing her tone. “Thought last time you said you wouldn’t accept the next invite.”
“I am too much of a nice person to deny an invitation,” I retorted, my response laced with a touch of irony. Catching her raised eyebrow, I conceded, “Fine, I was bored.”
“Ah,” she chuckled, the sound rich with understanding. “I’m here on official business.”
“Aren’t we all?” I quipped, a playful edge to my words.
“Darling, I meant another kind of official business,” she clarified, her voice tinged with a mysterious undertone.
“Oh!” I feigned surprise, playing along with the intrigue. “Who’s the guy?”
Her gesture directed my attention to a youngish man holding court at the center table. His appearance was noteworthy in its completeness – a full head of hair, a perfect set of teeth – and his charm was evident even from a distance. His smile, radiant and seemingly reserved for those he held in high esteem, briefly found her in the crowd. He waved, a gesture of cordial invitation that seemed to light up his entire demeanor.
“That is my call, Darling,” she announced, a playful seriousness in your tone. Turning to face me, she added with a wink, “Don’t be a bore, however. Find yourself a nice looking waiter,” and then, like a whisper in the wind, she was gone, melting into the sea of people before I could muster a reply.
Left to my own devices, I leaned back against the wall, my gaze once again sweeping over the room. The orchestra played on, a backdrop to the rhythmic dance of people and conversations. The tables, a landscape of culinary delights and sparkling drinks, were tended to by waiters in crisp white and black, moving with an elegance that was almost balletic. They navigated the room with an effortless grace, their presence adding a subtle yet undeniable charm to the evening.
Her parting words echoed in my mind, a teasing challenge amidst the tedium. Perhaps there was merit in the suggestion – a diversion, however fleeting, from the predictable narrative of the night. The waiters, undeniably attractive in their uniformity, offered a visual respite from the dreariness of the event. And so, with a newfound sense of curiosity, I began to entertain the possibility of engaging in this little game, a private amusement in an otherwise dull affair.
The gala’s opulence and grandeur, once alluring, had begun to wear thin, casting a sheen of tedium over the evening. Despite a fleeting, tantalizing thought of spending the night in the company of one of the handsome waiters—a notion both scandalous and thrilling—I shook the idea from my mind. Clutching my champagne glass, I made my way towards the exit, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of the event. The constant hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses had become overwhelming, a cacophony that seemed to amplify the gala’s inherent rigidity.
As I passed the bar, the bartenders acknowledged me with a simple nod, a silent greeting that felt refreshingly straightforward compared to the evening’s pretenses. Pushing open the doors, I stepped out into the back streets of the venue, finding solace in the night’s embrace.
The air outside was a sharp contrast to the stuffy interior I had left behind. It was fresh and crisp, carrying the unmistakable hint of winter on its breath. The chill was a welcome relief, a natural reprieve that seemed to cleanse the palate of the evening’s excesses. The back street, surprisingly tidy for such a space, was dotted with only a few dumpsters tucked away in a far corner, a thoughtful consideration by the venue’s management.
I found a quiet spot amidst several chairs and small tables arranged near the doors. Setting my champagne glass on the table, I sank into the chair, allowing myself to be enveloped by the serene stillness of the night. Here, away from the gala’s forced gaiety and superficial chatter, I could finally breathe, the cool air filling my lungs with a sense of liberation. The quiet of the back street was a stark contrast to the orchestrated liveliness inside, offering a moment of introspection and calm amidst an evening of orchestrated excess.
Fumbling through my pockets, I sought out the pack of cigarettes I reserved for nights like this – those rare moments when the weight of the world seemed to demand a smoky reprieve. I wasn’t a habitual smoker, but some battles, as fate would have it, seemed more bearable with a cigarette in hand. Unearthing the packet, I found a lone cigarette lying within, its solitary presence a reminder to replenish my stock.
Placing the cigarette between my lips, I began the hunt for a lighter. My fingers patted down each pocket – front, back, inner, outer – in a growing crescendo of frustration. But my search was in vain; not a single lighter or even a match graced my attire.
“God- Fuck!” I exclaimed, the irritation spilling out into the quiet back street.
At that moment, an unfamiliar voice cut through the air, “Lack a flame?” The doors clicked shut, and my gaze shifted towards the sound. There, emerging from the shadows, was a figure like no other.
He was clad in a striking red suit, its fabric reminiscent of the velvety petals of roses, a vibrant contrast against the muted backdrop of the night. Gold gleamed around his neck, a necklace studded with diamonds catching the faint light, while pearls adorned his wrists. The buttons of his suit were intricately embroidered with silver, adding to his lavish appearance.
His presence was commanding, almost otherworldly. It was as if I had encountered the devil himself – not a figure of fear, but of temptation, an alluring vision in red and gold. The elegance and extravagance of his attire, coupled with the timing of his appearance, lent an air of surrealism to the moment. Here, in the quiet solitude of the back street, stood a man who seemed to embody both the allure and the danger of a forbidden fruit, a mysterious stranger offering a flame in more ways than one.
Caught off guard by the sudden appearance of this enigmatic stranger, my words faltered, “I, uh, yes.” For a moment, I stood there with my mouth agape, the forgotten cigarette still perched between my lips. Realizing the potential disaster, I quickly closed my mouth, securing the cigarette – which suddenly seemed as precious as gold – from tumbling to the damp, unclean ground.
The man’s movements were a spectacle of grace and poise, utterly captivating. His hands, meticulously groomed and elegant, delved into the pocket of his resplendent red suit, emerging with a lighter. The lighter, too, was red, a perfect complement to his attire. He extended it towards me, his gesture fluid and deliberate.
In that moment, I found myself momentarily paralyzed, spellbound by the sheer presence of the man before me. My usual, mundane task of lighting a cigarette seemed to elude me, as if his aura had momentarily disrupted my basic motor functions. It was the sudden gust of wind that snapped me back to reality, a natural intervention that saved me from the brink of embarrassment.
Gratefully, I reached out, taking the lighter from his hand. The flicker of the flame brought a sense of normalcy back, a reminder of the simple action I was about to perform. I lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply, the smoke providing a much-needed anchor to the surreal situation unfolding in this quiet back street. The presence of this stranger, with his striking attire and captivating aura, had transformed an ordinary moment into something akin to a scene from a vivid, almost otherworldly narrative.
The man took a seat opposite me, his movements fluid and assured. As I indulged in the rare pleasure of the cigarette, my eyes briefly met his. They were a deep, rich brown, reminiscent of the finest African blackwood – dark, intricate, seemingly carved to hold depths of secrets and untold desires.
“What brings you outside?” I asked, curiosity lacing my tone.
“I couldn’t stand the people inside. Thought the rats would be better company,” he replied, his voice smooth, imbued with a honeyed timbre. His response elicited a chuckle from me, a spontaneous reaction to his unexpected candor. I leaned back into my chair, releasing a plume of smoke into the cool night air.
For a brief moment, the surreal quality of the situation gave rise to a question in my mind: Is this a dream? “I guess we’re alike. Do you smoke?” I inquired, trying to maintain a semblance of conversation.
“No, don’t worry,” he assured me.
“Ah, good then, you shouldn’t,” I advised, almost instinctively.
His eyebrow arched, a gesture that seemed to accentuate the enigmatic aura surrounding him. His lips, compelling in their expressiveness, curved into a soft, knowing smile. “Shouldn’t you heed your own advice?” he asked, his voice as warm and inviting as a gentle fire.
I let out a light, self-aware chuckle. “Maybe, but I guess it’s too late for me.” My words were tinged with a hint of resignation, acknowledging the small vices that we clutch onto, even when we know better.
The silence that settled between us was one of those rare, comfortable voids, filled with the ambient sounds of the night. The faint scurrying of rats in the distance, mingling with the muffled strains of music seeping through the windows and cracks of the gala, lent an otherworldly feel to the moment. It was surreal, at least from my perspective. But what about him? What did he think, feel?
Stealing a glance his way, I found myself captivated again. His eyes held the depth of the cosmos, stars and nebulas yet to be explored, secrets begging to be unveiled. There was an undeniable allure about him, a magnetic pull that stirred a desire within me to claim his attention, if only for the duration of the night. In his presence, the notion of him being a devil, albeit one not of sinister nature, seemed almost plausible.
“Is something on my face?” His voice broke through my thoughts, his gaze meeting mine.
“Oh,” I found myself momentarily at a loss for words, scrambling for a coherent response. “No, I just spaced out, I’m sorry.” My reply was an awkward attempt to brush off my apparent staring, a feeble effort to mask the intrigue and attraction that had momentarily rendered me speechless.
My curiosity piqued, I ventured to ask, “What brings you to the gala?” The words eased out of me, breaking through my initial stiffness. Yet, a chill momentarily grazed my spine, a physical reaction to the accelerating beat of my heart each time his gaze met mine.
He paused, considering his response, then let out a chuckle. “I was invited,” he said with an air of playful obviousness. His demeanor shifted slightly as he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and his head in his palm, a casual pose that somehow accentuated his enigmatic charm. “Every year I’m invited, yet this is the first time I came.”
“Oh, you as well?” I replied, finding a common thread in our experiences.
“Yup. They’re all a bore,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of dramatization, yet underlined with a sincerity that resonated with my own feelings about these events.
“I always come, unsure why,” I confessed, taking a sip of the now lukewarm champagne in an attempt to steady my nerves. “It’s always the same faces, the same stories, and there I am, sitting in the corner, nursing bland champagne.”
He looked at me, his expression a mix of amusement and a shared sense of mockery. His eyes flickered briefly to the glass in my hand, then back to me as I took another drag of the cigarette. “Oh, poor you,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm yet sweet as honey. “I guess it was a better choice that I came this time.”
