short story generator~

Hi!!!!! This is my writer acc, my main one is @icanttalkimhavingacrisis have fun!

[icanttalkimhavingacrisis]

Ada & Eve

“I have an idea.” Lilith turned to Jane. “What for?” “What we should do next - in our search for answers.” Lilith wrung her hands, nervous. She stood up from the armchair she sat upon, facing the other from above. “I think we should go back to The Valley.” “And what will this give us?” Jane sipped at her tea, eyes regarding Lilith cautiously. “I will play the violin,” Lilith started explaining, “with the intention of peering into the past. Perhaps The Valley can tell us how I found myself there?” “It sounds dangerous.” Jane sighed, placing her cup on the crowded coffee table. “But it’s a place to start. Let us go, then. Best to do this before dark.” Jane got up from the couch and the two left Lilith’s apartment, Lilith with her violin on her back and Jane with a satchel thrown over her body, containing within it all those things that Lilith would usually take with her to The Valley - things that reminded her of the world outside the forest.

They entered The Valley all too soon - it was exactly as they left it. Jane placed the satchel cautiously under the hawthorn and began unpacking it - she took out a blanket, a copy of crime and punishment, and a small analogue radio. She raised two thumbs at Lilith, who nodded and started playing her elegy.

The music filled the air, and stayed within it long after Lilith had finished playing. Those gentle notes - they hung in the air like an unfinished symphony. Lilith looked around herself, and found The Valley had been changed. The grasses were much taller - the clearing itself much larger, full of rolling hills. The babbling brook was more so a river - and the old hawthorn was nowhere to be seen. Lilith turned to Jane, violin hanging limply at her side. She smiled at Jane. “I’m alright”, she seemed to say. “It worked”. Jane nodded, smiling back at Lilith. She stood up from the blanket and walked up to Lilith. She placed a finger to her lips, and pointed at the hills in the distance, where two figures were visible, walking up the hill. The closer they came, the more evident their nature was. Therein walked two women, hand in hand - and with a sudden realisation Lilith recognised the striking resemblance to herself in one of them - she saw a mother - possibly her own - walking with her upon her arm. Lilith felt warm tears sprout to her eyes - she never estimated just how moved she would be to see the woman who had raised her, a woman she had no memory of. And yet - this woman was not her blood mother, Lilith was certain of it. Why then, was the woman so incredibly similar to Lilith - so much so, that standing next to her, Lilith would look akin to a younger version of the woman. The woman was soothing the child - the young Lilith. Beside her was another woman - one with flowing blonde hair, similar to that of Caterina. She was pregnant - and within a moment Lilith realised - the child within her womb was the friend of her childhood days. The blonde woman turned to the other.

“What shall you name this child, Eve?” She asked. “I shall name her Lilith,” Eve replied, “for she came to me within the night. Here she shall be safe - she will grow alongside the child you carry under your heart, and they shall care for each other.” Here she grew sad. “I only wish I could witness her grow. I have only known her for a moon - but I love her as though my own kin.” “Do not lose hope, Eve.” The other woman smiled. “Perhaps we will find a way to stay beside our children.” “Perhaps, Ada. Perhaps…” Eve looked wistfully at the clouds.

In a moment, the world was changed. The Valley appeared the same - but Lilith and Jane could feel the shift in time. The two women sat on the grass, the blonde holding in her arms a baby girl. “What shall you call her, Ada?” “Caterina.” Ada replied. The young version of Lilith cooed, crawling over to the young Caterina. “Catty.” the little Lilith smiled , placing her little hands on the shoulders of Caterina, eyes large and loving. Ada and Eve laughed, and the scene changed once more.

It was now night. Ada and Eve stood over the two girls as they slept - they couldn’t have been older than five. Ada cried silently. “Oh, must we truly leave them?” Ada asked. Eve hugged her companion. "I understand your misery, Ada.” She soothed the woman, stroking her hair. “Alas, we both knew this day would come. They will be safe here, I promise.” “I cannot leave them… I cannot…” Ada held back a hiccup. Eve looked over at the young Lilith, tears glinting in her eyes. All at once, an idea flashed in them, and she turned to her companion. “I think…” she looked around herself, as though scared. She returned her gaze to Ada. “I think I have an idea. But know this - if we choose to stay this way, you will never again speak to your Caterina. You will only be able to watch her from afar.” “It is better, I think, than not being able to watch her at all.” Ada said, feverishly. “Let us do it.” Eve nodded.

The two women shared one last hug, and went their separate ways. Lilith saw Ada walk into the river - the babbling brook, her River of Sorrows - and become one with it, dissolving into its waves. She saw Eve climb the little hill, stand firmly at its peak and whisper a gentle spell - she saw the valley grow small, into the clearing she remembered from my youth, the hills grow flat, the river grow small. After she was certain she did well, Eve closed her eyes, and became surrounded by a mysterious glow. She grew taller, her hair grew longer. Lilith realised with a gasp, that Eve had become that old Hawthorn - her closest companion through all those years of grief. As the dawn began to settle on the clearing from her youth, and Lilith blinked back the tears that threatened to form in her eyes, all became as it was in the present, and the past became memory once more.

Lilith turned to Jane. Jane nodded, taking Lilith’s hand. They took all they brought with themselves, and left quietly, as though unwanted visitors. Jane took the violin case from Lilith, feeling that it might be a burden now. “I’m sorry,” Lilith said quietly. “What for?” Jane tilted her head. “I brought you out here, and we aren’t even closer to understanding anything.” “That’s not true.” Jane smiled softly. “We know your mom is a tree.” Lilith laughed. “Yeah, well.” She dried off her eyes on her hand. “We also know she isn’t my mother.” “True.” Jane sighed. “You really are a conundrum, you know that?” “I know.” Lilith smiled at Jane. They left the forest behind, turning back to the town they had come to call home.

[joywritesbutitsactuallymystories]

how fleeting the life of memory - how fleeting indeed

No matter how hard I try to commit the events of the past few months to memory, I cannot find the events within me - I cannot find them in the dark and damp corners of my mind. I’ve been struggling recently with memory - it seems forever just out of my reach, inaccessible to me from within my mind. Perhaps then, it would do to retrace my footsteps, the footprints my soul has left upon the earth this past year.

I wed in the early morrows of January - of this I am certain. I have been told much of white dresses and pink roses and of churches and of much merriment and of frivolous dancing. Here is the first discrepancy I find in my memory - for I remember not such events. No matter how hard I search my memory, I still come across the same images that match not the description I have heard - I see images of black velvet dresses, of red asphodels, of dark, moonlight forests, of cries of dismay and of a slow, funeral march. I remember a sickly husband, an even sicklier wife, and a promise of life everlasting in each other’s company, sealed with a kiss like death. All this was out in the January cold, the snow still firmly present on the ground.

