CW: DEAD DOVE: DNE (18+ mdni), fem!reader, pseudocest/incestuous themes, cannibalism themes, religious trauma, sexual themes, psychological horror, graphic imagery, ritualistic violence/abuse, mob violence, death by suicide (implied), childhood trauma, grief and loss, fire/arson, moral condemnation.
WC: 15.3k
AN: this was supposed to be posted on caleb’s bday but i got busy sooo im late to the party </3 huge shoutout to my star @harlotistic for proofreading this. This is my longest fic ever and i couldnt have done this without you my love <3 as always comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!
The kitchen smelled of iron and overripe persimmons, soft and bruised in the basket by the window.
No lights were on, just the faint blue glow of the electric altar lamp flickering beneath the family shrine. You stood barefoot on the cool, tiled floor, your cotton slip damp against the small of your back. Caleb was already seated at the table, his sleeves rolled up, forearms streaked with something dark—soot, oil, maybe blood. He didn’t turn to look when you entered.
Between them sat a lacquered plate with a peeled apple, sliced thin and fanned out like petals. The knife lay beside it, blade still wet.
“You hungry?” Caleb asked, voice quiet, like he was offering something more than fruit.
You nodded once.
He picked up a slice, its edges already rusting with air, and held it toward your lips with steady fingers.
You didn’t bite. Not yet.
“You remember what Mama said?” he asked, eyes fixed on your mouth like it was dangerous.
“About how love’s just hunger we learn to bow before.”
You leaned in, lips grazing his fingers as you took the slice. Juice ran down your chin—warm, sticky, red like temple ink.
“I don’t wanna eat,” you said softly, chewing slowly. “I want to be eaten.”
His jaw clenched. You saw it.
“I want you to hollow me out,” you whispered. “Leave nothin’ but skin and bone.”
He reached up and wiped your chin with his thumb, slow and reverent. Then, without a word, he brought it to his lips.
Sucked it clean.
“You sure?” he asked.
You nodded.
“I’ll eat you up,” he said. “If you let me. I won’t stop.”
—
The sun poured down like steamed honey, thick and golden, heavy on your backs. Cicadas shrieked from the trees, their cries sharp like metal on glass. From the kitchen window came the faint sound of Mama humming an old folk song, voice thin and shaky, her apron stained with flour and something darker beneath it.
The two of you sat cross-legged in the dry earth behind the house, under the crooked limbs of the old apple tree. Caleb held a pocket knife too large for his hand, and you watched as he peeled the skin off a red apple—one taken from the altar bowl without asking—slow and precise like it was something sacred.
“Mama said Eve bit the apple and that’s how love got born,” he muttered, not looking at you.
“I thought it was sin,” you said, brushing dirt from your bare ankle.
He shrugged. “Aren’t they the same?”
He cut the apple in half unevenly and offered you the larger piece in silence. Juice ran down his fingers, sticky and red like temple ink.
You took it. Bit in. The crunch echoed between you.
Then you held it out to him—your bitten half, the heat of your mouth still clinging to it.
“Here,” you said. “We can share.”
He stared at you for a beat. Then took it, his lips meeting where yours had been and bit it.
“Tastes sweeter that way,” he said.
You smiled—a toothy, crooked thing—juice glistening at the corner of your mouth.
“Mama says when you love someone, you leave part of yourself behind.”
He nodded. “I’ll leave all my parts with you.”
—
The table groaned beneath the weight of dinner. Soy-braised chicken with shiitake mushrooms, stir-fried choy sum glistening with sesame oil, glass noodles cooling in a bowl gone quiet, and a pot of jasmine rice, each grain plump and pearly. In the centre, nestled in a cloth-lined bamboo steamer, were six red bean buns—glossy, warm, soft to the touch.
The kitchen smelled of steamed rice and something faintly metallic underneath.
Mama sat at the head of the table, hands still damp from washing, her apron streaked with broth and red bean paste that didn’t quite wash out. Her hair was pinned too tightly, a few wiry strands curling loose at her neck.
She talked like she always did—like scripture and rumour woven into one breath, looping back on itself, half-truths dressed up like wisdom.
“You know,” Mama said, lifting the lid from the steamer, “hunger’s a funny thing. Starts in your belly, but if you ain’t careful, it spreads. Gets into your heart. Your head. Makes you do things.”
The steam curled around her words. The buns sat there, pale and perfect, except for one split just slightly, the filling bleeding through like something trying to get out.
“I’ve been hungry too,” she went on. “But I never let it eat me whole.”
You kept your eyes on your rice. Caleb chewed slowly, like he wasn’t really tasting. You sat shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing beneath the table.
When Mama turned to fuss with the teapot, her voice muttering softer now, his fingers found yours under the tablecloth.
Not by accident.
You let him take them.
Your hands folded together like a prayer that only you could hear. Caleb rubbed his thumb along your knuckle, slow and reverent.
Mama’s voice carried over the clatter of ceramic and boiling water.
“I took you both in. Fed you with my hands. My roof. My name. So don’t you go thinkin’ I can’t smell rot when it starts inside my own house.”
You took a bun.
It was warm and yielding in your palm. Slowly, you tore it open, and the red bean paste peeked out, sweet and earthy, like something ancient and bruised.
You took a bite. Chewed slowly, then handed the rest to him.
He took it and bit where you had bitten, watched you while he chewed.
Mama watched the two of you now, her hands stilled on the teapot, eyes dark as the paste in the buns.
“You still hungry?” she asked, quietly now.
No one answered.
The red bean was sweet but not kind.
—
Before you had names for things like love or sin, there was Josephine—the woman the whole town called Mama.
She wasn’t blood. Said blood thins with time, but rice fills the belly. Said family isn’t born—it’s boiled, shaped, fed into being.
She found Caleb first, barefoot behind the old shrine steps, clutching a stale mantou like a prayer. Then you, curled behind a fish stall, hands sticky with syrup and soy, licking your own fingers like it was the last sweet thing in the world.
Mama brought you home like stray charms, dusted you clean, wrapped you in secondhand warmth. Washed your wounds with vinegar water, rubbed tiger balm on your chests, spooned soup into your silent mouths.
She never said I love you. Only, Eat, baby.
She never hugged. Just wiped sesame seeds off your cheeks, plucked leaves from your hair with fingers that smelled of ginger and garlic.
You learned early: hunger was the only language Mama trusted.
But before she found either of you, before she was Mama, Josephine was just a wife.
Her husband was a preacher. Or a butcher. Or a banker. It depended on which neighbour you asked. He had a voice like thunder and a belt that never hung quite right. The townsfolk said he was firm, a little cruel, but devout. That counted for something.
And then, one summer, he vanished.
Mama told the town he’d run off with a younger woman. Left a note. Took his clothes and the good watch. Walked out like smoke. She wept on the porch—thin, trembling, wiping tears with her sleeve while the neighbours brought red bean buns and chrysanthemum tea.
“Men always do,” she said. “They leave when the garden needs tending most.”
The town believed her. Because that’s what small towns do, they believe the woman humming sutras while kneading dough, not the silence that hums beneath her floorboards.
But the two of you knew better.
The house creaked at night in places that didn’t make sense. Sometimes Mama would pause, mid-dish, eyes flicking toward the pantry like she heard someone else breathing.