“Oh?” I queried, a hint of flirtation edging into my tone. Was he flirting with me? Should I play along? As I met his gaze, a fire ignited within me, my thoughts veering towards realms far removed from the decorum of the gala. And somehow, I sensed he was aware of this unspoken tension.
“It seems the music is dying down,” he remarked, subtly changing the subject. Yet his gaze held mine a second longer than necessary, a fleeting lapse in his otherwise composed demeanor. In that moment, I found myself yearning to close the distance between us, to taste the mystery that he embodied.
“It is…” I responded, my voice trailing off. “The main event should start soon.”
His offer hung in the air, a tangible invitation, as he slowly stood and extended his hand towards me, holding the door open in a gesture that was both courteous and inviting. The simplicity of the act contrasted with the complexity of emotions it stirred within me.
“I-…” My initial hesitation was a brief skirmish between caution and desire, a momentary pause in the unfolding narrative of the night. “Sure,” I found myself saying, the word escaping as a mix of acquiescence and anticipation. I carefully discarded the cigarette, extinguishing it beneath my foot, a symbolic end to one indulgence as I prepared to embrace another.
Taking his hand, I felt a jolt of excitement, an electric connection that seemed to transcend the ordinary. His appearance, devilishly charming and enigmatic, had captivated me from the moment he appeared. And now, as I accepted his invitation, a part of me acknowledged a deeper truth: He may look like a devil, but God knows I want him.
The mirror that seemingly looks into the past of you. (kind of a Vent post)
As the evening sun cast a warm, golden glow through the windows, I sat in the living room, the air heavy with an unspoken tension. The woman across from me extended a key with a gesture that was both graceful and calculated, her eyes holding a spark of envy as they fixed on me. Perhaps she longed for a life less bound by formalities and signatures. “Please sign here,” she requested, her voice a smooth melody, as she presented a document whose contents were as enigmatic to me as the distant stars.
Her elegance was undeniable, draped in a fur coat that lay across the sofa like a slumbering beast. The suit she wore spoke volumes of the stark, unforgiving world she navigated - a world of sharp edges and colder hearts. Yet, there she was, an epitome of grace under pressure.
“Thank you,” I murmured, accepting the pen with a nod. My signature flowed onto the paper, an unremarkable finale to our transaction. She responded not with words, but with a smile that was a masterful performance in itself - polite, pleasant, yet as devoid of warmth as a winter’s dawn. It was a smile born of years in a role that demanded perfection and offered little room for genuine emotion. In that moment, I felt a fleeting sense of camaraderie for this stranger, bound as we were by the roles we played in a world that watched with unblinking eyes.
The silence that hung in the air after my signature was laid upon the paper felt almost suffocating, dense with unspoken thoughts and veiled intentions. She examined my signature with a practiced eye, her lips curling into that same insincere smile that seemed to mock the very notion of genuine emotion. It gnawed at my patience, stirring a restless urge within me to escape the confines of this opulently oppressive room.
I could feel the weight of the room closing in around me, as if the very walls were whispering secrets meant only for the shadows. The fireplace behind her, cold and neglected, stood as a silent witness to countless such transactions, its ashes untouched and forlorn, a stark contrast to the superficial warmth of her demeanor.
Breaking the stifling stillness, her voice, smooth and controlled, filled the space. “Thank you, once again, Sir,” she said, her words meticulously chosen, void of any genuine sentiment. With a fluid motion, she retrieved her coat from the couch, its fabric whispering secrets of luxury and distant, cold places. Her glance towards me was brief, a fleeting connection that held no promise of understanding or empathy. “I won’t bother you, I’ll see myself out. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” I echoed, the word a mere formality, empty and devoid of meaning. As she moved to leave, the room seemed to exhale, releasing me from its invisible grip. Yet, in the wake of her departure, the echo of that insincere smile lingered, a ghostly reminder of the masks we all wear.
The old house, veiled in the soft glow of twilight, seemed almost to beckon with a deceptive warmth. As I stood there, the world around me felt steeped in a melancholic stillness, the kind that speaks more of sorrow than of peace. The air carried a faint, musty scent, a reminder of years gone by, unyielding to the passage of time.
From my vantage point, the living room stretched out, shrouded in the twilight’s embrace. Each shadow seemed to hold a whisper of the past, a murmur of moments long since withered. The chill that crept through the room was more than just the absence of warmth; it was the ghost of forgotten laughter, the echo of dreams that had once danced within these walls.
In my hands, the keys felt like relics of a life half-lived, heavy with the weight of unspoken regrets. They were cold to the touch, as if they too had absorbed the essence of this place - a tangible reminder of a bond broken, a promise unkept.
My husband’s words echoed in my mind, a somber melody that matched the rhythm of my heart. “This is not a home,” he had said, his voice a low thrum of conviction. “A place that breeds only pain deserves no fond remembrance, no tender thoughts.” And as I gazed upon the dim outlines of furniture, the remnants of a life once cherished, I couldn’t help but feel he might be right.
The silence that hung in the air was not empty but filled with the longing of what could have been. It was a silence that spoke volumes, a testament to the chasm between the life we live and the life we yearn for.
Rising slowly from the couch, I could hear its aged frame sighing beneath me, a creaking sound that seemed to fracture the silence, releasing a breath of bygone years. It felt as if the very air around me shifted, infused with a transient, almost ethereal sense of relief, as if the house itself were exhaling a long-held breath.
My gaze drifted towards the fireplace, now a silent guardian of memories. It was adorned with an array of flowers, their colors faded yet still clinging to a semblance of life, and picture frames that captured frozen moments in time. Each frame was like a window into a past that felt both distant and painfully close, painting a picture of an era when this house still dared to wear the mask of normalcy, when it still held onto the illusion of warmth.
Those photographs, with their smiling faces and eyes full of hope, seemed to mock the present with their portrayal of a happiness that had long since ebbed away. The fireplace, once the heart of the home, now stood as a somber monument to what had been—a time when the house had tried, in its own way, to emulate a haven of love and laughter.
As I lingered in my observations, a pang of nostalgia twisted within me, a longing for those days of feigned normality, for the comfort of an illusion now shattered. The semblance of warmth that once permeated these walls had dissipated, leaving behind only the cold truth of what this house had become.
With each step toward the doors leading into the foyer, a sense of finality grew within me. Casting a lingering glance back, the living room, a space where years of my life had unfolded, now lay before me as a desolate shell, its echoes of laughter and tears reduced to mere whispers in the dust.
Crossing the threshold into the foyer, memories rushed at me like a gust of cold wind. The staircase, once a playground of innocent adventures, where I used to slide down in giddy delight, stood stark and uninviting. Its wood, once warm to the touch, now felt as cold and distant as my faded childhood. I was no longer the carefree child who had once seen these stairs as a mountain to conquer.
Ascending the staircase, I felt the gaze of paintings lining the walls. These familiar faces, once mere decorations, now seemed to scrutinize me, their silent judgment echoing the changes time had wrought. In their stillness, they questioned what I had become, witnesses to the transformation of both the house and myself.
Turning right down the hallway, each step was a journey back in time, to the room that had once been my sanctuary. My bedroom door stood ajar, like a portal to a past life. Within those walls, I had battled imaginary monsters lurking under the bed, traveled to faraway lands through the pages of books, and wept into my pillow in the solitude of night. The room, which once echoed with the boundless imagination of a child, now waited, silent and unchanged, yet irrevocably altered in the eyes of the grown person I had become.
As I stepped into the room, it was as though time had stood still. Everything was exactly as I had left it years ago, a capsule of my younger self. My diary, its secrets still safeguarded by a lock, rested inside the desk. The key, cleverly hidden between a painting and the wall through a small hole, remained my secret.
The room was suffused with a sense of stillness, as if it had been holding its breath all these years, waiting for my return. Dust had settled over everything, a testament to the passage of time, yet it felt oddly fitting, like a veil over the past. The mirror, standing sentinel against one wall, was the only object that seemed unchanged, its surface clouded with the dust of years gone by.
I paused, my reflection a ghostly outline in the glass. “I read a story that mirrors hold memories of times past,” I murmured to the silent room. The words hung in the air, a question left unanswered.
In the ensuing silence, a strange sensation washed over me. My gaze drifted away from the mirror, lost in thought. But when I looked back, the reflection had shifted subtly. There, in the glass, was a younger version of myself, eyes wide with the innocence and dreams of youth.
“Is it true, Alexandra?” The question slipped from my lips, half in wonder, half in disbelief. The reflection in the mirror - a younger me - seemed to hold a world of answers, a connection to a past self I had long thought lost.
“You changed,” the girl in the mirror observed, her voice tinged with the unmistakable timbre of youth. Her words echoed softly in the room as I settled into a chair, facing this fragment of my past.
“Time does that to people,” I replied, a smile touching my lips despite the surreal nature of the conversation.
“It didn’t change me?” Her image in the mirror tilted her head, a gesture so familiar it tugged at my heart.
“You changed alongside me, in a way,” I said softly, reflecting on the journey that had led me here.
“What is your new name?”
“Alexander,” I answered, feeling a strange kinship with the girl who shared my history.
“We still don’t have a good imagination with names, do we?” she teased, a playful glint in her eyes.
“No, we don’t,” I chuckled, and her laughter, so pure and unburdened, filled the room like music. It was a sound from another time, a reminder of a joy that was both lost and found in this moment.
“So Alexander,” she said with a sense of newfound respect, “You’re very tall!”
“I am!” I agreed, a sense of pride swelling in my chest at her awe.
“Can you climb trees?”