My husband - what was his name? I do not remember. Regardless, I do not believe we were a happy marriage - if we were, would he die quite so soon? I remember burying him in early April - mere months having passed from our wedding. I stood over his urn - he had stressed many times that he was to be cremated, so as to minimise the possibility of his returning as a phantom. I stood alone over his tomb. No-one else showed at the funeral - this did not surprise me in any way, he did not have much in the way of friends. We were alike in that sense - both alone in a cruel world that did not love us, in a world that never accepted us the way we were. I remember distinctly - yes, now I recall it - It was one of those days you could feel the air growing warmer as it passed, upon a light spring breeze. His grave was unnamed - or was it? I do not perceive that in my memories. I stood over the grave, waiting for something, what? I cannot recall. I looked forward into the forest - the same forest we wed in those few months ago - I was looking for something. What was I looking for? Whom was I missing? I felt a gentle breeze upon my face - and between the trees I saw what I must’ve been looking for. I waved at him, tentatively. He waved back. I smiled, drying the rogue tears from my cheeks with my sleeve, content. He was free - he had returned to his world. I turned on my heel and left.

It was later that month that I discovered I was with child - his child. Son or daughter - I was not sure. It did not matter to me - I loved that child above all that I had known. I gave birth to a healthy babe mid-September. Something about that was peculiar - though I cannot recall what it was at this time. They were all for me - all my life, my love. I devoted myself to that child, with a devotion feverful and unending, but something took them from me - I do not recall what. Oh, my dear child! Where are you now? Why did you leave me? Would you forgive me for what happened? I did not mean to forget you, no - I meant not any of this.

September is the last I truly remember of this year. I cannot recall how I spent October, save that it was cold, and I was miserable. I was alone - I must have been miserable. Oh, who am I without my memories? Who am I without anyone to tell me who to be? Memory is fickle - flighty, like a feather on a breeze, like a seed of a dandelion, like a leaf that falls and dies in the autumn. Where was I going with this? I had a point in mind - I just cannot recall what that point was.

No, I remember something. I believe I do. November - the greyest and most dismal of months. I was alone - not only in emotion, but in all physicality as well. I was alone in the forest - that beautiful forest, that forsaken forest, in which I was wed those many months ago. It was not, actually, that long ago. Merely ten months - and yet it felt to me as though many, many years had passed. I felt old, tired. I was in much pain - not all the physical kind. I was alone - in a small cabin in the forest. I do not know whom the cabin belonged to before that time - I did not care. I spoke not - there was none to speak to. I ate little, I slept much. I had fallen into an acheronian mood, so to speak. I cared not for the world - that cruel world, that had never loved - nay, never even cared - for me. I excluded myself from it, vowing to never return to it.

Here - my memory is cut short, brutally and finally. I remember not of December - save that today is its last day. I remember not how I found myself here, lying peacefully in the bed of someone who’s name I do not remember. Bah, I remember not even my own name. My mind is blanker than it has ever been - my memories, already depleted, are fleeting beyond my grasp as I say this. Oh, how easy it would be to simply fall into that comfortable dark that beckons to me so! But no, I will not succumb to it just yet. I feel my chest - I am bleeding. What happened to me, for the blood to flow out so strongly? I try desperately to remember - I cannot. I give in. Good, then. At least I shall be reunited with my husband and child - since I could not have them close in life, I shall have them close in death. Cursed be the strings of fate - that cut my life short. Cursed be the strings of fate - that gave me no happiness in my lifetime. I succumbed to that gentle night. At very least I may say I did not go gently into it - I feel upon my fingers the sparks of fight. I fell into the dark, confident I was not going easily to it. I died, slowly, alone, in the same moment as the clock hit midnight.

[joywritesbutitsactuallymystories]

Geo

“So then, Jane.” Lilith stirred her half-drunk latte. “What is it you propose?” The two had decided to meet at a cafe, nearer the centre of town. They sat at a table for two, near a large window. It was raining outside - typical weather for the middle of November in that town. Lilith had ordered a medium vanilla latte - Jane a large cappuccino. “You are not of the Air nor the Sea, this much is certain.” Jane responded. She took a long sip of her coffee before continuing: “the only natural way forward is to test the other options.” “What do you have in mind?” “We’ll visit a few friends of mine, of the Earth and the Fire.” Jane smiled. “The chances that you are of any other element are very slim.” “Very well.” Lilith drained her cup. “Might I ask you one more question?” “Be my guest, Lilith.” “Is Jane your true name? Or did you choose it for yourself, similar to how I chose my surname?” “It is my true name.” Jane answered. “My mother was of the Folk, my father of men. He was the one that raised me - he was a lighthouse keeper, my mother a selkie from what I gathered. He chose my name - not her.” Jane smiled sadly. She drained her cup and got up from where she sat. “Let us be going - we have places to be.” Lilith paid for her coffee and the two left the cafe.

The two walked onward, through the rain. Lilith hid herself safely under her umbrella, and Jane walked without any cover from the rain - she did not need any, after all. “Where is it we are headed?” Lilith asked. “I have a friend,” Jane responded. “He is of the Earth - or at least partially. His father was of the Folk.” Jane smiled at Lilith. “He works at the local library - chances are you’ve met him by now.” “I can’t recall it.” “No worries, you will when you meet him.”

They walked further uptown, towards the region in which Lilith’s flat was. The rain ceased - turning into that specific drizzle one might find in a seaside town. Of course, the town was not a seaside one per se - it was a good ninety minute trek through the wilds to get to the cliffs - but somehow, it felt like one. They approached the town library. Its large, double doors were oak - with golden embellishments. The steps that lead up to those doors may have been quite a majestic sight, once upon a time - now they just looked sad and lonely, covered in age and graffiti. The walls of the library mimicked the steps, with crude drawings closer to the bottom of them and chipped plaster towards the top. On window ledges, pigeons sat, and although they seemed out of place, if one looked closer one could see quite a peculiar sight - in place of the customary barbed wire, there were nests - furthermore, nearer the roof of the building, there were birdhouses and bird feeders placed strategically, so as to care for those winged friends of man. It was quite a peculiar sight - but in its own way a beautiful one.

Jane pushed the weathered handle on one of the wooden doors and held it open for Lilith to enter. She complied, and walked into the hall, where she was met by large, wooden stairs. “I must say, this place is not very wheelchair accessible.” “They have a back entrance with a lift.” Jane replied, sidestepping Lilith. “It does not do to judge a book by its cover, Lilith.” Lilith rolled her eyes at her, but then followed after, up the wooden stairs towards the front desk.