And the basement—always locked.
“Don’t go down there,” she’d say, voice too smooth, smile too sharp. “That part of the house is dead.”
Yet you heard things.
Soft, wet sounds. A thud. A dragging shuffle. Mama’s voice, speaking low and slow like she was still trying to soothe something that no longer had ears to hear.
Because the truth lived in the freezer under the pantry shelf. Hidden behind sacks of rice and old wedding fine china.
The freezer was big. Industrial. Cold enough to hold a body in parts. And Mama’s husband—her first sin—was still there.
Still with her.
Maybe a warning. Maybe a comfort.
Or perhaps a reminder of what love costs when you feed it too long.
—
The two of you weren’t supposed to be awake. It was past your bedtime.
The storm came in thick, thunder rolling across the sky like a drum of war. The rain drummed against the roof in steady rhythm, like the tapping of chopsticks on a bowl, while the wind howled through the cracks. The lights had flickered out hours ago, and the house seemed to hold its breath, but it never truly slept.
You sat in the narrow hallway, your knees drawn close to your chest, trembling with each lightning strike. Your thin cotton nightgown stuck to you from the heat, the fabric soft and worn from years of washing. Besides you, Caleb sat just as still, his face pale, lit only by the flash of lightning that streaked across the window. When the next clap of thunder split the air, you jumped, and he instinctively reached for your hand without a word.
Your fingers intertwined as if they had always belonged there.
At the far end of the hallway, Mama’s oil lamp flickered with a soft, amber glow. She moved slowly, almost ethereal, her footsteps light as she glided toward the basement door. She paused in front of it, leaving the door slightly ajar before disappearing into the shadows below.
You tightened your grip on Caleb’s hand.
“It’s just the storm,” he whispered softly.
You shook your head. “She’s talkin’ again.”
You moved closer, still holding hands, your bare feet making no sound on the polished wood floor. From the crack in the door, you could hear Mama’s voice, low and smooth, curling up the stairs like incense smoke.
“You still cold down here, baby?” she asked, her voice sweet as sugar in hot tea.
Your breath hitched. Caleb held your hand even tighter.
“I wrapped you up good this time. Double layers. Ain’t no flies gonna crawl on you.”
The silence that followed was worse than any storm.
“They think you ran off,” Mama said. “That woman from the temple. But I know you didn’t leave. You ain’t gone nowhere.”
Then came the sound—a wet, dragging shift, like something heavy scraping against the floor tiles. You whimpered, and Caleb leaned his forehead against yours, pressing his lips to your temple.
“It’s just a dream,” he whispered, the words barely audible over the storm. “Just pretend it’s a dream.”
“I’m not angry no more,” Mama’s voice continued, smooth but hollow. “I know you didn’t love me. But I loved you. I loved you enough to keep you. Enough to make you part of the garden.”
You couldn’t breathe, and Caleb squeezed your hand tighter, his knuckles turning white.
“I made you sweet again,” Mama said, her voice faltering, like she was either about to laugh or cry. “Turned you into something useful.”
Then there was a sharp snap—something metallic—followed by the sound of Mama’s footsteps turning toward the stairs, the floorboard creaking under her weight.
The two of you scrambled away, hand in hand, slipping down the hall like shadows, hearts pounding louder than the storm. You didn’t stop until you reached your shared room at the end of the corridor. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows as if the house itself wanted to shake them loose.
Caleb pulled up the blanket with one hand and lifted the edge of the bed with the other, urging you to crawl under first. You didn’t argue—you just slid in, pressing yourself tight against the wooden frame. He followed right after, the two of you folding into the narrow space beneath the bed like paper cranes, limbs tucked, breath held.
The air down there was hot and still. Dust clung to your lashes. Your heart beat so hard it echoed in your ears.
Caleb’s hand found yours again in the dark. His thumb rubbed soft circles against your knuckles.
“She was talking to him,” you whispered, voice shaking. “She was really talking to him…”
“She always talks to things that don’t talk back,” Caleb replied, voice low and flat. “It doesn’t mean he’s still…”
He stopped himself. Swallowed hard. “She was feeding something.”
You didn’t answer. Just pressed your forehead against his shoulder.
“What if he’s not dead?” you asked, your voice a breath. “What if he’s still down there—waitin’? Watchin’?”
Caleb didn’t move for a long time. Then, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it, he whispered, “Then we don’t ever go near that door. We don’t ever open it. Promise me.”
“I promise,” you whispered.
He turned his head, just enough to brush his lips against your temple again.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he said. “Even if she don’t.”
Outside, the storm kept screaming. But under the bed, the two of you lay still, pressed close, fingers locked together like roots buried deep in the dirt.
From that night on, the basement stayed a place you never named. And when the thunder rolled, Caleb never let go of your hand.
—
The two of you were still young enough to believe in things that glowed in the dark—stars, spirits, saints.
It started with a baby tooth.
Caleb had knocked it loose chasing cicadas through the garden, his laughter loud and reckless until it wasn’t. He’d tripped over a stone near the apple tree, landing face-first in the dirt. You remembered the blood—a faint pink smear on his lip—and how he staggered up with the tiny white tooth cradled in his palm like it was a relic. He held it out to you, wide-eyed, as if expecting you to fix it.
You didn’t flinch. You’d seen blood before.
“Should I bury it?” he asked, uncertain. “Or throw it in the river?”
“No,” you said, too quickly. Then, quieter, “You should put it under your pillow.”
He blinked at you. “Why?”
“In one of my books… there’s a fairy,” you whispered, like sharing a secret. “She comes in the night and takes it. Leaves something behind—a coin or a charm. A trade.”
Caleb stared down at the tooth again, the pink root gleaming. “Mama says that’s Western nonsense. She says we don’t believe in fairies.”
You hesitated, then offered a soft shrug. “Doesn’t mean it’s real.”
That night, he didn’t say another word about it—but when you crept into his room long after the storm had passed, he was already asleep, curled like a shrimp beneath his quilt, and the tooth was gone from his fist.
You found it tucked beneath his pillow, just like you’d hoped.
You reached out with trembling fingers, careful not to wake him, careful not to breathe too loudly. His face was slack in sleep, mouth parted, a thread of drool at the corner of his lips. There was something sacred about that stillness. Something that made your chest ache.
You took the tooth and slid a tiny offering in its place: a single plum blossom, dried and pressed between the pages of your notebook for weeks. It was delicate and slightly curled at the edges, its colour fading to the soft brown of old paper. It wasn’t a coin. It wasn’t magic. But it was something beautiful.
In the morning, he didn’t say anything. Just sat in bed, staring down at the blossom in his palm with quiet reverence.
He never asked where it came from—never mentioned the tooth again. But he kept the flower. Pressed it between his fingers until it nearly broke. Tucked it into the pocket of his shirt and wore it for three days straight.
After that, it became a ritual.
Every time he lost another tooth—biting into sugarcane, roughhousing in the dirt, tugging it loose with his tongue—he hesitated, then slid it under his pillow without a word.
And every time, you came in the dark.
Each visit felt like a pilgrimage. You moved softly, careful not to disturb him, like a spirit passing through walls. You left behind things you thought he’d like—smooth stones from the river, a candy wrapped in gold foil, a feather that looked like it came from a phoenix. And when you couldn’t find anything special, you left a folded note with a pressed fingerprint, or a drawing of the two of you sitting under the apple tree, smiling widely.