“I can! And not just trees,” I added with a smirk, “I can even climb some mountains.”
“Wow!” Her eyes widened with admiration. “Did you climb Mount Everest?”
I paused, a flicker of unfulfilled dreams crossing my mind. “No,” I admitted, “But I did climb Shkhara and Risnjak.”
“Risnjak?” Her curiosity was palpable, her image leaning closer in the mirror.
“Yes, I went back to Croatia.”
She gasped, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Mom and dad let you!?”
At her question, a shadow passed over me. The room seemed to grow a bit colder, the dust motes in the air swirling with silent histories. I remained silent, the weight of unspoken stories hanging heavily in the air.
Her expression in the mirror changed, a dawning understanding replacing her initial excitement. “Oh,” she said softly, the single word heavy with meaning.
In that moment, the gap between us – the child full of wonder and the adult bearing the complexities of life – felt both vast and yet intimately close. Our shared reflection in the dusty mirror bridged years of experiences, unifying two parts of a singular journey.
“Where are Mom and Dad?” she asked, her voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and concern.
“They don’t live here anymore,” I responded, the words feeling heavy even as they left my lips.
“Why?” The innocence in her question made my heart ache.
“They… they don’t like it here,” I said, choosing my words carefully, trying to soften the blow of reality for her youthful understanding.
“And what about grandpa?” Her eyes, so full of childlike curiosity, searched mine in the mirror for answers.
“He went to Heaven,” I said gently, the words stirring a whirlpool of emotions within me.
“He died?” The simplicity of her question struck a chord, echoing in the silence of the room.
I nodded, feeling a tightness in my throat. It was a challenge to maintain composure, to be the bearer of truths I knew would pain her. “He said he was very proud of us,” I added, offering this white lie as a small comfort, both to her and to myself.
Her reflection in the mirror took on a solemn air, absorbing the news with a quiet maturity that belied her years. In that moment, the lines between past and present blurred, as I found solace in the imagined approval of a loved one lost, conveyed through the hopeful eyes of a child who was once me.
“Do you still wear dresses?” she asked, her image tilting its head with curiosity.
“No,” I chuckled, the sound echoing slightly in the still room. “I don’t wear dresses. They’re just not my style.”
“Good. You’d look weird in them,” she said with the blunt honesty only a child could muster.
“You think?” I raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Yeah!” she giggled, her laughter ringing clear and light.
“I guess it’s also because I can’t find dresses in my size,” I added playfully, “Which is just as well.”
“Really?” Her eyes widened in mock surprise.
“Mhm.”
There was a brief pause before she asked, “Do Mom and Dad call you Alexander now?”
The question caught me off guard. “They…” I hesitated, grappling with the complexities of that relationship. “They don’t,” I finally admitted.
“Do you talk with them?”
“No, I don’t.” The words were simple, but they carried the weight of untold stories and deep-seated feelings.
“Good, I don’t like them,” she declared with a firm nod.
Her straightforwardness took me aback, a stark contrast to the nuanced feelings I harbored. But there was also a sense of validation in her words, a reminder that some parts of us remain unaltered by time and circumstance.
Her image in the mirror smiled, a reflection of resilience and a hint of shared rebellion. In that smile, I found an unexpected ally in the girl I used to be, a bridge across the years that had shaped me into who I am now.
“Your accent is weird too,” she noted, a playful glint in her eyes.
“Weird?” I echoed, feigning surprise.
“Yes,” she affirmed. “You don’t sound like I do.”
“Well, I haven’t sounded like you in a long time,” I replied with a smile.
“Is that…” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Puberty?”
I burst into laughter at her earnest inquiry. “Kind of,” I managed to say between chuckles.
“Your puberty was very strong,” she observed with wide-eyed seriousness.
“Ha?” My amusement grew.
“You turned into a boy,” she said, as if stating a fascinating fact.
“Oh-” I struggled to contain another laugh, “No, this isn’t just puberty. It’s because of surgery and medicine.”
“Oh!” Her eyes widened in understanding. “So, we are no longer girls?”
“No, you are still a girl. I just realized later that I was actually a boy.”
“Oh.” She tilted her head, considering this new information. “Was grandma happy? She always wanted a grandson.”
“She was,” I nodded, a warm memory surfacing. “She was happy, as long as she got great-grandchildren.”
“Well?” Her curiosity was evident.
“Well, what?”
“Did you get her great-grandchildren?”
“I did,” I laughed, my heart lightening at her reaction. I pulled out my phone, swiped through the gallery, and turned the screen to show her. Her reflection in the mirror leaned in, eyes wide with wonder.
“Wow!” she gasped.
“Her name’s Anastasia,” I said, a proud smile crossing my face as I scrolled to another photo.
“Like the princess?!” she exclaimed, her smile bright and infectious.
“Exactly like the princess,” I affirmed, feeling a surge of joy at her excitement.
I flicked to another picture. “And this is my husband.”
“We have a husband? Ew!” She scrunched up her nose in mock disgust, her childhood aversion to boys still apparent.
“He’s actually very nice,” I assured her.
“Really?” She looked skeptical but curious.
“Yep. And he looks nice, doesn’t he?”
“He does.” She studied the photo, her initial ickiness giving way to intrigue. “He’s a good cook too,” I added.
“That’s cool. Did Grandma meet him?”
“She did,” I nodded, recalling the meeting fondly.
“Did she like him?”
“She did. She really did.”
“Yes!” She jumped in excitement, her energy almost tangible even through the mirror.
Her enthusiasm filled the room, bridging the years between us. In her reactions, I found echoes of my own journey – the initial doubts, the discoveries, the joys of building a life that was true to who I am. Seeing her acceptance, her unfiltered happiness for my choices, was like receiving a blessing from my past self.
The room fell into a contemplative silence again, the figure in the mirror watching me intently as I pocketed my phone. I could sense her unspoken question hanging in the air.
“Why did you come back?” she finally asked, her voice soft but curious.
“Can’t I come back to my home?” I countered lightly.
“We didn’t like this house. We never called it a home,” she reminded me, her reflection a mirror to my past sentiments.
“You’re right,” I conceded, acknowledging our shared history with the place.
“Then why return?”
“I came back because I had to,” I explained, leaning back in the chair. “I had to do something to get this house under our name.”
“This house is now ours?” Her eyes lit up with a mix of surprise and intrigue.
“Yes, it’s ours now.”
“Without Mom and Dad?”
“Mhm.”
“But what if they come here?”
“They won’t,” I assured her confidently. “Thankfully, they won’t.”
“But what if they do?”
“Did I ever lie to you?” I asked, meeting her gaze in the mirror.
“No? I mean, you’re me and I’m you. You never lied to yourself.”
“Exactly,” I affirmed with a smile.
“You’re weird,” she declared, a playful note in her voice.
“You’re weird,” I echoed, teasing her.
“I’m not!” she protested, but her smile was soft, content.
In that moment, the bond between us – the grown-up Alexander and the child in the mirror – felt both surreal and profoundly real. There was a comfort in this strange communion, a sense of closure and new beginnings. The house, once a source of pain, was now a blank canvas, waiting for new memories to be painted on its walls.
“I was thinking of turning this room into a nursery.”
“For Anastasia?!” Her voice rose in excitement, echoing the glee of our shared childhood.
“Yes!” I confirmed, her enthusiasm infectious.
She squealed, a sound that transported me back to my own childhood days. “Turn this room into a princess room!”
“A princess room?” I repeated, intrigued by her imagination.
“Yes! With golden curtains, white sheets, and beautiful stars…” she trailed off, her eyes sparkling with ideas.
“I might just do that,” I said, considering her suggestions with a smile.
“But—” She hesitated, her expression turning thoughtful.
“What is it?” I prompted gently.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“For what?” I asked, curious about her sudden change in tone.
“For becoming happy,” she said sincerely.
“No, Alexandra, listen,” I started, feeling a swell of emotions.
“I am,” she assured me, her gaze earnest.
“You were like a butterfly ready to bloom,” I said, trying to convey the journey of transformation we had undergone.
“You’re a narcissist, Alexander,” she teased, her eyes twinkling with mirth.
“I’m joking,” I laughed, relieved by her light-heartedness. “We became happy. Without you, I wouldn’t exist.”
“Well, you are me and I am you,” she said, a profound understanding in her voice.
“That’s right,” I agreed, feeling a sense of completion.
In this exchange, the room filled with more than just laughter and light-hearted banter. It was filled with the understanding that every step I had taken, every decision made, was part of a journey that led me to this moment of contentment and self-acceptance. The nursery, once a room of dreams and make-believe, would now be a place of new beginnings and joy for another generation.
“Mirrors hold memories, Alexander,” she said softly, her voice carrying a wisdom beyond her years.
“They truly do,” I agreed, feeling the weight of our shared past in her words.
“Can you please let me go?” Her request was gentle but firm, a plea for closure.
I hesitated, the silence stretching between us. “Let you go?” I echoed, the idea startling.
“Yes. Break the mirror.”
“Break it?!” I was taken aback. “But that’s ten years of bad luck.”
“That’s just a superstition,” she countered calmly.
“What if I just leave you here?” I suggested, not ready to part with this connection.
“Why?” Her question was simple yet profound.
“Well…” I struggled to find a reason.
“You don’t have an answer,” she observed.
“I’m thinking,” I chuckled, buying time. “Actually, I think it would look great in this room.”
“What would?”
“A beautiful golden mirror for a princess, don’t you think?” I tried to lighten the mood.
She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she gazed at me with eyes deep as the ocean, and for a moment, it seemed as if the sea itself spilled from her eyes, tears cascading down her cheeks into an unseen abyss.