“Good afternoon.” Jane stepped up to the elderly woman at the desk. “Is George Lambert in today?” “Yes, he’s over in the archives.” The woman looked up at Jane absentmindedly. Her eyes were covered with a sort of fog. “Feel free to go there and look for him. Here’s an access card.” With that, she passed Jane her access card and Lilith realised something terrible - that the woman was under her spell. “Thank you, dear.” Jane smiled at the receptionist. “We shall be on our way then.” She led Lilith towards the basements. “Why did you cast a spell on her?” “I didn’t.” Jane looked at Lilith, confused. “I could clearly see it.” Lilith crossed her arms around her chest. “Her eyes were shrouded with a fog, she was looking but not seeing - she was under your charm.” “I…” Jane stuttered. “I did not do it on purpose, if I did it.” she sighed. “One drawback of my powers is just that - I cannot entirely control the siren charm, it works on its own accord.” She smiled tilting her head. “Which is why I love your company.” “I don’t understand.” “You see me as I truly am, not as your perfect image of what I should be.” She responded simply, disappearing into the dark of the corridor leading towards the archives. Lilith sighed, following her onwards.

“Geo! What a pleasure to see you.” Jane walked into the dimly lit room, throwing her arms around the boy. Lilith took a moment to regard him - tall and lanky, he reminded her of a stick insect. He was much taller than most, surely, as his head seemed to reach the tops of the shelves. He had brown hair - the soft kin, not as dark as that of Jane. His eyes were brown too - a muddy brown, with little sparks of gold in it. His face was covered in freckles, and his hands were blotched by black ink. The boy turned to Lilith, smiling.

“Hello.” He said quietly. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” He nodded. “We go to the same university, although I’m in Librarian Studies, and you, from what I remember, are in Music.” “That is correct.” Lilith extended a hand. “My name is Lilith.” “Mine is Geo.” He shook Lilith’s hand and turned to Jane, raising an eyebrow. “Now then, to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visitation?” “This here Lilith is not mortal.” Jane said. “Yes, that much I can see.” Lilith sighed irritably. “Honestly, is that evident to all except me?” “Yes.” Jane and Geo replied simultaneously. “Although, not to mortals,” Geo added. “Only fellow non-mortals can tell. We see it in you.” “Like I in your eyes.” Lilith commented. Geo raised an eyebrow, questioning. “Well your eyes have flickers of gold in them, a sign of magic.” She explained. “And Jane’s have a cold fire in them that no-one else has.” “Interesting…” Geo mused. “I still do not understand why you’re here.” “I’m getting to it.” Jane laughed. “We’re trying to figure out of which Folk she is - we are certain she is not of the Air nor the Sea - is she of the Earth?” “No.” Geo said firmly. “She is not. That much is evident.” “Well of which do you think she might be?” “Of fire.” Geo hesitated. “Or of the Spirit.” Jane inhaled sharply. “You think she could be of them? But they do not show themselves to mortals often.” “It is possible.” Geo turned his gaze to Lilith. “What is your gift, Lilith?” “The little violin.” She responded. “I have a bond with it - it was a gift to me from the Folk, and it can cast charms and tell stories.” “The Fire cannot do that.” He turned back to Jane. “You must seek out the Folk of the Spirit - they may have the answers you seek.” With that, he bid them farewell and returned to his work.

The two emerged from the library, shocked to see it was already dark out. Lilith turned to Jane. “Would you like to stay at my flat for the night? It’s a bit too late for the trek back to your home.” “Yes, I agree.” Jane sighed and followed Lilith as she led them towards her building. “What do we do now, Lilith?” “We keep searching.” She said simply. She turned the key in the door and turned to face Jane, smiling slightly. “There’s no giving up now - we’re too deep in the waters.” She opened the door and invited Jane into her safe haven. They would resume their search the next day - but for now, it was time for a break.

[joywritesbutitsactuallymystories]

Jane

Lilith sat at the bar, looking down at her book. She wasn’t reading - she just needed something to hide behind. Something to mask the fact her brain was working double time, mulling over the events of the past week. So she sat, in peaceful silence, until it was brutally interrupted by the characteristic screeching noise of someone pulling back one of the old bar stools.

“Can I get you a drink?” the intruder asked. “Do I look like I need one?” Lilith shot back. The intruder shrugged. She smiled broadly. “You’re at the Fox & Hound pub, dear, everyone who comes here needs a drink.” She tilted her head ever so slightly. “So, what’ll it be? I’m paying.” “I presumed as much, since you are the one who came out with the proposal.” Lilith raised an eyebrow. After a moment, she sighed. “A glass of red wine, then. Please.” “Of course, red wine it is.” The intruder waved over the bartender and ordered two red wines. She then turned to Lilith, regarding her with bright, icy blue eyes. Lilith took that moment to better regard her company as well - bright blue eyes, almost unnaturally so, dark, coiled hair, with silver highlights of sorts, and dark skin. She was of immense beauty - almost dangerous beauty.

“I’m Jane, Jane Clairview.” The intruder introduced herself. “May I have your name?” “I can tell you my name,” Lilith raised her chin, provocatively. “But you may not own it in any way - it is Lilith. Lilith Ardenclove.” “I see you’ve met the fae.” The intruder laughed. “I am not, however, of those who steal names, you can believe me on that one.” “Right.” Lilith turned back to the bar, upon which the barkeep had placed the two wines. She took a deep sip from the glass as Jane chuckled. “Right, I can see that you definitely did not need that drink.” She sipped her own wine silently, still observing Lilith closely, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Who are you, Lilith Ardenclove?” “I don’t understand your question, Jane Clairview.” “You do.” She grew closer to Lilith - so close in fact, that their faces were divided only by the width of two fingers. Lilith looked into the eyes of her companion - those icy blue eyes - and the flickers of cold fire within them, and those sparks of magic, a sight Lilith was all too accustomed to. “What is there about you Lilith - what makes you immune to my charm?” “Who are you, Jane Clairview?” Lilith tilted her head. “What is it in you that gives you that spark? You are not of the folk of the air, this much is evident.” Jane simply chuckled. “Very well then, Lilith.” She smiled, taking another sip of her wine. “You keep your secrets, I shall keep mine.”

Lilith drained her wine glass and gathered her things into her bag. She took one last look at her companion, Jane Clairview, and bid her goodbye, leaving the pub. She put on her thick red scarf, tied her cloak firmly around her body, and began the trek back to her flat. The Fox & Hound pub was conveniently placed within 20 minutes of where Lilith lived - and within half an hour’s trek to the forest. She often came to the Fox & Hound after her time spent in the forest, as it was the only place in the vicinity that was still open at that time, and it was warm, which was much needed after the neverending autumn of the clearing. Lilith wished to forget that place - but she could not find it in herself, she couldn’t forget. She kept on returning to The Valley in her thoughts, to Caterina, to the Folk, and the life she used to lead. It had taken her much to create a place for herself in this new and alarming world, and remembering was a dangerous thing - it was something that tied her to the world she had chosen to leave.