He never caught you. Not once, surprisingly, but he started to treat the gifts differently.
He never threw them away and never asked questions. He lined them up in a tin box under his bed. Kept the feather between the pages of an old almanack, tucked the candy in his drawer, unopened, until it melted in the heat.
It became your secret religion.
You were the collector. The keeper. The one who watched over his offerings. You didn’t know why you did it—only that something about the way he slept, the way he trusted the dark, made you want to guard him. Worship him. Even when he didn’t know you were there.
You weren’t old enough to name it then. Not love. Not devotion.
But it felt holy, in a way nothing else ever did.
For Caleb, it started with a stain.
You came to his door before the world had woken. The rain from the night before still clung to the air, heavy and metallic, and the old house creaked with the weight of its own secrets. He was half-asleep, dreams still fogging up the edges of his vision, when your knock came—barely there.
“Caleb,” you said, soft as breath.
He sat up immediately. You didn’t call for him often. Not like that. And when you did, it always meant something had cracked.
He followed you through the dark corridor, neither of you speaking. The hallway smelled faintly of damp wood and boiled ginger, the kind Mama left on the stove too long. You didn’t turn on the light. Just kept walking until you reached your room and stood beside your bed, motionless.
Your nightgown, pale cotton faded thin with years of wear, had bloomed dark between your thighs. Not bright red, not clean like a nosebleed or a scraped knee. This was something deeper—something primal and sticky and shameful. A blood that didn’t come from an injury.
He didn’t understand, not at first. Just stared at the stain as it soaked through the fabric, like someone had taken a brush loaded with rust-colored paint and dragged it across your lower back in a single, unbroken stroke.
“It’s not pee,” you said quickly, swallowing hard. “I didn’t… I think it’s my period.”
You wouldn’t meet his eyes. You kept wringing your fingers, as if trying to twist the shame out through your skin. “I didn’t know it was coming,” you whispered. “I—I didn’t know it’d be like that.”
He blinked. You were thirteen. A late bloomer, everyone said. Still flat-chested, still trailing behind the village girls who had started stuffing tissue into their bras and talking in giggles about husbands and children. But you’d always been ahead of them in other ways—too sharp, too quiet, too strange. Just like him.
And now here you were, shivering beside a stained bed, waiting for him to be disgusted.
But he wasn’t.
He felt something different. Something nameless and tight, coiling in his chest.
“I’ll change the sheets,” he said. “You should wash up. Before Mama sees.”
You opened your mouth to argue, maybe to protest, but stopped. Nodded once, quickly and embarrassed. Then you turned and left, bare feet slapping the wood, leaving little crescent shapes of red where the blood had run down the inside of your thigh.
He waited until he heard the bathroom door close before moving.
The bed looked like a crime scene. The stain had spread across the centre of the sheets, soaking through into the mattress. He stared at it, transfixed. Not with disgust. But with… awe.
For Caleb, it wasn’t just blood.
It was the proof of something sacred. Something raw and woman-made. Something that had happened to you before it happened to anyone else. And you had brought it to him first.
He reached out and touched it. The fabric was still warm. Still wet. He pressed his fingers into it like a priest laying hands on a relic, and then, without thinking, brought them to his nose.
It smelled like iron. Like soil after rain. Like the taste he sometimes got when he bit the inside of his cheek too hard. But it also smelled like you—like fevered skin and honey soap and something he couldn’t name.
He didn’t understand why it made his hands shake.
By the time you came back, your nightgown had changed, but your cheeks were still red. There was a damp cloth clutched in your hand, and your hair was slicked to your forehead.
Caleb was already tucking clean sheets into your mattress corners, smoothing the fabric down like he was making a shrine, not a bed.
You stood in the doorway, watching him in silence.
“I didn’t want Mama to know,” you said again, smaller this time. “She’ll just make it a lesson. Say it’s my fault for sleeping late or something.”
“She doesn’t have to know,” Caleb said without looking up.
You nodded slowly. “Thanks.”
When Mama came in later that morning, she didn’t yell. She didn’t ask why your sheets were different, or why the basin in the corner was filled with cloth stained like rust. She just looked at you long and hard, and then said, “You’re a woman now. Don’t let it distract you.”
No affection. No rite of passage. Just a warning.
She turned and left. The door clicked behind her like a final word.
Caleb didn’t say anything.
But later that day, when he passed your laundry hanging outside to dry, he stopped and stared. Your stained nightgown was pinned between two shirts, billowing gently in the wind. The mark still showed, faint but certain. Like a signature. Like proof.
He stared for a long time, then went back to his room and tucked the memory somewhere deep, somewhere sacred.
And he never forgot it.
—
After the storm, things changed.
Not all at once. Not like a door slamming shut—but slow, like fog creeping in through a crack in the window. One moment, you were just two children in a house that creaked too much. Next, the world outside felt quieter, like it had stepped a little further away from them.
You still played in the rice fields after the rain, your bare feet squelching in the mud, laughing when frogs leapt past. Still made dumpling ghosts out of dough scraps, folded paper cranes until your fingers ached and dared each other to sneak into the neighbour’s koi pond.
And for a while, Gideon was always there.
Gideon with his crooked teeth and grass-stained shirts. Gideon, who brought firecrackers and sour plums, who never minded the strange smell that sometimes drifted from Mama’s kitchen, or the way she watched people too closely when they came by the house.
The three of you built forts out of bamboo mats and took turns being the emperor, the outlaw, the ghost bride.
Gideon was the only one who could make Caleb laugh out loud. The only one who knew how to distract you when your hands shook too much after a storm.
But even then, the other villagers didn’t come close.
They whispered when Mama passed the market stall. Bowed stiffly but never too low. Said her dumplings were too dark, her soup too sweet. Said strange things happened in that house—things that made their cats hiss and their children cry in the night.
They still couldn’t believe her husband left her or that he left at all. Mama never looked like she aged—her skin stayed smooth, her hair black and gleaming, her spine straight as ever. It unsettled them, the way time didn’t seem to touch her. Like she’d made a deal with something they didn’t have a name for.
“You ought not play with them too long,” Gideon’s father warned. “People like that… they feed on things they shouldn’t.”
Gideon didn’t listen.
Until one summer, he stopped coming around.
—
At first, Caleb waited by the gate with a makeshift kite in his hands, the tail tied from old red ribbons. You sat cross-legged on the porch, watching the sun melt into the hills, listening for Gideon’s laugh, but he never showed.
When Mama asked where the boy was, she didn’t sound surprised.
“Boys grow up,” she said. “They get taught to fear what don’t make sense. What don’t bleed the way they do.”
From then on, the other children crossed the street when they saw you coming. Their mothers pulled them close like you carried sickness in your skin. Even the old noodle vendor stopped giving you broth bones.
It didn’t matter that you and Caleb said please, or bowed deeply, or smiled just enough.
You were already Other. Not quite theirs. Not quite right.
Some said Mama spoke to ghosts. Others said her garden grew too fast, too fat. That the chillies were too red, the radishes too sweet. That her hands never aged.
By the time you were old enough to climb the roof and count the stars, the world had shrunk down to three people and one house. And none of you asked why.