“Thank you, Alexander,” she whispered, her voice filled with a blend of gratitude and farewell.
“Thank you, Alexandra,” I replied, feeling a surge of emotions.
In that instant, the mirror rippled as if disturbed by droplets of water. As the surface calmed, her reflection faded, leaving only my own. The girl I once was had vanished, her parting a symbolic release of a past self.
I stood there for a moment, absorbing the quiet. The room felt different now—lighter, as if a weight had been lifted. My heart echoed that lightness, a sense of peace settling in.
Trigger Warning: this piece alludes to sexual assault and imprisonment.
Tempus Exsanguis - Reminiscence, Aurelius vi Eterna
Aurelius vi Eterna emerges as a pivotal character in my upcoming novel, 'Tempus Exsanguis.' The following narrative delves into his intriguing backstory, set long before the events of 'Tempus Exsanguis' unfold. For those interested in journeying through Aurelius' tale and staying abreast of the main story, please feel free to explore further via the link provided.
In the shadowed corners of the dimly lit room, an air of danger and obsession lingered like a thick, unspoken fog. The walls seemed to pulse with a sinister, almost feral energy, mirroring his untamed nature. He was the embodiment of a raw, unbridled evil, his presence as formidable as a storm cloud brooding on the horizon. Yet, in this twisted dance of desire and loathing, he craved nothing more than me, his latest conquest in a long line of obsessions.
As he gazed at me, his eyes were like dark whirlpools, swirling with a hunger that was both terrifying and intoxicating. His hands, firm and unyielding, encircled my thighs, a possessive grip that spoke of ownership rather than affection. Every fiber of my being rebelled against him, a tumultuous storm of hatred and repulsion churning within me. I fantasized about driving a blade through his heart, an act that would not only pierce his flesh but also shatter the chains he’d wrapped so tightly around my soul.
His touch, though abhorrent, was a familiar poison, a reminder of the twisted path my life had taken. With each breath, I yearned for freedom, to escape the clutches of this man who was both my jailer and my unwelcome admirer. Yet, in that moment of despair, a flicker of hope whispered through my thoughts. Maybe, just maybe, I would find the strength to break free, to reclaim my life from the shadows that threatened to consume me.
He leaned closer, his question hanging in the air like a sinister melody, “Do you like it?” The words were coated with sin, a trap laid with cunning and lies. In that moment, a torrent of thoughts raged through my mind. Would God forgive my falsehood, a desperate lie uttered to protect my soul before it’s too late? A strange sensation, a tumultuous mix of fear and revulsion, coursed through me. I despised the very notion of his question, yet part of me yearned to commit the gravest sin of all, seeking a twisted form of retribution.
As his eyes bore into mine, I found myself pondering the limits of divine mercy. Would the same God, known for His boundless benevolence, ever forgive the man who was subjecting me to this torment? But I knew in my heart that God was not just merciful; He was wise, not easily fooled by the facade of a sinner.
With a heavy heart, I uttered the words, “I do.” The lie slipped from my lips like a fallen leaf, light yet laden with the weight of my unspoken truth. It was a statement that contradicted everything I felt, a false confession made under the shadow of his malevolent gaze. Yet, in that instant, I clung to the faint hope that my dishonesty, a sin born of desperation, might somehow lead me towards salvation.
In your gaze, a chilling insight – you saw the truth that lay bare in my eyes, the unmasked aversion, the raw detestation. Yet, undeterred, you persisted, each action of yours a stark reminder of my powerless state. With every advance, my body recoiled instinctively, as if recoiling from a searing flame. Your touch, meant to be tender, instead sent my heart plummeting into an abyss of despair.
To you, I was nothing more than a plaything, a caged bird whose songs were composed of silent screams and unshed tears. Trapped within this gilded cage of your making, my wings were clipped, my spirit tethered. You relished in this twisted game, blind to the pain etched into the very essence of my being. In your eyes, I was a mere object of amusement, a possession to be flaunted and then discarded when the novelty wore off.
Each moment spent in your presence was a battle, a struggle to maintain a semblance of self amidst the overwhelming tide of your control. I was a shadow of my former self, a reflection marred by the cruel hand of your possession. And yet, within me, a faint spark of defiance still flickered, a quiet hope that one day, I would reclaim the sky that was rightfully mine.
Discarded once more, you cast me aside as effortlessly as one discards a worn garment. This act, now a cruel ritual repeated day after day, left me in a state of desolation. I lay there, shivering on the bed that was tainted with your lingering scent, a reminder of your presence that clung to the air like a malevolent ghost. The smell was repulsive, an olfactory echo of my anguish.
As you dressed, a final glance was thrown my way, your expression twisted into a grotesque semblance of a smile. It was a smile that spoke of your perverse satisfaction, a testament to the heartlessness that resided within you. “See you tomorrow,” you uttered nonchalantly, your words slicing through the heavy silence. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing me within this chamber of despair.
This burden, it clings to my very bones, seeps into my skin, an unshakable weight that I bear alone. Each mark, each scar, a testament to a sin that has become mine to atone for, a relentless reminder of a past that refuses to be left behind. So, Father, in my moments of solitude and despair, I raise my voice to you once more, my plea echoing in the hollows of my soul: When will this end?
In the silence of my prayers, I search for a glimmer of hope, a sign of an end to this torment. My heart aches for salvation, for a respite from this ceaseless storm that rages within me. Yet, with each day that passes, my question hangs unanswered, a quiet lament lost amidst the chaos of my existence.
As I lay here, my eyes fixed on the ceiling that I once wished were an open sky, I find myself yearning for the celestial dance of the stars. Do they still shimmer with the same brilliance as in my distant memories? There’s a child within me, a fragment of a more innocent past, that longs for the sun’s warm embrace, a comfort now seemingly beyond reach. In this world, at this juncture of my life, fate has dealt me a cruel hand, trapping me in a reality far removed from the light of day.
I often find myself wondering about my mother. Does she still search for me, or has the passage of time erased me from her memory? Part of me hopes she has forgotten, for the thought of her enduring the torment of my absence is a burden too heavy to bear.
The sheets on this bed, a cold and unforgiving landscape against my weathered skin, feel like a bed of snow. Each shiver that runs through me is a stark reminder of my isolation, a physical manifestation of the coldness that has seeped into my very soul. In these moments, I am adrift in a sea of longing and despair, clinging to the faint hope that one day, I might once again feel the warmth of the sun and the comforting embrace of a life once known.
Today, I find myself unshackled from the chains that have long imprisoned me, and tomorrow promises the same fleeting taste of liberty. But what of the day after? That remains a mystery, left to the capricious whims of the gods. Perhaps he, my tormentor, will grant me a twisted form of mercy, choosing confinement over the violation of my being.
’Force’ – a word so small, yet laden with a darkness that overshadows all else. I detest it with every fiber of my being, for it embodies the violation of my will, the theft of my agency. Yet, amidst this loathing, there resides a burning longing – a longing to bask in the sun’s radiant embrace, to feel its warmth caressing my skin, a sensation almost forgotten.
And in the shadow of this longing, there lies a darker wish, one that simmers with the heat of a smoldering fire. I yearn for the day when I shall be the harbinger of his demise, when my hands will be the instruments of his undoing. On that day, I will not only reclaim my freedom but also my sense of justice, forever severing the ties that have bound me to this nightmare.
My pleas, silent and fervent, ascended to the heavens, seeking an audience with the gods. But the only response was a deafening silence, a stark reminder that neither gods nor saints spare their time for a wretched soul crying out for justice. Perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, this abandonment is a mercy in disguise.
Do tortured souls like mine even warrant sympathy? This question haunts me, a specter lurking in the corners of my thoughts, its answer as elusive as the warmth of compassion.
As the chill of the night creeps in, my legs tremble, a physical testament to the cold reality that envelops me. This shivering serves as a stark reminder of my mortality, a sobering contrast to the ephemeral illusions of power and invincibility that night often bestows. Here, in the grip of this relentless cold, I am but a man, far removed from the creatures of shadow and myth that rule the darkness.
And I will ensure that the man who commands this darkness encounters his own blinding light. Mercy is reserved for the deserving.
He might use me, drain my essence, and violate my being, but ultimately, it will be I who savors the final triumph
Dans le tourbillon incessant de la vie, où chaque instant est un fil dans le tissu complexe de notre existence, nous nous trouvons souvent égarés dans les courants du changement. Ces courants nous ont façonnés, transformés, et parfois même éloignés l'un de l'autre. Pourtant, au cœur de ce flux perpétuel, nos souvenirs partagés et nos promesses demeurent, des phares inébranlables dans la brume du temps.
Notre histoire, Mark, est un récit toujours en cours d'écriture, une symphonie inachevée de moments et de mémoires. Nos chemins se sont croisés, se sont éloignés, puis se sont à nouveau entrelacés, un ballet de destinées qui nous a menés ici, à ce chapitre de notre vie.
Cinq années se sont écoulées, et maintenant, je te regarde, assis sur le canapé, jouant avec Anastasia, la préparant tendrement pour le sommeil. Ton sourire, empreint d'une chaleur véritable, brille dans la douce lumière du soir – un contraste frappant avec celui, autrefois forcé, dont la raison m'échappe encore. Ce sourire, authentique et plein d'amour, me rappelle la profondeur et la sincérité de ce que nous avons reconstruit ensemble.
Chaque jour passé, chaque épreuve surmontée, chaque joie partagée, a tissé la trame de notre histoire commune – une histoire marquée par la résilience, l'amour et la transformation. Nos vies, intimement liées, racontent une saga d'amour, de croissance et de renaissance.