She never found out who it was she had been before she lived in The Valley. She tried, looking for records of missing children from when she presumed to have been born - but her search was fruitless. So instead, she created a new identity, instead of looking for one that once was. She gave herself a family name, called herself an orphan, and enrolled in music school, and rented out an apartment with the help of one tiny little deception.

She had found something unusual within her little violin - it was not from the material world, as she had presumed before. The violin had grown with her, it had taught her how to play, without notes and without a teacher. The little violin was a gift for her - a gift from the Folk. Her first interaction with the Folk happened within the first week of her leaving The Valley. A faery had walked up to her at school, asking for her name. She saw beyond its veil - the magic that swirled within its soul. She refused, later deciding to research magical creatures in the lore of the islands she had found herself upon. She learned of the fae, of their legendary kings, of the Túatha Dé Danann, of their legends and mythologies. Armed with this knowledge, she felt safer, and moved onward through life, utilising the power within the little violin when she truly needed it. She considered herself safe. Until she met Jane.

Jane haunted her mind - for what reason, she was unsure. True, she represented a race Lilith had never met before. But was that truly reason to worry so much? She wasn’t sure. Still, she grew convinced as the weeks passed by - she needed to understand. So, she left the safety of the apartment she had found refuge in, to search for Jane Clairview, armed only with her convictions. And, of course, the little violin.

“I knew you’d be back here.” Jane smiled, as Lilith slid back into that bar chair, in the pub they had first met. “Are you ready to exchange information, Lilith Ardenclove?” Lilith nodded. “Yes, Jane Clairview.” She said. “I will tell you my secrets, if you promise to tell me yours.” Jane spread out her arms in a welcoming gesture. “Of course, a fair trade, Lilith Ardenclove.” “Please, call me not by my full name.” “Very well. You too, Lilith, call me Jane.” “As you wish.” Lilith got up from the stool. “I shall go first with my secrets. This, however, is not the place to share them. Are you willing to go on a short walk?” “Of course,” Jane smiled. “Whatever suits you.”

The two left the pub, and Lilith led Jane towards the forest. They barely shared a word on that walk, the silence only occasionally broken by the sound of Lilith correcting the straps on her violin case. They walked swiftly - something within Lilith was eager to show a person from the outside that clearing that held such value to her and Caterina. At long last, after a good half an hour, they made it to the clearing.

The clearing was beautiful. It was new - neither the way Lilith remembered it to be the past seven years, nor the way it had been long ago, in the days of Lilith’s girlhood. The hawthorn stood proudly, the River of Sorrow was filled with joy, the fog was nowhere to be seen, and the grasses were, every so often, broken by beautiful, young flowers. It was breathtaking - a beautiful spring amidst the grey of November. “I grew up in this place.” Lilith smiled. “I had a sister - a friend. Her name was Caterina.” Jane tilted her head, puzzled. “She called this place The Valley.” Lilith undid her scarf. “Don’t worry about the cold, this place is governed by its own rules.” “How is it that you grew up here, if you belong to the mortal realm?” “I do not know.” Lilith replied. “I do not know many things - and am not good at telling stories.” She opened her violin case. “I shall, instead, let my instrument tell the story for me.” She tuned the little violin and began playing.

And she played - and the little violin told the story of a beautiful, pure, childhood love. It told the tale of two girls, belonging to the clearing, of Lilith and Caterina, of how they grew. It told of the day it was found by Lilith, of how the girl fell for its music and how she devoted herself entirely to it. It told of how it grounded Lilith in her reality - and of how Caterina grew distant. It told of that acheronian day - the one upon which Lilith lost her first love. It told of the guilt Lilith felt - of how she would visit The Valley every day for seven years, to keep it company. It told of how Lilith played for The Valley, and of how that act cleared her of her fault, and freed the clearing from her guilt and sorrow. It told of how this was the first time Lilith had visited the clearing since she had played for it. And as she played, and the little violin told that story, The Valley listened, and many spirits came and listened too - pulled forth by the peculiar vision of a mortal playing one of their instruments.

“Not many mortals would be able to play the way you do,” Jane spoke once the music was finished. “Not any, I believe. Do you understand what this means, Lilith? I do not believe you are fully of the mortal world. I think you may belong to mine.” “Then show me your world, Jane.” Lilith placed the little violin gently in its case, fastening the clasps and placing it on her back. “Keep your end of the promise.” “I will.” Jane smiled. “Follow me.”

The two companions left the forest behind, and Lilith felt lighter than air. She was deeply relieved that she showed the clearing to someone from the outside - she had proof now, that it had all happened, that she was not mad. She had proof now, that it was over - that she was free to come and go, to do as she wished. It was a dangerous thought - complete and utter freedom to do as one wished. She found it exhilarating.

Jane led Lilith further into the wilder parts of the country. They pressed further and further away from the little town Lilith lived in, and towards the cliffs that marked the seashore. The closer they grew to the cliffs, the more alive Jane appeared, the more colour appeared in her cheeks. Her hair grew more and more silvery, glittering in the lowering sunlight. Soon enough, it became twilight - but Lilith found that she saw everything just as clearly as in the harsh light of midday. They approached the cliffs rapidly, stopping just before them. Jane took a deep breath, reveling in the salt air. She turned to Lilith, smiling.

“You showed me your world,” she started. “This is mine. You were right in saying I am not of the Folk of the Air - but I am of the Folk.” She stepped forward. “Can you guess of which?” “The Folk of the Sea.” Lilith breathed in awe. Jane smiled, nodding. “Not entirely, of course - I am part Folk.” She stepped closer still to Lilith, making the space between them once more that of two finger widths. She studied Lilith’s eyes carefully. “No, you are not of the Sea. Nor are you of the Air. Who are you then, Lilith?”

They stood on that cliffside, pondering the question - and Lilith felt her world, that she so carefully crafted, making a place for herself amongst mortals, collapse slowly but surely with each unspoken question that hung in the salt air between them.

[icanttalkimhavingacrisis]

Caterina

“You have a beautiful name.” The little girl stopped playing with the flower in her hand. “It’s so… different.” “I hate my name.” The little girl stated firmly. “Who names their kid Lilith?” “It suits you.” The other girl tilted her head. “It has a melody to it - Lilith.” She mulled the word over again, laughing ever so slightly. “It’s beautiful, just like you!” “I think yours is prettier, Caterina.” Lilith smiled, placing the flower crown she had spun upon the other girl’s head. “Catty. It suits you too.” Caterina smiled.