Because deep down, you knew.
The basement still breathed at night.
—
By the time you were teenagers, the town had stopped pretending.
It wasn’t that people were cruel, exactly. Just careful. Watchful.
At school, no one ever sat too close. No one borrowed your pens or asked to copy your homework, even though the two of you were always at the top of the class. Straight A’s, every term. Sharp minds, sharper tongues when needed. You never failed, never fumbled, never forgot to turn in an assignment.
Teachers called the two of you "brilliant," but in the same breath, "strange." Like you were too precise. Too composed. Caleb had a memory like a blade and never missed a question. You wrote essays that made grown adults pause. Still, neither of you ever raised your hand unless called on.
Lunches were always brought from home—neatly packed in tin containers, fragrant with sesame, soy, and the occasional tang of pickles. No one ever asked to trade. No one asked what was inside.
Back when the world was smaller, and afternoons stretched long beneath the apple tree, you, Caleb, and Gideon used to catch cicadas, whisper ghost stories, and dare each other to run barefoot through the overgrown garden path behind the house. Gideon laughed with his whole chest with dirt under his nails, sun on his cheeks.
But things change.
Gideon got taller. Learned the words his parents muttered when they thought he wasn’t listening. Started looking at you like you weren’t real—like Caleb’s silence was contagious, like Mama’s house might swallow him too if he lingered too long.
The last time he visited, he brought his own snack and wouldn’t touch the red bean bun you offered.
“My mom says I shouldn’t eat anything from your place,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “She says it’s not... clean.”
After that, he kept his distance. Still polite. Still nodded in the halls, but his laugh was quieter now, less familiar; he never came back.
At home, you told Mama it didn’t matter. “Friends come and go,” she’d said, peeling lotus root in the sink. “Family stays. Eat up, baby.”
But that night, Caleb sat curled in the hallway, arms around his knees, staring at the pantry like he expected it to whisper back.
From then on, it was just the two of you.
You spoke mostly to each other. Took comfort in small routines: splitting crackers after class, walking home the long way, playing “guess the cloud shape” under the same scorched sky. You didn’t talk about the basement or the way the air turned heavy when Mama prayed.
But the loneliness wore at the edges of things. You understood each other in ways no one else did.
It wasn’t love—not yet. But it was the shape of something quiet and coiled, waiting to bloom in the shadows.
Something careful. Something sacred.
Something hungry.
—
The sun was too bright for a Sunday. It made the dust on the windows shimmer like something holy, but the air was still stiff with heat and expectation.
Mama stood in front of the hall mirror, pinning a brooch to her collar. It was shaped like a lily, chipped at the edges, a relic from someone else’s drawer. “You two dressed yet?” she called, voice sharp but distant.
You were. Had been for a while.
Caleb had ironed your dress earlier, the same blue one with the frayed hem you always wore for these things. He helped smooth down your hair now with his fingers, not because he had to, but because he always did. He didn’t speak—he never did when his hands were in your hair. But you could feel the way he watched you in the mirror, his gaze steady and reverent. Like you were something important. Something fragile.
There was a kind of silence that wrapped around you both in moments like this. Not empty—full. Full of things unsaid.
Mama didn’t look back as you filed out the door. She just led, like she always did, down the crooked hill path to the chapel at the edge of town. The one with the steeple that leaned a little to the left and always smelled like old rain and polished wood.
The bell tolled once, deep and guttural, like a throat clearing before judgment.
They stepped inside, and the congregation turned.
Not all the way. Just enough to see.
Enough to know.
People didn’t speak. They nodded in tight, rehearsed movements. They shifted their bodies like the pews might swallow them if they sat too close.
You and Caleb sat in the back row, where the shadows were thickest and the hymns sounded like lullabies spoken through teeth.
She’s not your sister.
Caleb had stopped fighting the thought years ago. It came like smoke, always during the quietest parts of the day—when the kettle whistled, or when the wind slid past the windows just right. She’s not your sister.
Not by blood. Not by name. Just by proximity. Just by the soft horror of being raised in the same house by the same crimson hands.
That didn’t make it better.
But it didn’t make the hunger any less honest.
He glanced at you now, head bowed, your hands folded in your lap like you were praying—but he knew better. You didn’t believe in anything you couldn’t touch.
The preacher’s voice boomed at the altar, words too polished to be real. Mama mouthed along, her brooch catching the stained light in broken halos.
Caleb felt the weight of stares. Felt the way people looked at you like you were a wound that wouldn’t close.
His pinky found yours on the bench between them, hooked soft and certain.
You didn’t pull away.
The chapel held its breath.
Maybe this was what worship looked like.
Maybe it was you. Maybe it was always you.
The line between brother and sister had blurred a long time ago, soft, like chalk in rain. It hadn’t been crossed so much as dissolved. Something sacred warped into something else.
He closed his eyes, not for prayer, but because it made it easier to pretend.
Forgive me, he thought, but she’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to kneel for.
—
The town never changed, and maybe that’s why you never left.
You could’ve.
Caleb had the grades, and you had the nerve. Scholarships came like whispers in the mail, stamped with places that sounded like dreams—big cities, tall buildings, somewhere else. But Mama said the world beyond the hills was all teeth and no tongue. Said it smiled too wide and bit too fast.
Ironic.
So you stayed.
You found work. Caleb took shifts at the mechanic’s off main—good with his hands, quiet with customers. You handled receipts at a clinic that never looked you in the eye unless someone was bleeding too hard to care for. People didn’t forget where you came from, not here. They still crossed the street sometimes. Still spoke too softly when you walked past, like names might summon something dark.
But today, like every year, you met at the little corner mart that turned into a dingy bar by night. The owner didn’t ask questions anymore. Just nodded and handed Caleb a red bean bun wrapped in wax paper—still warm, soft with just the right hint of sweet.
It was Found Day again. A day that had never been marked in a calendar but had always been marked by Mama. The day she found you both, pulled from the dark places, washed, fed, and made hers. You’d never known your real birthdays, but this was the one you always celebrated, even in silence, even in the shadows of what was unsaid.
You sat across from each other in the far booth, under the dying buzz of a neon sign that hadn’t spelt a real word in years.
“She said she’s not feeling well,” you said, unwrapping the bun. “Didn’t come down all day.”
Caleb nodded slowly, eyes on the scratched tabletop. “She’s been... different lately.”
Neither of you needed to say more. The pantry stayed locked now. The garden grew strange things. And Mama talked less to you, more to herself.
You broke the bun in half. Gave him the sweeter side without hesitation.
Some habits never left.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance—just far enough to stir memory. The scent of rain clung to the windows, and for a second, you were both children again, hiding under the bed, fingers locked, waiting for Mama to come back up from the dark.
Caleb tapped his glass, sweating from cheap beer, lightly against yours.
“To us,” he said, offering a tired but honest smile.
You returned it. Soft, crooked.
“To us.”
—
The walk home was quiet.
The air was thick with the scent of damp soil and distant jasmine, the storm having passed through just enough to leave the streets slick and shining. The two of you didn’t speak much, just walked side by side, shoulder brushing shoulder now and then like you were drawn by the same quiet gravity. Caleb’s hand dangled close to yours, not quite touching, but never straying far.