Ce soir, alors que je t'observe avec notre fille, je suis envahie par une gratitude immense. La vie nous a offert une seconde chance, une opportunité de redécouvrir et de réaffirmer l'amour que nous partageons. Dans le silence apaisant de notre foyer, je réalise combien notre voyage ensemble est précieux et unique.
À toi, Mark, mon compagnon de vie, mon confident, mon ami. Notre amour, une constante à travers les tempêtes de la vie, est le socle sur lequel nous avons bâti notre présent et notre avenir.
Pour toujours et à jamais, dans chaque univers et dans chaque ligne temporelle, je t'aime, Mark, et je suis heureuse de pouvoir t'appeler mon mari.
Avec tout mon amour,
Alexander.
The moment I glimpsed you, nestled behind towering stacks of paperwork in the chaotic embrace of your office, a curious sensation stirred within me. Shadows played across the cluttered desk as the relentless ring of your phone punctuated the air, a discordant symphony to your rhythmic signing of documents. Was it a spark of love igniting at first sight, or a wistful melancholy seeping into my soul?
Years had lapsed into decades since our last encounter, and time had sculpted you anew. There you were, a mature man, your shoulders bearing the weight of youthful worries in a world indifferent to your struggles. As you concluded your task and surrendered to the insistent call, your voice unfurled into the room - smooth as velvet, warm as a glowing ember, sweet as the richest honey. But in that voice, I heard a stranger, not the person I once knew.
Peering through the translucent barrier of the glass doors, my gaze found you, yet perceived a stranger. A tide of uncertainty swelled in my chest—had I mistaken you for another? Could I confuse you, the one whose eyes once soothed the fiercest tempests, with someone else? The one who wore the remnants of youthful trials like badges of honor—could such a soul be so easily mistaken? What began as a mundane errand, delivering documents to this local office, unexpectedly plunged me into introspection.
There, I witnessed your smile during the call, a gesture devoid of its genuine essence. It was a masquerade, a hollow imitation. In that moment, I realized the stark truth: the person before me bore your visage, but he was not You, the one I remembered.
Rooted in the doorway, a statue of indecision, I lingered, watching you, a silent observer waiting for the moment you would conclude your call. Yet, within me, a restless current urged me forward, propelled by an invisible force. You remained oblivious to my presence, your focus divided between the relentless scribbling on the documents before you and the conversation on the phone, all under the guise of that insincere smile. A question echoed in my mind, piercing the quietude of my confusion: Who was the target of your deception?
Was it me, a mere spectator to this uncharacteristic charade? Or was the performance tailored for the unseen participant on the other end of the line?
As the call drew to a close, you finally lifted your gaze. Your eyes, once brimming with life, now seemed hollow, devoid of the spark that once defined you. They met mine, yet it felt as though you were looking through me, into a void. In that moment, a poignant realization dawned upon me: the person before me was a far cry from the You I had once known.
Time, the relentless sculptor, alters us all, but with you, it was different. It wasn’t merely the passage of years that had reshaped you; it was something more profound, more elusive. You hadn’t simply been changed by time; you had been transformed by experiences unknown to me, experiences that had extinguished the light in your eyes and replaced it with an unfamiliar, distant gaze. The You I remembered seemed lost, perhaps forever, in the labyrinth of life’s unrelenting twists and turns.
Your voice broke the silence, inquiring my name, and I obliged, offering it to you like a relic from our shared past. You paused, a flicker of something unrecognizable crossing your face as you glanced at my document. A chuckle escaped your lips, tinged with disbelief or perhaps irony. Was it so hard for you to believe that I was the same person from your memories?
“I’m sorry, you have the same name and surname as an old friend,” you remarked, your words slicing through the air, laden with a casual dismissal. Those words lingered, heavy with implications. To you, was I merely an echo of a past connection, relegated to the realm of ‘just an old friend’? The simplicity of your statement belied the complexity of emotions it stirred within me, a poignant reminder of the distance that time and change had wedged between us.
Your words, seemingly innocuous, stung with an unintended insult. Indeed, I had transformed, no longer the carefree young girl who once frolicked alongside you in the park, who scaled trees with the fearless abandon of youth, who gleefully accepted oranges from the kindly old lady at number 32. Those days, imbued with innocence and laughter, seemed like fragments of another lifetime.
Was it my metamorphosis that rendered me unrecognizable to you, or was it your own profound change, morphing into a mere shell of the person I once knew? I grappled with these thoughts, a blend of indignation and sadness swirling within me. Change is the only constant, they say, yet the divergence of our paths had led us to this poignant juncture—a place where familiarity was overshadowed by the unfamiliarity of what we had become.
“Well,” I began, my voice steady as I endeavored to mask the turbulence within, “I did change a lot, so I guess you wouldn’t recognize me.”
As those words escaped my lips, a gentle smile graced your face, seemingly brushing aside the gravity of my admission. You continued with your task, your hand moving with practiced ease as you signed off on the document. But then, as you were about to add your final signature, I noticed a moment of hesitation. You clicked your pen twice, a nervous tic that time hadn’t erased. Some habits, it seems, are impervious to the ravages of years.
Your eyes, magnified behind the lenses of square glasses, finally met mine with a depth that was unmistakably familiar. It was a gaze that transported me back in time, to the boy I once knew, the boy who had remained etched in the recesses of my memory. In that fleeting exchange, the years seemed to peel away, revealing a glimpse of the past that still lived within you.
As my name resonated through the air, your voice breaking the office’s everyday hum, it felt like a crack in the universe. You didn’t just say it; you declared it, with a fervor that turned heads throughout the administration. The desk that had served as your fortress was no barrier for you now. You leaped over it, a sudden burst of emotion propelling you forward.
Your embrace enveloped me, a tangible memory, heavy yet comforting. It was like being wrapped in a blanket woven from nostalgia, but this nostalgia bore a bittersweet edge—tinged with pain and sorrow, rather than pure, blissful happiness. In that moment, reintroducing myself seemed the most natural thing to do, a bridge across the chasm of years and changes.
As I stood there, encased in your arms, I couldn’t help but wonder about the paths not taken. If I hadn’t spoken up, would I have turned and walked away, leaving behind another memory devoid of a proper farewell? Would I have returned to a city that once echoed with our laughter, now just a cold canvas against which our past played out?
In my contemplation, I thought of the multiverse, a tapestry of endless possibilities. In that vast expanse of ‘what ifs,’ I found a comforting thought. Perhaps, in every reality woven into that infinite tapestry, there is a version of us, an Alex and a Mark, forever finding their way back to each other, no matter the distance or the changes that life brings. In every universe, every story, every possibility, I hoped that our counterparts would always find their way home—to each other.
The warm embrace of the morning sun poured into the kitchen, casting everything in a soft, golden light. As I absorbed the calming hues, he burst in, every bit as radiant. “Guess what I stumbled upon?” he chirped, brandishing a brilliant red can of instant coffee. The metal caught the sun’s rays, making it glimmer enticingly.
I took a moment, allowing the rich aroma of the coffee I was brewing to envelop me. The gentle hum of the house in the morning served as a soothing backdrop. “We’ve still got some left, you know. What’s so special about this one?” My voice hinted at intrigue, even as my gaze shifted between the can and the spark in his eyes.
With a casual motion, he slid the can towards me, its base creating a soft symphony with the countertop. “Caught it on sale,” he chuckled, the playful glint in his eyes unmistakable. “Besides, I’ve caught you eyeing this one on our store runs.”
Before I could muster a response, he was off, footsteps fading down the corridor. “Just popping in to greet her,” he called back, leaving me swathed in the comforting sounds of the dawn and memories of mornings past.
Drawing the cup to my lips, I took a measured sip. The taste, as always, danced between too bitter and too warm, no matter the sugar or milk I added. It wasn’t perfection, but it was familiar. Often, I’d muse aloud about its ‘perfection.’
Almost perfection, that is.
I nestled the coffee can into its nook in the cupboard, right behind the one we’d opened some time back.
Two months back, to be precise.
‘Why the devotion to this blend?’ I pondered.
“Maybe you should just toss it if it’s not up to par,” he’d often remark, his voice laced with a mix of concern and playful teasing. He had a knack for nudging me toward decisions, but to me, discarding a perfectly good blend felt wrong. Was it really the coffee’s fault, or was it just my brewing technique that was amiss?
I sipped on, unchanged in my ritual. It might not have been the epitome of coffee excellence, but in my eyes, it held its own charm. It was more than just adequate; it was a comforting constant.
The cadence of my mornings had morphed into a predictable rhythm. Arise, cleanse, brew coffee, sift through work emails… the cycle was ceaseless, draining, and soul-sappingly monotonous. A dull throbbing discontent resided in me, a silent protest against the routine.
My apartment echoed that sentiment. It was an island of stillness, untouched even by the usually invigorating morning light.
Oddly enough, the blinds were up, yet it felt as if the world outside had chosen to withhold its brilliance from me. Why, I couldn’t fathom.
In this space, where I’d spent four years, it felt like I’d left no mark. As if my existence had been merely transient, leaving no impression or essence behind.
The furniture, while technically mine, held no trace of my personality. The walls, despite being within my domain, seemed foreign. They belonged to me on paper, but emotionally and spiritually, there was a disconnect.
Each day blurred into the next, each morning a replica of the one before. It was during one of those mundane evenings when he broached the subject. We sat, engrossed in a show, while she played at our feet.
“I think we should sell this apartment,” he mused, not tearing his eyes away from the screen.
I turned to him, surprised. “Sell it? Why?”
His gaze remained fixed on the television, but I sensed a weight in his words. “She’s growing. We’ll need more space soon. And besides…” he paused, choosing his words, “this place… it doesn’t reflect you.”