The girls had known each other as long as they could remember - and they knew this place a day longer. The Valley is what they called it - though it was not such, more so a clearing in a forest. It was a peaceful place, a beautiful one, filled with the widest variety of flowers - asphodel and heather, and yarrow - and, of course, lily of the valley. There were not many trees within the clearing, save a young hawthorn, and there was not much for water, save a singular, babbling brook. There were no other people in that clearing, not ever. Just Caterina and Lilith - Lilith and Caterina. They did not remember who they were before they met - they did not care for the past too much. Nor did they care for the future - no. To them, the only thing that mattered was the present, and the other girl, and the love they shared.

The girls spent all their lives there, in The Valley. No one ever entered it from the outside world, and they dared not ever leave it. The Valley was all they needed, with its never ending summer and its quiet birdsong. They spent all their days there, just the two of them - reading and telling stories, chasing each other and playing games, swimming in the brook, singing and climbing the hawthorn’s lower branches. They slept under the stars, naming the constellations whatever it was they fancied. One fateful day, Lilith found something that did not fit The Valley - a violin.

She looked at it, puzzled. It held within it some strange beauty - she couldn’t quite place what it was. She picked up the instrument, and plucked at its strings. She had a strange sensation - that she had seen it before. That she knew what it was. She ran quickly to share her discovery with Caterina.

The two marvelled over the intricate beauty of the instrument, caressing its strings and playing with the bow. Lilith took the violin in hand, and placed the bow on the strings. She pulled it across the strings and sound emerged from within the little wooden thing. The two fell silent in awe, and Lilith understood - she was meant for this wooden contraption - and it was meant for her.

She devoted herself to the study of that little violin, and Caterina spent her time watching her in wonder. When Lilith learnt to play songs, Caterina would sing them, and The Valley sang along with her, harmoniously, and the animals of the forest would listen silently. When Lilith played dances, Caterina would revel in them, swaying along to the sounds the little wooden box produced. Such beauty was held within the little violin, and The Valley learned to accept it as a part of it, and it became a part of The Valley.

And so, Lilith and Caterina grew older, entering the storms of adolescence. They never fought though - their love for each other was stronger than anything that age threw at them. Lilith studied the violin, and Caterina studied The Valley. Both girls loved The Valley - but Caterina needed it like air. She craved a closeness with it that Lilith did not understand. So while Lilith sat under the hawthorn, either reading or practising the violin, Caterina ventured further and further into The Valley, becoming more and more one with its essence. For she was born in that clearing - she grew in The Valley - it was hers as much as she was its.

A distance grew between Lilith and Caterina. Lilith became more and more certain in the world around her, and grew a silent longing for the world outside The Valley, for a world full of music, full of violins and other instruments. And Caterina grew less and less present - more spirit than girl now, she had no care for anything besides The Valley. And then came one fateful night - a night that would haunt both the girls for as long as they would live - the night they lost each other.

Caterina had grown restless. She was wild - like the wind in her hair. She was free - like the birds in the sky. She wanted to be that which she had always been destined for - a part of The Valley, connected to it in life and death. Lilith too, had grown restless, her fingers pressing at the strings of her violin with a newfound passion. She was lost to the music - entirely and whole. She did not see Caterina walk up to her - for her eyes were closed. She did not feel the gentle kiss Caterina placed upon her forehead, she was too preoccupied by the music that flowed from her hands, like the purest gold. The Valley trembled in anticipation of that cataclysmic event - that which it knew had to happen. Caterina climbed the old hawthorn tree. She felt the tears stream down her face. She understood - Lilith would never love her the way she loved her. Lilith was devoted to her music. She understood - she would never love Lilith the way she wanted to. She was devoted to The Valley. She understood, finally - she could never truly be a part of The Valley. Not while she lived. She fell.

Lilith awoke from the grip the music held on her, to see that Caterina was gone. She wept over all she had lost, over what could’ve been. Over what should have been. As she wept, a fog covered the clearing, and the never ending summer succumbed to the darkness of autumn. She heard a whisper in the wind. She heard her Caterina. “Bury me,” she whispered. “Beneath the tree we would climb when we were young.”

And so, she did. And for the first time, Lilith remembered a world outside The Valley. And for the first time, Lilith left the forest. For she was not born in that clearing - Caterina was. And now, Caterina had become one with that place she had loved so dearly. And Lilith was left alone, with the doubts and the guilt of that which survives. She would never truly return home - for home was dead to her. And she discarded her name - that which Caterina had loved so deeply.

[icanttalkimhavingacrisis]

Lilith

The leaves crunched under her feet. Lily wrapped her arms tightly around herself, shivering from the cold. She smiled softly to herself - she loved the forest always, but autumn was when it was at its most beautiful. The trees with their changed foliage - the birches and the redwoods, and the cedars, and the maples - all with leaves of the most beautiful oranges, yellows and browns. The sky was most often still a beautiful blue - it was after all, still October, and not yet the grey of November. And the cold - there was something beautiful in it. Lily loved the way it nipped at her nose, reddened her cheeks. She loved much about the forest.

The place she was headed to though - that was what she truly loved the most. A clearing in the forest - with not much in it besides grass, an old hawthorn tree, that dominated the clearing, and a babbling brook, Lily affectionately called the River of Sorrow. The entire clearing had a sorrowful demeanour - regardless of the time of the year and the weather, it was eternally shrouded by an almost ghostly fog. Not many animals ventured into that part of the forest, but Lily did not mind - she enjoyed the peace, just her, the hawthorn, the brook and the fog, keeping each other company every day for the past seven years. She would unfold a blanket under the Hawthorn, and watch the clearing in silence. Sometimes she took out a book, sometimes she would listen to music. Most days however, she would sit in silence, simply observing the fog as it thickened. She would stay there in that stiff silence, only ever broken by the babbling of the nearby brook, for exactly four hours and one minute, after which time she would fold up her blanket and return home.

Lily was not her given name - Lilith was it, but she never enjoyed that name, and asked everyone she knew to use it for her instead of the latter. Most complied with this request, and those who did not were promptly educated on the reasoning and saw reason in her plea, turning to compliance as well. And thus, she was Lily to the world, and the world knew her as Lily. It was only here, in the clearing, where she was fully herself, with not a soul to watch on and judge. She was Lilith and Lily - both were her. And she had to give time to both facets of herself.

Lily played the violin. She loved the music with a deep passion, and played in such a way that all could hear the feeling she placed in her music. She played cathartic pieces, she played mourning pieces, she played hopeful pieces. She was part of a violin quartet too, and would often perform with this quartet in the most varied of places. Today though, she planned to play alone - in that place which she had loved so much.