The house was dark when you got back. One light in the kitchen glowed warm under the doorway, but Mama’s slippers were still untouched by the stairs. She hadn’t come down. The silence felt heavier than usual. A hush that settled between the floorboards and curled into the corners.
You kicked off your shoes at the door while Caleb locked the latch behind you. For a moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was the hum of the old fridge and the soft creak of the floor beneath your feet.
He turned to you then. The light from the hallway cut across his face, catching on the faint scar near his brow, the one you remember from when you were twelve and he tried to climb the garden fence on a dare.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low, barely a ripple.
You nodded. Then, softer, “You?”
He hesitated. “I think I miss who we were. Before we got old enough to understand what people meant when they stared.”
You looked at him for a long moment. He was taller now. Still had that same guarded way of standing, like the world might lurch if he let himself lean too close. But his eyes—those purple orbs hadn’t changed. Still quiet. Still kind.
You reached for his hand.
He let you.
And when you stepped closer, you weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe you both did.
The kiss was slow. Uncertain, at first. A brushing of mouths that tasted faintly of red bean and beer, of years swallowed down and never spoken aloud. His hand cupped your cheek gently, like he wasn’t sure you’d still be there if he touched you too fast. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, holding on like the storm might return at any second.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was real.
When you pulled away, the silence wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full.
He rested his forehead against yours, breath warm against your lips.
“Happy Found Day,” he whispered.
“Yeah, Happy Found Day,” you breathed, the word barely there as you leaned in again, drawn to the warmth of him, the way he felt like home and history all at once.
Caleb met you halfway, his mouth finding yours again—hungrier this time, less hesitant. His hands moved with quiet curiosity, tracing the edges of your waist like he was relearning something he’d always known. You didn’t stop him. You welcomed it, welcomed him.
Because after everything—after the silence, the stares, the basement door you never opened—this was the one thing that finally made sense.
Caleb guided you down onto the couch with a hesitance that made your heart ache. He kissed you again, your lips first, then your neck—each touch a little clumsy, a little unsure, like he was learning a language he’d only ever heard in dreams.
You looked up at him, breath shallow.
“Caleb…” you whispered, voice trembling—not from fear, but want. “I want you to take me.”
His breath hitched.
“I’ve been starving for so long,” you murmured, tilting your head to bare your throat. “If love is hunger... then eat me. Make me yours.”
Something flickered in his eyes—something feral, but tender, like a beast that had learned to kneel.
Caleb kissed you like your skin was a garden he wasn’t meant to touch—lush, overgrown, sweet with rot. Not scripture, but something older. Something buried. His mouth moved over you like he was parting vines, seeking the fruit hidden beneath.
You felt like an orchard in full bloom. Bruised in places, yes—but still blooming. Still soft enough to offer.
His hands trembled on your thighs, like he was afraid the petals might fall apart beneath him. You didn’t stop him. You opened for him like a secret.
And when he kissed between your legs, it wasn’t filthy.
It was holy.
Like he’d found the fruit of knowledge and didn’t care what it cost. Like he wanted to taste the reason Eve said yes. His tongue was reverent, unsure, slow at first—then aching with hunger. You were sweet and strange, like honey left too long in the jar. Like fallen apples pressed into the earth.
And somewhere in the haze of breath and skin, your mind wandered to the little box in your drawer. The one where you kept his teeth. Tiny offerings he never knew he gave you—white, innocent things turned relic with time. Bone wrapped in thread. Devotion wrapped in dust.
You gasped—not just from his touch, but from the way it quieted everything else. The buzzing in your blood, the ache in your ribs, the loneliness that clung to you like mildew. All gone. For a moment, all you could taste was the garden.
When he looked up, mouth glistening, eyes wide and dazed, you didn’t see a boy.
You saw a man—someone who’d bitten the apple and swallowed every part of it.
You pulled him up, his weight settling between your thighs. He pressed into you like a question he’d been aching to ask, and you answered without words. Just a sigh, soft and shaking. It hurt, of course it did—but even that felt sacred.
Each thrust was slow, unsure, but meaningful. A rhythm like roots threading through soil. The creak of the old couch, the wet sounds between your bodies, the shared breath—all of it folded into something more than just bodies.
It was a covenant.
A shared hunger.
A holy decay.
And when it was over, when your limbs were tangled and sweat slicked your backs, he rested his head on your chest, listening to the beat of something older than time.
“You taste like apples,” he murmured, the words barely forming.
You smiled, drowsy. “You always say that.”
And neither of you said it aloud, but you both felt it:
You were the fruit.
You were the altar.
You were the offering.
And he had devoured you with worship in his mouth.
–
Mama found out on a Tuesday.
The sky was dull and bleached, like God had turned His face away. You and Caleb had fallen asleep under the old apple tree, your dress rumpled, his hand resting warm on your thigh, head tucked against your stomach. The grass was high and soft, the air thick with the perfume of overripe fruit.
You didn’t hear her arrive.
Didn’t feel the world shift until her shadow darkened your skin.
Caleb stirred first.
He sat up like he’d been yanked from a dream, still holding your hand. You followed slowly, blinking into the light, only to find it wasn’t sunlight at all. It was her.
Mama stood over you with a basket on her arm, herbs spilling over its edge—lemongrass, mugwort, bitter melon. Nestled among the greenery was something red and glistening. A chicken heart, maybe. Or not a chicken’s.
She didn’t speak at first.
Just looked.
Her eyes were black pits, dull, endless, and for a moment, you couldn’t tell if she was angry or simply hollow.
Then, almost gently, she said, “So that’s how it is now.”
You flinched. The tone of it—tender and terrible—cut deeper than any scream.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” she asked softly. “That I wouldn’t smell it on you?”
You tried to rise, brushing grass from your dress, mouth parting to speak—to explain, to lie—but nothing came out.
Her smile soured.
“Is this what you give away now?” she asked. “The softest part of you—like it’s a damn offering?”
You couldn’t answer. Shame crawled down your spine like a fever.
“Whoring yourself out beneath my trees. Under my sky. Letting him pick the fruit I raised.”
Her voice cracked then—half fury, half heartbreak. She looked at Caleb like he was rot in the soil.
“You stupid boy. You don’t even know what you’ve done.”
Caleb stepped forward. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
Mama reeled back, face twisting with something feral. “Don’t touch me, boy. You reek of her.”
He stopped, fists clenched at his sides, chest heaving. You reached for him, but Mama’s voice cut through you like a blade.
“I gave the two of you everything,” she spat. “Kept you safe. Kept you clean. And you repay me like this? Spreading your legs under the tree, I bled to grow. Letting him crawl between your thighs like a serpent in the roots.”
You tried again to speak—to beg, even—but she was beyond reach now.
She dropped the basket.
The contents scattered—herbs tangled with worm-bitten apples, their skins split, flesh browning, seeds glinting like tiny wounds in the grass.
“You were meant to be sacred,” she said, trembling. “I fed you from my hands. I scrubbed you with salt and prayer. And now you’ve spoiled the ground with your filth.”
She pointed at you, accusing, shaking.
“You think that’s love? That’s hunger, girl. That’s decay. That’s the kind of wanting that turns the womb sour.”
Her words stuck to your skin like smoke. You couldn’t cry—not yet. Not with the way her voice dropped to a whisper, now more to herself than to you.