He left it at that, not delving into specifics. Despite the ambiguity, I felt the truth in his words. So, I made the decision; the apartment was sold.
Those words echoed in my mind, a haunting refrain. “It didn’t reflect me.”
The new buyers, a young family bubbling with enthusiasm, were ready to infuse this place with their energy and hopes. They’d be here tomorrow, a fresh chapter in the life of this apartment.
Lost in these thoughts, I went about gathering the remnants of my life in this space. The silence of the empty apartment seemed to amplify every rustle and scrape, every footstep echoing in the void.
Then, tucked away behind a fortress of forgotten spices and condiments, I found it. A gleaming red can, its metallic surface untouched by time. Inside, a promise of aromatic coffee.
Why this hesitation? This pause, this reluctance?
Deep down, I knew. It was the fear. The fear of endings, of beginnings, of change. Every cup of coffee I’d made here had been a ritual, a slice of my daily life, a cornerstone of my routine. To make one last cup would be to acknowledge the end, to say a final goodbye to this chapter.
I felt the weight of the memories that each nook and cranny held. The mornings we shared, the evenings, the silent moments. Every cup of coffee had been a testament to those times.
Laying out two cups was an unspoken tribute. One for me, with all my uncertainties and hesitations. And one for you, for all the times you’ve been my anchor, my constant in this ever-changing world.
But as I reached to pour the water, to kickstart the machine into brewing one last pot, my hand froze.
Was it the fear of letting go? Or the fear of facing a new tomorrow without the security blanket of the past?
I hesitated, lost in the crossroads of my emotions, suspended in that singular moment of indecision.
The weight of finality pressed on my chest as I packed away the coffee maker, sealing away countless mornings and memories with it. The task felt strangely ceremonial, like closing a book filled with tales of the mundane and the profound.
With everything loaded in the car, I took one last look at the apartment. It wasn’t just an assortment of walls and windows anymore, but a repository of life lived, of love shared, of lessons learned.
The thought of the gleaming red can left behind flashed in my mind. I imagined the young family brewing their first pot, filling the space with laughter and warmth, creating their own memories. Perhaps, in their hands, the coffee would find its perfect balance—neither too bitter nor too sweet, just right.
In a world painted with shadows and enigma, a creature borne of dark desires roams the vast expanse of the Darkwood Forest. Cursed by a power-hungry tyrant centuries ago, he seeks solace in his secluded palace, away from the prying eyes that once beheld him in terror. His days blur into nights, defined only by the hunger that gnaws at him and the celestial dome that showers him in ethereal light.
Yet, one fateful night, the silence of the woods shatters. A sinister ambush unfolds, leaving behind a tableau of devastation and betrayal. Among the wreckage, he discovers not only treasures that glimmer with potential but a fragile life hanging by a thread. A whisper from the past beckons, and a choice must be made: to embrace the darkness within or seek the flicker of humanity that remains.
Drawn into a tapestry woven with mystery and destiny, will he remain the cursed creature of the Darkwood or find redemption in the unlikeliest of places?
In a time shrouded in shadows, a lone soul was ensnared by a malicious curse, turned into a creature of the night four centuries past due to the malevolent desires of a power-hungry being. His monstrous transformation had no foundation but another’s unquenchable thirst for control and influence. Three centuries later, he found a semblance of solace when this vile entity met his demise under the burning kiss of the sun, a fate befitting his cruel nature.
He experienced a fleeting taste of victory, driving a stake through the heart of his tormentor, naively hoping for liberation, for a return to his loved ones. However, his reunion was nothing but a mirage of hope, as he emerged from the shadowed foliage, smeared in the crimson liquid of his enemy, gasping, sprinting towards his family only to be met with eyes filled with terror and whispers of abomination. He was forsaken, exiled in silent agreement, his existence erased from the family lore.
His connection to humanity became a delicate, painful dance. The sun could caress him, but its radiant embrace turned into fiery fingers if lingered in too long. His hunger morphed; it was not the crimson life of humans he craved but the wild heartbeat of the forest creatures. His existence was a solitaire of questions and whispers, the ivory sharpness of his teeth a constant reminder of his cursed fate, especially in an era laden with superstition and fear of the unknown.
In his solitude, he claimed the forsaken abode of his enemy, a grand edifice concealed within the embracing arms of Darkwood Forest, encircled by the whispering trees and murmuring valleys. It was a sanctuary away from prying eyes, the only place he could call home. A declaration of a newfound lineage allowed him to claim the ominous dwelling as his refuge, transforming it from a mausoleum of torment into a shelter against the world that shunned him.
He cleansed the place of its malevolent past, flames devouring his visages, his memories. The lingering souls trapped within its confines were given their final resting place, buried with the whispers of the wind and the tears of the moon, even the dungeons that once echoed with his own cries of despair. His enemy had had his sinister pleasures.
Four centuries had passed since the cruel transformation, and just over three since he laid claim to the haunting palace amidst the secluded woods. The once dominating portrait of the former master, which had hung atop the grand staircase, now left behind an empty frame, a void echoing past atrocities. At night, the vast glass dome overhead became a portal to the heavens, framing a vast tapestry of twinkling stars and the radiant moon, casting an ethereal glow that danced on the ornate staircase beneath, turning the cold marble to liquid silver.
Often, he would find solace beneath this celestial view, sinking into a plush couch, his gaze ascending to the infinite expanse above. Each star seemed a distant dream, and he would lose himself in their gentle shimmer, making silent wishes, perhaps yearning for a forgotten humanity. The sharp contours of his fangs, felt with a tentative finger, were a cruel reminder of his monstrous reality — they remained unchanged, unforgiving. The luminescence of the moon would cradle him, and amidst its soft embrace, he would drift into a restless slumber.
But morning always arrived, uninvited. The golden rays of the emerging sun would gradually intensify, their warmth turning to a searing prick against his pallid skin. A stinging reminder of the curse he bore, urging him once again into the shadows.
Navigating the dim corridors of the palace, he would linger in the shadows, especially during the tormented hours of dawn. The cheerful melodies of birds chirping outside served as a cruel reminder of the life he was cut off from. Their curious eyes would peer through his window, observing him as though he were a rare exhibit, a creature of myths and legends. With every chirp and flutter, he felt more incarcerated, yearning for a world he once knew, wondering how it had transformed in his absence.
On occasion, drawn by a mix of nostalgia and hope, he would descend to the palace’s basement. Once a place of horrors, it now stood barren, a silent witness to times gone by. Over the years, this underground haven had morphed into a repository of lost trinkets and discarded items, remnants from travelers who journeyed on the old road nearby. It was a road seldom chosen, covered in a blanket of dust and memories, yet favored by a few for its direct path to the North. Each forgotten relic he discovered told a story, a fleeting connection to the ever-changing world outside his gilded cage.
The repetition of his days had melded into a melancholic rhythm, each morning echoing the last, each evening a haunting refrain of isolation. Sunlight hours found him nestled within the comforting embrace of the lounge, the warmth from a perpetually lit fireplace his only companion. Regardless of the season’s capricious whims, the flames danced tirelessly, casting a hypnotic glow that reflected the unyielding nature of his curse.
When night cloaked the world in its velvety darkness, he’d venture beyond the palace walls, wandering the dense expanse of the forest. On certain nights, the gnawing hunger would take hold, compelling him to feed on the wild creatures that called the woods home. Yet, not every excursion was driven by primal need. Often, he’d search the underbrush for the earth’s bounty — fragrant herbs, ripe fruits, and tantalizing berries — nature’s own remedies and sustenance.
Back within the palace, an expansive collection of medicinal tomes awaited him. A legacy left behind by the tyrant he had once been shackled to, these books spanned languages so ancient and arcane, they seemed woven from the threads of forgotten dreams. Yet, from those he could decipher, he gleaned knowledge and distraction, a tether to humanity and the world that once was.
The night, draped in its familiar silence, promised nothing out of the ordinary. With the pangs of hunger already stilled by a previous hunt, he found himself wandering the forest’s labyrinthine paths, searching for botanical treasures. Guided by the knowledge etched in ancient tomes, he hoped to discover herbs that might shield him from the sun’s cruel embrace. Cloaked in obsidian fabrics that blended seamlessly with the night, his hands sifted through the underbrush, seeking nature’s balm.
In the midst of his quiet search, a shimmering movement caught his eye. A majestic deer, its coat glistening under a serendipitous beam of moonlight, paused to observe him. They became statues in the nocturnal ballet, two creatures from different realms held captive by each other’s gaze. It felt like an unspoken challenge, a game of wills, each waiting for the other to break the trance, anticipating the cascade of events that might follow the slightest twitch or turn.
The deer continued to graze undisturbed, breaking eye contact with him as if saying that it trusts him for now, as he watched move its head he removed his gaze from it, and focusing on the red berries in the bush in front of him, were these poisonous or were they the remedy he needed. Whatever they were, they could prove useful somehow, and poison thankfully no longer worked on him. He chuckled at the thought eating a poison berry and just nothing happening to him, just tasting the bitter and sour taste in his mouth as the berry slowly dissolved.
Suddenly, the stillness of the night was shattered by a thunderous eruption, echoing as if the very earth had split just paces away. The deer, in a heartbeat, became a fleeting shadow, disappearing into the enigmatic depths of the Darkwood forest, as if the very night swallowed it whole.
Instinctively, he too felt the primal urge to vanish, to melt into the surroundings. Even with his unique abilities, the forest concealed creatures for whom he might be mere prey. But curiosity, that most human of traits, tugged at him. Rising gracefully from his crouch, each step deliberate and silent, he was drawn toward the source of the disturbance.