Lilith brought her violin with her to the clearing. The brook held its breath, the fog grew still. All was silent, as Lily tuned her instrument. She closed her eyes, picturing something long buried, something deep beneath her. She placed the bow gently on the strings, and started playing. The Stravinsky elegy for solo violin - she played it beautifully, with much soul and passion. She played and she played, and she played that piece a total of seven times, and the clearing sighed as she played. Then something happened - she did not stop playing. She continued - onto some beautiful improvisation. Some deep, painful, acheronian lamentation. The River of Sorrow wept silently as she played, the fog grew sadder with each note, the hawthorn bent down and brushed Lilith with its branches, as though comforting her. And from deep within the forest, approached something much more malevolent than anything that clearing could offer.

An entity - old as the forest itself, darker than death. It was called forth by the music, hypnotised by its beauty. Lilith played on, her fingers tired from the hard strings. Still, she did not stop. The entity grew closer - it caressed Lilith’s face with its hand. Lilith cried silently. Still, she did not stop. ‘Look what you did to me’, the thing seemed to say. ‘Look at me, Lilith. Look what I have become’. Lilith did not look. Her fingers started bleeding, tiny red droplets fell onto the grass. Still, she did not stop. She could not stop.

The entity sat on the blanket, head tilted slightly. It closed its eyes - it listened to the music. A sort of apology, it seemed to be. It nodded. ‘Good then, Lilith’, it seemed to say. ‘Play your violin. I shall listen’. Lilith played on, blood flowing now down the neck of the violin. The music seemed to be even sweeter now, with the blood in it. It seemed truer, more alive. The entity cried, silent tears streaming down its face. The forest wept with its bard, and the bard wept with it. And finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the music stopped. The babbling brook resumed its babbling, the hawthorn returned to its original stance, and the fog - the fog. For the first time in the seven years that Lilith had been coming to the clearing, the fog had lifted. It was an uncanny sight - to see the clearing in its entirety for the first time. Lilith put away the violin into the cover, barely looking at the clearing now. She did not look at the hawthorn, she did not think about what was buried beneath it. She did not marvel at the beauty of the clearing, she did not wonder at how clear the water was in the brook. She left, head low. She had atoned for her sin - never again should she return to that clearing. She bandaged her hands and left as silently as she came.

The leaves crunched under her feet. Lily wrapped her arms tightly around herself, shivering - though not from the cold.

[joywritesbutitsactuallymystories]

Nothing for the Crows

When I came home from work one day, a most peculiar sight awaited me - a chest; heavy, wooden, and laden with gold. I have not been one to try my luck, but something in the chest drew me in. I brought it into my house, set it on the kitchen table. I looked it up and round, and saw no inscriptions, no frescos, no imagery whatsoever, but a single crow feather. A nothingness, despite the gold.

Naturally, I opened the chest, curious of its interior, hidden behind gold and wood. I opened the box, and upon my eyes was a most peculiar sight; Nothing. Nothing unlike anything I had seen in my life, a Nothing deeper than one may possibly explain. A Nothing that swallows you whole, becomes you, inhabits you. A Nothing you cannot escape.

And so, one may imagine my surprise when I felt myself ripped from this peaceful Nothing, and thrown back into the painful realia of Everything. One may imagine the shock I felt, when below myself I saw blood. Above me, blood. Blood on my hands. Blood on the warm body below me. Blood filled my lungs as I ran. I ran as fast as I could, tripping over myself and cutting my throat dry. I could not run fast enough. I could not escape the Nothing, the Nothing you cannot escape.

The Crows are satisfied.

[joywritesbutitsactuallymystories]

Nothing in the Chest

It seemed to be a casual day, Monday like any other, until I opened the door and saw an ancient wooden chest just on my front door. Needless to say, I found the package immensely puzzling, and despite my best intentions could not resist bringing it into my home. I was strongly aware of the fact that I was not expecting a package on that Monday, nay, I was never expecting a package like that beautiful, wooden chest, but I could not just leave it on my doorstep! Oh no, if I had left it, some accursed vagabond would surely steal it, and either destroy its intricate inscriptions or pawn it for a few shillings. No, It was surely better for the package to be brought into my home.

I sat in my armchair, sipped on my coffee and stared at the chest. It was mesmerising, its beauty greater than anything I had ever seen in my life. I peered at the inscriptions on it; evidently an ancient language, possibly a dialect of aramaic. I took out my magnifier and set down to rewrite the text onto paper, so as to easier translate. I did not finish an undergraduate degree in ancient languages for nothing after all. After an hour or so, I had the full script translated. ‘A life for a life, death is the way – learn to catch up with life’. Over and over again, the sentence was repeated, a total of 48 times.

The chests clasp was golden, from what I could tell, pure golden. The lock was a tubular pin tumbler lock, with a star shaped keyhole. I whipped out my lockpicking set. To heck with my work, to heck with the world! This is what I lived for! Mystery, intrigue, ancient stories yet to be uncovered. This is why I chose to study archeology and anthropology for my PhD, this is why I moved to louisiana. The thrill is what I live for, what I seek every single day. I slaved over the chest for another two hours or so, till around midday, before I finally broke the lock. I lifted the lid of the heavy wooden chest (most probably oak based) and peered into it.

The moment I opened the box, a whisper escaped, and inside I saw Nothing. A thick, pitch-black, beautiful, mesmerising Nothing. I could not pull myself from the Nothing. It swallowed me whole, became me, and I it.

I was Nothing and I was in the Nothing. I could not feel the passage of time, it did not exist to me. All there was was Nothing. And suddenly there was a Voice. ‘Death is the way’, it hissed into my ear. ‘a life for life’. And out of nowhere there was Something, Everything. There was a blinding light, and then red. I knew who I was again, I was myself, a Something. And my hands were blood-covered, the room was covered in red. I was wading in blood, someone else’s blood. I took a look down, and at my feet was a warm body, 30 years old, female. In my hand was a dagger. The murder weapon, undoubtedly. I had murdered someone. I had stolen the most precious of all gifts – the gift of life. And yet the remainder of the Nothing inside of me was pleased. ‘good’, it said. ‘A life for a life. Hers for ours. Catch up with us’. I ran.

I don’t see the decision to run as an act of cowardice – more… self preservation. I had so much more to give to the world, and I knew that from behind the bars of a prison cell I could not change the world. So I ran. As fast as my legs would carry me. I jumped into the river and swam from one end to the other to wash the blood off myself. Lucky me, I must admit, as the water in Louisiana is much warmer than the lakes I swam in in the winter back in York county. I got out and kept running. Lucky me, again, as I was York county’s national triathlon champion, winning first place every season while I lived there. I got to my house, mainly dry from the summer air and turned on the lights. I only then realised it was night-time. Strange, as the last I remembered was midday. I carefully cleaned the dagger of any residue and placed it in a plastic bag, hiding it in the vault behind the landscape painting over my mantelpiece.