“You don’t know what you’ve invited in,” she murmured. “You don’t know what wakes when blood and want mix under the garden.”
“I should’ve buried you both when you were still sweet.”
Then she turned.
And walked away barefoot, crushing her herbs, her apples, and whatever tenderness was left of her love into the dirt.
–
Mama didn’t come.
No footsteps down the hall. No door creaking open. No accusations in the dark.
Just silence.
It should have comforted you, but it didn’t. Not really. Not when the house still felt like it was watching, like the very walls held their breath, waiting for her to strike.
Your bed still smelled like jasmine.
The petals you’d pressed between the sheets weeks ago had long since dried, but their sweetness lingered—faint, stubborn, like something that refused to be forgotten. Caleb’s body curved against yours beneath the thin quilt, his arm draped around your waist, his breath warm at the nape of your neck.
Everything in you ached—from what you’d done, from what she’d said—but in that moment, you felt more whole than you’d ever dared to dream.
Caleb pressed his forehead to yours, his thumb tracing slow circles along the back of your hand like he was afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear.
“She’s going to do something,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said.
“But not tonight.”
His voice was barely a breath. “No. Not tonight.”
You shifted closer, burying your face into his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. It sounded tired. Brave. Like he was trying to keep beating just for you.
“I’m not sorry,” you said, barely above a whisper.
He kissed the top of your head. “Me neither.”
The bed groaned beneath you as you turned into each other, limbs tangled like roots beneath wet earth. You didn’t speak after that. There were no more words left to make sense of what you’d done or what was coming.
But your fingers stayed locked. And when he wrapped his arms around your waist, you finally let your eyes close.
Outside, the trees shivered under the moonlight.
Inside, two sinners clung to each other like salvation.
–
The door slammed open like a shot.
You didn’t even have time to scream. Just a second of fear—and then Mama’s hand was in your hair, yanking you up from the bed with a strength that didn’t seem possible for her frame.
“You think I wouldn’t hear it?” she spat, dragging you across the wooden floor. “Your filth. Your moaning. That boy grunting like a hog in heat.”
“Mama—!” Caleb scrambled after you, half-naked, but Mama shoved the door shut behind her with a thunderous crack.
“You want to be grown? You want to be touched like a wife?” she snarled, hauling you toward the bathroom. “Then you’ll be cleansed like one.”
“Mama, I’m sorry!” you cried, your voice cracking.
“Keep your sorry,” she snapped. “It’s as cheap as your legs.”
You clawed at her arm, trying to get your footing, but her grip was iron. She kicked open the bathroom door and slammed it shut behind you. The basin was already full—rainwater, cold as bone, a faint smell of herbs and rust rising from it.
“I should strip the skin from your back,” Mama hissed, “but I’ll give you a chance to be clean.”
You thrashed as she forced your head down.
The first plunge into the water was shock, cold slicing through your skull like a scream you couldn’t make. You gurgled, kicked, bubbles rising, but her hand pressed down harder.
You thought of jasmine. Of Caleb’s lips. Of the ache between your legs that still hummed like a hymn.
She let you up just long enough for a gasp, then shoved you down again.
“You let him in you,” she growled. “Let him ruin what I raised. He planted something wicked in you.”
You came up coughing, hacking water from your lungs as your hair clung in wet ropes across your face. Water streamed from your nose, your chin, your eyelashes—blurring everything. Your nightgown clung to you like a second skin, soaked and nearly translucent, every seam heavy with water. Your knees slammed against the tile when you tried to crawl away, but before you could gain footing, Mama's fingers twisted into the back of your neck.
She slammed you down again.
This time, you saw stars. Not just light, but colours.
Blooming behind your eyelids like bruises, like galaxies unravelling. Shades of violet and stormcloud, like the marrow of twilight. You thought of Caleb’s eyes—those impossible, bruised-lilac things that always seemed too vivid for a boy raised in dust and silence. The kind of purple that didn’t belong to earth or blood or sky, but to something older. Something watching.
Darkness pooled at the edges of your vision. Your limbs went slack, heavy and useless. Your fingernails scraped helplessly against the porcelain, clicking like a desperate metronome.
Bang.
The door crashed open.
“Let her go!”
Caleb.
His voice didn’t sound like his own—it was cracked, raw, feral. But Mama didn’t move. She held you underwater like she could baptise the sin out of you. Like if she just pressed harder, longer, she could drown the past. Your choices. Her shame. Herself.
Then, he slammed into her.
Hard.
The force sent her stumbling into the wall, arms flailing. Her grip slipped, and you came up with a gasp that tore from your throat like an animal’s cry.
You collapsed against the basin’s rim, arms trembling, water streaming off you in waves. You coughed so hard it felt like you might turn inside out.
“Get away from her!” Caleb roared, and the sound of it was terrifying—half a sob, half a snarl.
Mama staggered back, wild-eyed, her hair tangled and dripping, her chest heaving like she’d run for miles. Her dress, soaked from the struggle, clung to her bony frame, water darkening the fabric and dripping steadily onto the floor in sharp, angry splashes.
“She’s unclean!” she shrieked, pointing at you with a trembling hand. “Let me finish it—she needs to be cleansed!”
“She’s not yours to fix,” Caleb spat, stepping in front of you. His body blocked hers like a wall. “Not anymore.”
“She was never yours to ruin,” Mama hissed, voice splintering with something sharp and bitter.
You crawled toward him, limbs jelly-like, and he caught you before you collapsed. You curled into Caleb’s chest, still coughing, shaking, your nightgown soaked and clinging to every inch of your skin. He wrapped himself around you like armour—like he could protect you from all of it just by holding you tight enough.
Mama stood frozen. Her gaze darted between you and him, as if she were looking at strangers. Like she couldn’t reconcile what she was seeing with what she thought she’d raised.
Then, slowly, her arms fell to her sides, and she turned. Wordless. Hollow. She walked out, her footsteps trailing water and wilted herbs across the hallway like a funeral procession.
You and Caleb stayed there for a long time—on the bathroom floor, drenched and trembling—his arms around you, your face buried in his chest, your heart beating wildly against his ribs.
Neither of you said a word.
But in the silence that followed, you knew that nothing was clean. Nothing would ever be clean again.
The house around you exhaled like a beast satisfied. The boards creaked under her retreating steps. Then—stillness. No prayers. No threats. No thunder of her fury. Just the soft drip of water from your hair, the shallow wheeze of your lungs trying to recover.
Caleb helped you up, gently, like you might break if he moved too fast. He wrapped you in the old towel hanging by the door and guided you out, not to your room, but to his.
The door clicked shut behind you.
He crossed the small space, dropped to his knees beside the bed, and pulled out an old tin container from underneath. It was battered, the corners dented and rusted, but achingly familiar.
It had once been a candy tin—mixed fruits, all bright wrappers and artificial sweetness. You remembered now how you used to fish out the orange-flavoured ones and hand them to Caleb, scrunching your nose because you couldn’t stand the taste. He always took them with a grin, no matter how many you passed his way.
The tin was still covered in the stickers you’d stuck on years ago—little stars, faded cartoon characters, a crooked heart where you’d once scratched both your initials inside. You hadn’t thought about it in years, but here it was. A piece of life you’d almost forgotten.
He pried it open and held it out.