The ambient sounds painted a chaotic picture — desperate shouts that melded with the harsh crackling of flames, interspersed with the chilling song of clashing steel. A confrontation, fierce and escalating, was unfolding nearby.
Slipping through the thickets, his form blended seamlessly with the obsidian tapestry of the night, a mastery he had perfected over his years of solitude. In another life, adrenaline would’ve pulsed through his veins, but now, it was just a haunting void of what once was, urging him forward with silent, calculated steps. As he neared the commotion, the cacophonous clash of steel grew distant, replaced by the sporadic murmurs of conversation and the sinister hiss of fire feasting on wood.
Emerging on the edge of the old, almost forgotten road, a noxious blend of blood and sulfur assailed his senses. The scene before him was one of chaos and brutality, clearly the aftermath of a deliberate ambush. The moonlight painted the aftermath in stark relief: strewn bodies, discarded weapons, and the morbid glow of flames consuming a capsized carriage. By its steps lay a figure, draped in a cloak, eerily still — the futile escape of someone significant.
“Finally, this took too long!” a voice rang out, frustration evident.
“Shut up, at least it’s done, and we’re getting paid,” another countered, gruff and authoritative, suggesting he held command.
Two others were busy, methodically drenching the fallen in some vile concoction. Pausing by the cloaked figure, one hesitated, “What about this one?”
“Leave it. They need to identify someone,” the leader instructed.
With a nod, the henchman tossed a lit match, transforming the macabre scene into a roaring inferno, rivaling the intensity of the day’s sun. As the flames climbed higher, their conversation and laughter faded, leaving behind a testament to cruelty and a burning thirst for vengeance in his heart.
As the last echoes of hoofbeats faded into the night, the forest returned to its eerie quietude, punctuated only by the crackling flames. Emerging fully from his shadowed sanctuary, he surveyed the grim tableau — a panorama of devastation illuminated by the hungry flames, turning night into an ominous day.
Drawn to the carriage, glimmers of opulence caught his eye. It wasn’t mere gold; it was a fortune, a trove that would tempt even the most honorable of souls. Yet, as he sifted through the treasures, it became clear that this wasn’t a mere robbery gone awry; it was a calculated act of political or personal malice. Cracking open a chest, a cascade of jewels spilled forth, their facets reflecting the firelight in a dazzling array of colors. They would make a captivating addition to his collection, a stark contrast to the darkness of his secluded abode.
And, perhaps, they held potential for more mundane joys. With the right merchant and the right moment, they could become a means of obtaining artifacts and goods from the world he was so cruelly severed from.
A whispered plea, fragile and haunting, broke through the ambient crackling of the fire. On edge, he swiftly scanned the environment, half-expecting some hidden adversary to emerge from the shadows. Anchored in his surroundings, he recoiled slightly from the carriage, eyes darting to the blazing remains around him. But the engulfed bodies, now reduced to smoldering husks, held no voice, no spirit. Their essence had been stolen by the night’s malevolence.
His attention was irresistibly drawn back to the carriage by a feeble hand, its pallor contrasting starkly against the dark fabric of the robe. His deep, sanguine eyes met the gesture with a moment of aversion. For a heartbeat, temptation whispered to him, suggesting he could end the figure’s pain while satisfying his own dark hunger. Yet, the dim spark of his remaining humanity held him back, serving as a thin barrier against his basest urges.
With deft movements, he secured the chest of precious gems into his pouch, his gaze never straying far from the wounded figure. Blood painted the interior of the carriage, but amidst the crimson, another form lay still and lifeless. A casualty of the night’s ruthlessness, an innocent ensnared in a larger, darker design.
The injured figure at his feet, a pitiable blend of groans and pleas, tugged at the buried memories of his distant past. An echo from four centuries prior resonated within him, when he too was sprawled, broken and desperate, pleading for mercy from an enigmatic savior. Observing the writhing form, a sense of déjà vu gripped him, merging past and present in a poignant moment of shared agony. But as the hand’s movement stilled, brushing against his boots, he realized the precipice of death this being teetered upon.
A whispered exclamation escaped his lips as he examined the wounds. Not fatal at first glance, but every twitch or jostle could hasten the end. With a gentle touch, he stooped, cradling the frail form in his arms. To him, the weight was no more than that of fragile grapes, ready to burst at the slightest pressure.
A backwards glance revealed the fire’s diminishing rage, its fiery tendrils retracting, ensuring the forest remained untouched. Yet, come dawn, the site might beckon curious knights, unless their loyalties had already been bought.
Venturing away from the path, enveloped by the comforting obscurity of the night, he realized a significant departure from his norm. After countless solitary decades, his abode would house another, if only for a fleeting moment.
If you've read this far, and like the first chapter, then I invite you if you so wish to read the second chapter of the story on RoyalRoad! The second chapter is already up, and the third chapter will be available for your reading pleasure on Friday, The 6th of October!
Your support, comments and likes mean a lot, criticism is welcome of this work!
A love letter, from me to Him,
may the world know how much I adore Him,
may the God's smite me, burn me, for I will never love
anyone as much as I love him.
He is everything, my Sun, my Moon and the Air I breathe.
The soft glow of evening twilight draped itself over the town, turning the mundane into something beautifully ethereal. There was someone in my life, amidst this daily tapestry, who stood out in his own charmingly peculiar way.
The first time I realized just how unique he was, we were standing beneath a canopy of stars. He squinted up, his brow furrowed in thought, before earnestly declaring, "Those aren't stars, those are helicopters." And on a gentle stroll through a garden, he'd once pointed to a tulip, a gleam in his eye, and asked, "Isn't that rose beautiful?" He wasn't lacking intelligence; rather, he painted the world in strokes only he could see.
I remember one balmy evening, as I was prepping potatoes for our dinner, I'd sent him to fetch bread and mayonnaise. The scent of the potatoes boiling felt warm and familiar, just like the sensation of waiting for him to return. But when he stepped through the door, there was an excited gleam in his eyes, like a child who'd just discovered a new toy. He had, in his hands, a new bag of potatoes, potato bread, and a quirky-looking light mayonnaise. "It was on sale!" he'd said, holding the mayonnaise up as though he'd unearthed a treasure. "And look how cool this bottle is!"
His quirks didn't end there. Whenever it was time to change our daughter's diaper, he'd groan audibly, almost theatrically. But there was an art to how he did it. In the quiet space of our daughter's room, with the soft hum of a lullaby playing, he'd transform the mundane task into a joyful experience. Like a seasoned basketball player, he'd toss the used diaper with precision, and I'd catch glimpses of him shaking the powder bottle, dancing as though it were a maraca. Our daughter's laughter would echo through the house, proof of the love and joy he brought into our lives with his every dance and gesture.
"'Life is meant to be lived joyfully,' he'd say, and with every step, every dance, and every laugh, he reminded us of that very sentiment.
Bathed in the soft, muted glow of our shared living space, he would sit, a sea of paper surrounding him. To anyone outside, he might have seemed an ardent lover of books, a voracious reader. But in truth, he wasn’t. He was content with reading perhaps a single book a year, often not even finishing that. Yet, every evening, he would delve deep into the drafts I spun throughout the day — stories filled with whispers of passion, intriguing mysteries, and thrilling turns.
Each page he turned seemed to be a journey of its own. I could often hear the gentle rustle of paper, punctuated by his giggles whenever he encountered moments of tenderness between my characters. At unexpected twists, a dramatic gasp would escape him, and I would smile from across the room, finding his reactions both endearing and insightful. He became a part of the tales I penned, and in many ways, he breathed life into them.
And then, once he had combed through the day's work, his eyes, bright and eager, would seek mine. "Is there more?" he'd inquire, the thirst for more of my words evident in his voice. His enthusiasm wasn't for the act of reading itself but for the world I was crafting, and perhaps, for the glimpse it gave him into the inner workings of my mind.
In the quietude of our nights, we'd sit together, brainstorming ideas. His eyes would twinkle, reflecting the stars or perhaps those "helicopters" he so whimsically spoke of, as he ventured into realms of creativity. It was in these moments that the lines blurred between writer and reader, between the creator and the muse. Together, we wove tales, the world outside fading away as our shared imagination took flight.
Amidst the soft glow of evening lights, our shared space became an intimate canvas of memories, emotions, and whispered secrets. Nights with him were an orchestra of emotions, from passionate crescendos in the bedroom to gentle melodies of shared moments in the living room. The texture of his laughter, the warmth of his touch, the comfort in his presence—these became the sweet refrains of my existence.
Yet, in those quiet moments when doubt crept in, I often felt like I was falling short, not offering enough, not being the partner he deserved. Those insecurities, like shadows, would loom large, painting my perception with strokes of inadequacy.
But he, with his impeccable timing and boundless affection, always seemed to sense my inner turmoil. Those instances would be marked by his sudden, almost startled gaze, as though he had just witnessed something supernatural. His hand, warm and reassuring, would reach for my face, feeling my skin as if trying to discern the cause of my distant demeanor. "Are you insane?" he'd exclaim, his voice filled with a mix of concern and playful admonishment. And before I could respond, his lips would find mine, showering me with fervent kisses. Each one served as a reminder of his unwavering love and the bond that tethered us, even amidst the ebb and flow of our shared life.
There exists, in the vast tapestry of humanity, a man who stands apart. In a world that places so much value on names and labels, he often struggles with recalling the very monikers that identify people. I remember the first month after we met; it felt like a playful dance of him trying and failing to remember my name. But then, something shifted.