I did not understand. I did not know why I was given the accursed, yet mesmerizingly beautiful chest. The universe works in mysterious ways, and the regular human being cannot possibly hope to understand them. But now I know. I know what the box was, what I unleashed unto the world when I opened it. It took me decades of studies and research. I uncovered ancient civilizations and arcane knowledge that in times of old only prophets would attain. I understood that I had unleashed hell upon the earth. That chest was my Pandora’s box, and the sacrifice demanded, the necessary exchange for the life of the eldritch terrors that it held.

That is the testimony I received. I hadn’t had an idea what I was going to do with it. This was a respected, well renowned scientist we were talking about, and the murder case he testified for had gone cold over 60 years ago. Another matter – Dr. Stone couldn’t have killed Mary Jane, hell, Dr. Stone couldn’t have been alive at the same time as Mary Jane. It just wasn’t possible. Still, I entered the testimony into the system and moved Dr. Stone to a temporary detainment chamber. I went back home.

It seemed to be a casual day, Monday like any other, until I opened the door and saw an ancient wooden chest just on my front door.

[joywritesbutitsactuallymystories]

Tips for a gentleman

One must always start eating one's food from the outermost fork when with company. When eating fish, one must strive to use two forks, as proper etiquette states. When one feels like one’s food tastes wrong, one should discreetly spit one's food into a napkin. So as to not harm the feelings of one’s host, one must then say ‘apologies, I found a hair’. One must then, respectfully, switch to simply drinking for the rest of one’s meal. When one’s host starts foaming at the mouth, one mustn’t sit there idly. One must call for a medic, try the heimlich manoeuvre on one’s host, anything one possibly may to extend one’s host’s life. When, inevitably, one’s host dies, one must tell the police everything that happened during the evening, without excluding any information. One must mention that one is a well-renowned detective, and that one’s host was one’s childhood friend, John, that one only just regained contact with. One must say that John made dinner by himself, and that no-one had contact with the food one and one’s friend ate that night.

When the police propose that one joins the case, one must accept, for John. One must personally take part in the autopsy of John, and one must notice the obvious, tattle-tale signs of nightshade poisoning. One must also take notice of the test lab results from the analysis of both one’s and one’s host’s fish. One must not let it surprise oneself, that one’s food was as well laced with nightshade.

When one returns home, one must always walk on the right side of the street, avoiding walking under ladders. One must always carry upon oneself an umbrella, in the case of a shower. When rain inevitably comes, one must open one’s umbrella, so as to not soak one’s ash coat. When one sees a dark figure in the corner of one’s eye, one must take note, and speed up one’s pace. When one finally arrives at one’s flat, one must lock the door twice and close all the windows for good measure. One must be aware of the fact that one lives on the second floor, and no danger should reach oneself from the windows. However, one should also be aware that being safe never harms oneself.

When one sinks into one’s favourite armchair, one may take a long sip of one’s coffee, as one ponders the untimely end of John.When one feels a pair of hands enclosing around one’s neck, one must not panic. One must not panic. One must try one’s best to pry the intruder’s hands off one’s neck. One must defend oneself. One must take the empty bottle of wine that stands next to one’s armchair, and one must smash it over the intruder’s head, and when one feels the hands around one’s neck disappear without a trace, and when one gets up to see there is no intruder, one must clean up the shattered glass. One must turn in earlier despite one’s doubts. One must pray, to whomever is listening.

One should never be late to any social gathering. One should instead strive to be early, or at least on time. When one goes to Sunday mass, one should partake in it, regardless of whether one believes in God. One should take off one’s cap when entering a church. When one prays, one should lift one’s head this time. One should turn to the direction from which one feels someone’s eyes on oneself. One should look to the left pew and notice a dark, obscure figure, peering their black eyes into one’s very soul. It is them. It is them. It is they who were in one’s flat last night. It is the killer. They are out in the open. They will strike again. Run. Run. RUN

When one shows up to the police office the next day, one mustn’t share one’s experience with the police. One must know that they would not believe. One must be aware that the police are narrow-minded people, who would instantly send oneself to a mental institution. No, it is safer this way. One should instead cover one’s bruises on one’s neck with a thick scarf. In the case that someone questions one peculiar attire, one must state that one has a cold. One must take many notes, interview various suspects. One must oneself be certain in one’s beliefs; that the one knows who murdered one’s friend. One must simply muddle through the day, aware that something is coming. Someone is coming. Run.

One must uphold oneself in the utmost hygiene. Before going to bed, one must take a shower. As one brushes one’s teeth, one mustn’t look into one’s mirror. It poses too much of a risk. Do not look up, do not look up, do not look up. One mustn’t look up, one mustn’t. One looks up. It is inevitable. One sees. One sees something that shakes oneself to one’s very core. Something hideous, indescribable. One cannot escape the endless pits of the figure's eyes. And suddenly one feels… overcome, by a feeling of peace. This is inevitable. You did well, now rest, my child. You are free. Do not resist. You are free. You are free. It is over. You did well. Rest.

You let out a final breath.

[joywritesbutitsactuallymystories]

The ghost

Steve Allan was your typical Londoner. Each day was planned, the whole week through. On Saturdays he went on a walk through the park. It was getting dark, so Steve decided to take a shortcut. It was dark on the Square. Only one of the street lamps were working. Eddie was there, an empty bottle in hand.

Like I said, it was dark. Steve could barely see where he was going. It was only natural that he couldn’t see the figure, silently moving towards him. The man felt a sharp pain in his neck and started losing vision. It was over in a few seconds. He fell into the light of Eddie’s street lamp, The London Eye looming above.

Robert Constantine, the world-renowned detective, sighed. He had come to the conclusion that catching the Ghost Killer was impossible. Major Crimes was working on this case for the last year and a month, and every next murder only seemed to complicate things. A murder a month, every one different. Nothing tied the deaths together. Nothing except the murder weapon. A thin, iron needle. That was all. For all we knew, we could’ve been on a wild goose chase. And yet, they did not disappoint, once again striking.

This time around it was a middle-aged man, Steve Allan, who fell under their needle. Finally, we had the smallest of leads – Steve's wife knew three previous victims, Samantha Black, Adam Curtis, and the first one to die, Andromeda May.

Needless to say, it was a dead end. The wife of Steve, Janet Brown was proven innocent, and the famous detective without a lead.

We returned to the precinct and Robert interviewed a witness of Allan’s murder. We only had one, as none of the residents of this part of the city were looking out their windows at the time. Even if they were, they wouldn’t have seen much. Almost all the lamps in the region were broken. Edward Dean, the local drunk, was sitting in the reception. Rob invited him into the interrogation room.