Stacks of cash. Folded neatly, bundled with rubber bands. Not just pocket change—this was serious. Months, maybe a year’s worth.
“I’ve been saving,” he said. “From the garage. The boss pays under the table. I took every extra shift he offered—worked through the summer, stayed late when he needed hands. Just in case...”
You stared at the money, disbelieving. “You were planning to leave?”
“I was planning to survive,” he said quietly. “For both of us.”
Tears burned at the corners of your eyes again, but they didn’t fall. Not this time. You’d already drowned once tonight.
“I can get the car from the shop,” he continued. “We’ll take the old highway out. I know a back way through the woods, no one’ll see us leave.”
“But where would we go?” you asked, your voice so small you barely recognised it.
“Anywhere,” Caleb said. “Everywhere. Somewhere with streetlights. Somewhere, people mind their business. We can find work. A room. I’ll fix cars. You could do anything you want.”
Anything.
The word echoed inside you, strange and weightless. You’d never really thought beyond this place—this house with its rotten floorboards, its prayers and punishments, its bruised kind of love.
“I can’t leave like this,” you whispered. “I’m still wet. I’m still shaking.”
“We’ll wait ‘til she sleeps,” he said. “Pack only what matters. You can wear something dry. I’ll keep watch.”
You looked at him—really looked. His eyes were rimmed red. His knuckles scraped from where he’d shoved her. His jaw clenched with rage—he hadn’t fully come down from it. And still, he was looking at you like you were worth saving, like he’d do it again.
“I should’ve stopped her sooner,” he murmured, guilt bleeding through every word. “I should’ve known it’d come to this.”
You reached out, fingers curling around his wrist. “You stopped her when it mattered.”
Caleb nodded slowly, leaning in and pressing his forehead to yours. “We’re getting out. I swear it.”
–
You and Caleb waited, hearts pounding, ears straining for every groan and pop of the old house. Past midnight, the whole town was dead—no glow in the windows, no distant engines, only that thick, waiting dark pressing at the walls. The plan was airtight: pack light, move fast, slip away before dawn. Caleb would drive. You’d keep your head down, quiet, invisible.
Caleb brushed dirt off his jeans and checked the door. “I’m grabbing tools from the shed,” he muttered, gripping your shoulder just once before moving out into the dark. “Get us food for the trip.”
You nodded, moving stiff but sure down the hall. The kitchen felt colder than it should have, the bulb overhead buzzing and flickering. You threw open the fridge and worked fast—sandwiches, water bottles, jerky, whatever you could hold. Your breath steamed in the air. You slammed the fridge shut—and froze.
She was there.
Mama.
She looked like something raised from the grave—hair wild, face hollow and sagging, lips pulled back over her teeth in a grin too wide, too knowing. Her eyes glittered like glass marbles, vacant but furious. And her voice—ragged, deep, twisted into something that didn’t even sound human—rattled through the room.
“You thought you could sneak out,” she hissed, dragging her nails across the table, making a horrible screeching sound. “Thought you could slip away like roaches in the night.”
She came closer, slow at first, but jerking with unnatural movements, like a puppet yanked on broken strings. “I've seen the way you look at each other. Filthy. Godless. You belong to me—you both do.” Her eyes rolled up for a second, her whole body convulsing, froth bubbling at the corners of her mouth. “The maggots are in you, too!” she howled. “But they can’t eat me—I’m too strong. I’ll burn you out!”
You stumbled back, but she lunged. Her hands shot out, clutching your hair, yanking so hard your knees buckled. She slammed you into the counter, spitting curses, her nails clawing at your face, wild and frenzied. “God’s watching, you little whore! He sees everything! Filth! Filth!”
She was rabid. Eyes rolling, breath wheezing, twisting like something possessed. Like all those years of rot had finally eaten their way into her skull—the maggots gnawing their way to her brain, hollowing her out from the inside.
You screamed, fought, kicking and clawing. Then Caleb’s voice tore through the chaos—raw, desperate: “Get OFF her!”
He was in the room like a lightning bolt, grabbing Mama by the waist and hurling her back. She hit the floor with a sickening crack but scrambled up, snarling, face a mask of rage. Caleb grabbed her, but she clawed his face, biting, writhing like a demon in human skin.
“Hold her!” you yelled, your hand scrabbling for the butcher knife. Caleb pinned her arms, chest heaving, face bleeding, but Mama shrieked and fought, her feet kicking wildly. Her eyes met yours as you brought the knife down—sharp, cold steel plunging into her side. Once. Twice.
She screamed, gurgling, frothing. Caleb twisted her down, his arm around her throat, holding her tight as you drove the blade again and again, each strike shaking your whole body, until her movements slowed—her breath hitching, wet and ragged.
Mama’s last sound was a shuddering gasp—her head lolling back, eyes rolled white, body spasming before it went still.
You and Caleb stood over her, heaving for breath. The room was splattered with red—her blood smeared across the counters, dripping down your arms, staining the china. She lay twisted, mouth gaping like she was still trying to scream, but no sound came.
Caleb reached for your hand, gripping it tightly. You lifted his hand, brought it to your lips, sucked the blood clean—metallic, bitter, tasting of death and something deeper. Caleb did the same to yours, his mouth slow, shaking. When he looked at you, his eyes were wild and wet, but there was something else in them too—something raw and boundless.
“It’s done,” he whispered, hoarse.
–
The adrenaline crashed down hard. You dragged a bucket from under the sink, hands shaking uncontrollably as you scrubbed the floor, bleach burning your nostrils. The rag soaked through with blood almost immediately—pink at first, then darkening to maroon. You scrubbed and scrubbed, wrists aching, every inch of you trembling, but it felt like you were outside your body watching yourself move.
Mama’s blood clung to everything. It dripped into the cracks of the tiles. It stained the walls where her flailing hands had slapped. The kitchen still smelled like her powder, stale sweat, rot—and it felt like she was watching from the shadows, waiting to claw her way back up.
Your thoughts spiralled as you worked. Had you really killed her? Was she really gone? The rag slipped from your hand, and you pressed your fingers to your lips, choking back a sob.
Caleb’s shovel bit hard into the frozen earth, over and over, the clang of metal on rock sharp in the quiet night. His muscles burned, but he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. His chest heaved, every breath ragged and raw. Dirt flew, spraying his boots, his jeans—he didn’t care. All he could see, even now, was her—the way Mama’s hands had gripped your hair, her nails digging into your skin, her voice rising in that inhuman shriek.
He still heard it. Your screams. The panicked crash of dishes. The guttural, awful sounds Mama made, like something had crawled inside her and taken over. Maybe her husband’s soul, a demon
He’d seen red. That was all. One second he was at the shed, grabbing tools, thinking about the road ahead—then he heard you, and the world blurred. His hands were fists before he knew it, legs pumping fast as hell down the hallway, and when he saw her—saw Mama on you—everything snapped.
His vision went fuzzy around the edges, his ears roared like static, and there was nothing left but raw instinct: get her off you. Kill her if he had to.
And he had.
Caleb stopped, shoulders shaking, leaning on the shovel. He stared down at the deep pit he’d carved out near the apple tree, sweat dripping from his chin despite the cold.
He wasn’t sorry.
He wasn’t even shaken anymore.
He was glad she was dead.