Now, he rarely calls me by that name. Instead, his voice, rich and warm, dubs me with titles that feel like poetry: Darling, Flower, Sun. I am his Star, his Moon, and the very essence of his world. Sometimes, I tease myself with the thought that perhaps he's forgotten my name again, seeking solace in these endearments. Yet, when the weight of a moment settles upon us, and seriousness laces his tone, he articulates my full name. Not the short, familiar version most use, but the entirety of it. In those moments, his gaze holds an intensity, a tempestuous storm of emotions. While I find it achingly captivating, I'm also painfully aware of the battle raging within him, a battle I yearn to soothe but know will likely always be a part of him.
Hugging him is a journey of emotions. As my arms wrap around him, my fingers often graze the raised, rough texture of scars on his back, hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt. Each scar tells a story, silent witnesses to the pain he endured. Every time I touch them, an involuntary shiver runs down my spine, my mind momentarily conjuring images of what he might've suffered. Who, or what, could've inflicted such marks? The unanswered questions linger, a testament to the layers and mysteries that make up the man I love so deeply.
The intricate tapestry of life is woven with threads of decisions, chance encounters, and fleeting moments. Looking back, the weight of that day when I chose to fill out those documents becomes palpable. It's almost surreal, thinking how the minutiae of life, the seemingly insignificant choices we make, can reshape our entire destiny.
Had I chosen another day, had I missed the rhythmic hum of the bus, the clatter of the train, or the soft bell of the tram, our paths might not have crossed again. These thoughts send a cold shiver down my spine, tears pooling in my eyes. The mere idea of a world without him, the love of my life, feels like a bleak, colorless void.
The universe conspired, time and fate aligning perfectly for our paths to intertwine once more. And now, with every beat of my heart, I am reminded of how profoundly grateful I am for those seemingly arbitrary decisions. For in their wake, they gifted me a lifetime with him—a gift I would not exchange for all the treasures in the world.
A decade ago, the world seemed a different place through my eyes, tinted with hues of melancholy and resignation. The notion of solitude felt like an inevitable destination, echoing the stories I believed to be universal for people like me. Every moment felt like a testament to a future of isolation, where happiness and familial warmth were mere fantasies.
But today, as I stand amidst the tapestry of love, connection, and warmth, I yearn to reach back through the corridors of time. I wish I could sit beside that younger version of myself, with his heavy heart and clouded vision. I'd wrap an arm around him, letting him know that the narrative he's written for himself isn't set in stone. That the future is a vast, unpredictable expanse, and joy can come knocking in the most unexpected moments.
I'd tell him to hold on, to trust in the universe's mysterious ways, and to believe in the unforeseen twists that life holds. For sometimes, even in our darkest hours, destiny has a way of surprising us, rewriting our stories in ways we'd never imagined.
And so, In the vast expanse of the universe, he stands out like a lone beacon. Like a tempest that rages, fierce and unbridled in the open sky, his spirit is both tumultuous and captivating. Yet, juxtaposed against this wild energy, he is also the solitary flower that blooms in the barren meadow, a symbol of resilience, hope, and unmatched beauty. He is a study in contrasts, a melody of chaos and calm. And amidst these paradoxes, he has become the center of my world, the very essence of all my love stories. He is the love of my life.
The Moonless Nights I spent in there
Writing prompt story,
2.6K Words
Prompt: You are a vampire seeing the light for the first time in a long long time. (u/Gwenhwyf4r)
Synopsis: Every several years, a lonesome man, in a lonesome mansion with overgrown gardens, has the chance to leave the confines of the walls and venture into the gardens in front. This year, however, fate had other plans.
Despite knowing the constraints of our lineage, she had chosen to love me unconditionally. We had built a life together, even welcoming two beautiful children into the world. However, the cruel hand of fate kept me away during their milestones, an ever-present shadow that loomed large over our lives.
Her letter spoke of life’s trials and tribulations, of joyous occasions and heartbreaking losses. With every word, I could feel her resilience, her unwavering love for our children, and her determination to provide them with a semblance of a normal life. She had found love again, and while the thought initially stung, I took solace in the knowledge that she had someone to share her life with, someone who could be present in the ways I couldn’t.
My contributions, albeit mostly financial, were my way of ensuring their well-being. Even though they might not have needed it, it was my way of being there, of showing my love and commitment to their future. The letter, a bridge to a life I had missed out on, filled me with both gratitude and sorrow.
As the textured parchment folded neatly between my fingers, I placed it securely into my front pocket, feeling its gentle weight against the rhythm of my heart. It was astonishing – the idea that she’d preserved those letters, those fragments of our past. Even though most of them were discarded or ignored, they became silent testimonials of our bond, and the knowledge of their existence was oddly comforting. I pondered about our children. Would they be in their radiant early twenties now? I recall hearing that society often favored prestigious schools over raw talent. A wistful smile tugged at my lips, “Some things do remain constant,” I mused, as I gently closed the door, leaving behind the haunting stillness of an empty wine bottle and glasses, a tribute to my departed mother.
Stepping into the dimly lit hallway, the world beyond seemed to quieten. The warm hues of the setting sun bled through the draped curtains, their dance creating a tapestry of shifting shadows. A sense of urgency stirred within me; these moments of respite, brief as they might be, were my lifeline. Every few years, a mere six hours of liberty. Perhaps, I thought, the overgrown garden beckoned, needing the touch of my hand. The simple joys of mundane tasks felt like a luxury to me.
Yet, as I ventured further, an all-too-familiar door loomed. The chamber where my youthful indiscretions were met with the stern hand of my grandfather. A shiver coursed through me, memories resurfacing, etching pain on my very skin. My scars, like silent guardians, seemed to whisper urgent warnings, “Beware, for he might still linger.” But tonight, the allure of the world beyond was stronger. Tonight, I refused to let the shadows of the past mar the promise of the fleeting freedom ahead.
The haunting specter of *that* man, or rather, the monster he’d become in my mind, would not hold dominion over my thoughts tonight. Lost in this battle of memories, I suddenly found myself at the terminus of the hallway. The West Wing always filled me with a sense of unease. Its vast rooms, often dormant and still, would occasionally house guests or distant relatives. But its echoing silence, more often than not, bore testament to its desolation.
A sudden metallic jingle jolted me from my reverie. It sounded like the distant struggle of someone wrestling with the gates. A glance through the veil of curtains confirmed the persistent gleam of the sun. My heart clenched; I could only hope the intruder would depart before the safety of night descended.
As I retraced my steps, the mansion seemed to play tricks on my senses. Time itself became an elusive force, slipping through my grasp like grains of sand. The familiar doors of my mother’s chamber, the numerous guest rooms I’d walked by countless times, all flew by in a blur. Yet, an uncanny sensation clawed at my gut, suggesting things weren’t entirely as they appeared. Upon reaching the grand staircase, the ornate clock looming above caught my attention. Its hands defiantly proclaimed it was nine. “Could it truly be?” I murmured in disbelief, the soft echo of my voice accompanying my descent into the grandeur of the foyer.
The foyer seemed to expand around me, the clock’s relentless ticking echoing louder, synchronizing with the rhythm of my heart. The grand door, with its dark allure, felt like a siren beckoning me to tempt fate. The tantalizing thought of sneaking a glimpse through the blinds danced seductively in my mind. The dangers were clear, but the pull, almost magnetic in its intensity, was irresistible.
Tentatively, my fingers curled around the cold metal handle, its chill seeping through my skin, urging me forward. Taking a deep breath, I tugged it open and immediately shut my eyes, bracing myself for the potential onslaught of light that could blind or scorch me.
But nothing came. There was no blistering heat or chilling cold, just the embrace of gentle warmth. It felt like the tender touch of a loved one, not a searing burn. The very air seemed to caress my skin, an unexpected kindness in an otherwise treacherous act.
The golden glow of the setting sun bathed everything in sight, creating a mesmerizing palette of fiery oranges and soothing purples. It was in that captivating luminescence that I heard her voice, an echo from the wrought-iron gates. “Hello? Sir?”
I was so lost in the sheer amazement of the light – real, genuine daylight – that I hadn’t even noticed her at first. As I blinked away the initial shock, my eyes stinging as they adjusted, her voice reached out again. “Sir, do you live here?”
Drawing in a deep breath, I responded, the remnants of awe still evident in my tone, “I did! What brings you here?”
As my vision cleared, the day’s late golden hour revealed itself in all its glory. The house stood proudly, bathed in the radiant hues of the dying sun, while at the gates, a woman stood alongside a man next to a sleek black car.
“We’re searching for someone,” she began.
“It’s just me here,” I replied almost reflexively, stepping forward, basking in the sun’s embrace, feeling its gentle warmth caress my skin, as if reuniting with a long-lost friend.
“And who might that be?” My voice resonated with genuine curiosity, the landscape around me resembling a master artist’s canvas brought to life.
She hesitated, twirling a stray strand of her hair. She seemed like she was just stepping out of her teen years, her eyes darting curiously between me and the grandeur of the house. The man, a more seasoned figure with a salt and pepper beard, came forward, presenting a photograph. “We’re looking for this gentleman. Recognize him?”
I took a moment, letting the familiar face in the picture connect with distant memories. My heart thudded audibly, emotions and recollections surging.
She added softly, a hint of desperation evident, “He’s my father. This was the last place he was seen. We’ve been on his trail for so long.”
The enormity of the moment, combined with the surreal beauty of the setting, weighed heavily on me. The mansion, echoing with tales from yesteryears, seemed poised to unveil its myriad secrets once again.
Thank you for joining me in this short story, it was a prompt I found on reddit, I hope you enjoyed it. I've recieved several request from friends, so the next few stories I will be posting will be more Genshin Impact oriented, I hope.
Thank you once again, and if you have any questions, please message me (or ask me) on twitter, @emitridium