“So, Mr. Dean, what exactly happened last night?” Rob opened his notepad.

“Well mister. I was sittin’ an’ drinkin’ a bottle of gatter an’ he just keeled over.” He wildly gesticulated with every word. He stopped, drank a swig of beer and continued his story. “Never did like ‘im. Deserved what happened, really.”

“Why did he deserve what happened?”

“Didn’t like his lifestyle, is all” he answered, and I knew Constantine wouldn’t get anything more out of him. We left the interrogation room.

“What now?” I asked. Robbie answers:

“I don’t know.” We return to the briefing room and continue looking through the scarce pieces of evidence we have. A latex glove, collected from the murder of Jacob Hamilton and a few witness statements. Nothing soluble, especially seeing as the glove had no traces of DNA on it, neither the murderers nor the victims. The only good piece of news we had that day was that the needle that killed Allan was the same one used to kill all the others.

But then a policeman approached me.

“You are under arrest, for the murder of Steve Allan.” He lead me out of the room, leaving behind a very confused, very hurt Robert Constantine.

~~~

To whom it may concern,

While looking through my apprentice's laptop I found this blog, and took it upon myself to bring this story to an end.

The author of the earlier texts is indeed the murderer of Steve A., as well as twelve other civilians, the list being as follows:

Andromeda May

Matthew Lakes

Robert Kilburg

Orion Jane

Inez Ilsley

Jacob Hamilton

Martha Green

Nico Freeman

Rebecca Evermoore

Veronica Davis

Adam Curtis

Samantha Black

As you can see, the last names line up in reverse alphabetical order, which suggests that the serial killer planned being discovered.

I must say, I was very disappointed in my assistant after finding out about the crimes. I don’t hide the fact that I was friends with my accomplice, and trusted them deeply. Still, this does not cloud my judgement, and I will do all in my power to make sure their rule of terror ends.

Signed,

Robert Constantine

~~~

Fools. You really thought this was over? You cannot capture a ghost. The thirteen were just a warning, a prologue to something much, much bigger. Cut one head, two sprout from the stump.

The streets of London will run red. The tower will fall, and when We are done with you, even the ravens will abandon ship.

So, lock your windows. Barricade your doors. Hold your loved ones close. For when you’ll die, you’ll die alone. And no-one will be left to mourn your ghost.

~~~

The serial killer sat in silence in the interrogation room. A smile crept onto his face. He would’ve known those footsteps anywhere. Robert Constantine, the world-renowned detective. The two friends sat opposite each other, one looked at the other with kindness in their eyes, the other one with hurt.

They sat for a while in silence, before the detective finally spoke.

“Why?” The question hung between them. The other leaned back into his chair, their smile turned into a grin.

“Why wouldn’t I, Robbie?”

They sat in silence for some time before Robert, the world-renowned detective, left the room. The place was completely empty. He turned on his desk lamp. Robert sighed, taking off his glasses. “Finally it’s all over”, he whispered to himself in relief, “Never again should I come back to this case.”

[joywritesbutitsactuallymystories]

Eden - short story

“Ready for take-off, m’lady?” He asks. She smirks.

“I was born ready.” She fastens her seatbelt.

Five…

“Leaving anything behind?” She hesitates.

Four…

“No. Are you?”

Three…

“Nothing.”

Two…

“What’d you reckon we’ll find, wherever it is we’re going?”

One…

“Salvation, I would hope.” He laughs.

Liftoff!

They fly for a long time, it would seem, a year entire. Yet they will soon learn - a year is nothing, not in comparison to eternity.

He and She land at their destination. A goldilocks planet, somewhere in a solar system on the other side of a wormhole, just past Saturn. A planet that has a twin, orbiting it alongside its two moons, and a young star, one that won’t explode quite as soon as their own. They disembark from their ship.

“I know this place…” She says, confused.

“I know where you’re coming from, it seems very similar to Earth. Eerily similar, actually.” He looks around himself, apprehensive.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” She shakes her head violently. “I’ve been here before. I remember this place, somehow.”

“That’s impossible, m’lady.”

“I know, I know. It’s weird though, like the strongest case of deja vu you’ve ever seen.” She chuckles nervously.

“Hello there, children.” A voice she recognises says, causing the two to jump of surprise. “I apologise for startling you, We simply weren’t expecting you here yet.” The voice repeats, identifying itself as a Figure that walks out from behind a tree. She recognises the Figure, as though a friend from preschool, vaguely similar, vaguely familiar, vaguely present. As though she always knew the Figure, as though the Figure knew her too.

“What do you mean, yet? Were you watching us? Who are you?” He starts getting more and more alarmed. The Figure calmly stirs some sugar into a mug that they didn’t seem to be holding before. She knew the Figure would do that before they did it. She knows them.

“Relax child, We weren’t watching you.” The Figure speaks calmly. “Or rather, We always were. But so were You. We and You are connected, intertwined. Forever bound together.” A cat brushes its tail against the Figure.

“How do I know this place? And you?” She asks. The Figure smiles.

“Your soul remembers Us. Lovely to know.” The Figure takes a sip of their tea. “You used to live here, you know, before you lived on Gaia, your current planet. You all did.” The Figure looks at Him, really looks. It seems as though one look from them can see through you entirely, see all your past, see your future, see your bones, your emotions, your thoughts. “You do not remember,” They say. “Yet. You are not yet ready to remember. You still hold You close to your soul. You cannot let them go, can you?” He is paralysed by fear. He does not feel safe here. “You must return, if thus is so. You and Her. Go back, see what has become, and return, for to Us, one day is a thousand years, and a thousand years is one day.” The Figure walks away. She turns to Him.

“Are you ok?” Concern fills her eyes.

“I’m fine.” He hesitates. “We should return, though. This was supposed to be a scout mission, and we have enough data to relate back to central.” She nods, apprehensive to leave a place that feels so much like home, but willing to do anything for Him. They return back as they came.

They land on rocks. Rocks everywhere, for thousands of kilometres. They return to poisonous waters, melted glaciers, burning trees, and unimaginable heat.

“I don’t understand.” He says, tears rolling down his face. “We were supposed to *save* them, not abandon them. How did this even happen? It’s all wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong…” She hugs him tightly. She knows why this happened. How this happened. One day is a thousand years, and a thousand years is one day. The world ended. And they missed it.

“Let’s go, Adam.” She says. “We have to go back there.”

“What is that place, Eve? What is there about it that terrifies me, and compells you? Why, if our souls are of the same fabric?”

“I don’t know, love. I don’t know a lot of things. But I do know what it has the potential to become, for you and me.”

“And what is that, m’lady?”

“Eden.”