–
Downstairs, you were waiting by the basement door, eyes wide and hollow, arms wrapped around yourself. You didn’t say anything—just looked at him, at the blood smeared across his clothes, and then at the body lying on the tarp-covered floor. Mama. Wrapped tight in plastic like cheap meat at the market. Her face was hidden now, but you didn’t need to see it—you could feel her lingering, a poison in the air.
“She’s ready,” you said quietly, voice so hoarse it barely sounded like you. Caleb just nodded, jaw clenched hard, and grabbed the other end of the tarp.
Together, you dragged her down the basement steps. Each thud of her body hitting the stairs made you both wince, but you didn’t stop. The basement was cold and damp, the cement floor sweating under your bare feet. That smell hit you again—chemical, rotting, metallic. The freezer sat in the corner like a tomb, humming low, waiting.
Caleb paused, chest heaving. “On three.”
You braced yourself. “One... two... three.”
Her body was heavy, awkward, the plastic squealing as you heaved her up and rolled her into the freezer. It wasn’t the first body in there—you both knew that.
Her husband was in there too. Or... what was left of him. You could see the plastic wrapping under the flickering freezer light—parts of a man, shrivelled and iced over. His head tilted sideways, mouth frozen open like he was still mid-scream. An arm bent at an unnatural angle. Ribs poking out of torn flesh, gnawed down to the bone in some places.
You pressed a hand to your mouth, swallowing hard. Caleb stood frozen, staring down, eyes wide and dark.
“I kept thinking,” you whispered, voice trembling, “that meat… it tasted different sometimes. Too... soft. Too dark.”
Caleb's eyes flicked to yours, haunted. His voice was tight, strained. “Remember that time we asked? At dinner?”
Yeah. You remembered. Too well.
It was late, sticky-hot, and the dining table was set the same as always—rice, greens, and a big pot of red-stewed meat. You’d poked at yours, frowning.
“This meat tastes weird, mama,” you’d said quietly, glancing at Caleb.
He looked at you, then at Mama. “Yeah. It’s... different.”
Mama didn’t look up from her bowl. “Eat. Don’t waste food.”
“But—” you started.
She slammed her chopsticks down, making the bowls rattle. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”
That was the end of it. You’d both lowered your heads, shovelling in mouthfuls with your colourful spoons, swallowing fast, trying to ignore the strange texture, the bitter aftertaste. Neither of you dared speak of it again.
Back in the basement now, you shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself. Caleb finally closed the freezer lid with a solid thunk, locking it tight. He stood there for a beat, eyes closed, hand resting on top.
You nodded, but it didn’t feel real yet. Not with the freezer humming like that. Not with the echoes of her voice still rattling around in your skull.
Caleb moved to the workbench, grabbed the half-crushed pack of cigarettes, and lit one. He took a drag, then passed it to you, like it was second nature, like sharing was survival.
You took it with shaky fingers, inhaling deep, the smoke sharp and bitter in your lungs. You both stood there, quiet, the glow of the ember flicking between you like a secret pact.
Caleb passed the cigarette back to you, his fingers brushing yours. You took a drag, but your hands were trembling now, the adrenaline long gone. The smoke sat heavy in your lungs, like it couldn’t fill the hollow sitting in your chest.
“She’s gone,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. Your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, like you were waiting for her voice to rise from the walls, for her to come stomping down the hall and catch you both.
Caleb let out a bitter breath of smoke. “Yeah. She’s gone.”
You stared at the cigarette, fingers tightening. “It doesn’t... feel real.”
Caleb’s jaw clenched. He looked at you, eyes sharp and raw. “Good. It shouldn’t feel real. She was—she deserved it.”
You swallowed, the words catching in your throat. “I keep thinking she’s gonna come back. Like none of this matters because she’s still... here. In this house. In my head.”
Caleb shifted closer, watching you carefully. His voice softened but didn’t lose its edge. “She can’t hurt us anymore.”
You looked at him then, blinking fast, the cigarette shaking between your fingers. “But I keep hearing her. Like she’s still... yelling. Still telling me I’m nothing.”
Caleb exhaled slowly, reached out, and plucked the cigarette from your hand. He took a deep drag and let the smoke curl between you both. “She fucked us up. All those years... making us perfect. Be quiet, be good, be better—for what? Just so she could tear us down again.”
“She was worse with me,” you whispered.
His hand twitched, grip tightening on the cigarette. “I know.” His voice cracked, full of guilt and something hotter, meaner. “I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve—”
You shook your head quickly, cutting him off. “We were kids. There was nothing we could do.”
He stared at you, eyes glassy and bloodshot. “We did something now.”
You bit your lip hard and tasted iron. “I don’t know if that makes it better.”
“It makes it over,” Caleb said, voice low but certain. “That’s enough.”
You sat in silence for a while, passing the cigarette back and forth until it was just ash and smoke between your fingers. The quiet pressed down heavily, but was different now, like something had cracked open inside the house.
“What do we say... when people ask?” you finally whispered.
Caleb flicked the stub into the ashtray, wiped his hands down his jeans. “We tell them she’s visiting a relative. Far away. A cousin, maybe—someone from the old village. Somewhere out east.”
“For how long?”
“Weeks. Months. No one will question it if we say she’s tending to something important. An inheritance, maybe. A sick uncle. Whatever sounds just believable enough.”
“They’ll think it’s weird we’re still here.”
He met your eyes, steady. “We tell them she left us in charge. She trusted us. We make it normal. We act normal.”
You nodded, slow and mechanical. “And if they don’t buy it?”
Caleb’s face went tight, jaw hard as stone. “Then we keep lying. We don’t slip. We cover each other’s backs.”
You stared at your hands, still faintly smudged with blood even after scrubbing them raw. “I keep thinking she’s watching.”
Caleb leaned forward, brushing your hair back, his touch so gentle it almost broke you. “She’s not watching. Not anymore.”
Your throat burned. You blinked down at his hand, that same familiar scar on his knuckle. “What if we never feel free?”
He sighed, tipping his head against yours. “Then at least we’re stuck together.”
You closed your eyes, holding onto that small, quiet truth.
Together. Still breathing. Still here.
And somehow, that had to be enough.
–
They carried on with their lives.
The chickens still needed feeding. The garden still needed turning. The house, despite everything, did not collapse under the weight of what they’d done.
When people asked—and they did, gently at first—Caleb would offer the same easy reply, like something rehearsed and folded neatly away.
“Mama’s visiting her cousin near the coast. Said she needed time. Family matters.”
You nodded when prompted. Gave soft, vague smiles. Said things like “She sends her love,” or “We’re holding down the fort.” The sort of polite nonsense that satisfied most of them.
But not all.
Because things had changed.
You wore your hair down now. Ate when you were hungry. Slept without the weight of footsteps creeping down the hallway. Caleb fixed the broken porch rail. Cleaned the windows. Started to whistle again. Some days, he even went down to the river with his sleeves rolled and his ankles in the shallows, laughing when the minnows nipped at his toes.
The rot had stopped spreading.
And to the townsfolk, that was strange.
Because grief wasn’t supposed to soften you. It was meant to turn you inside out. Meant to hollow you into something unrecognisable.
But you and Caleb? You looked… better.
He stood straighter. Spoke more clearly. His eyes, once dulled from too many sleepless nights, held a quiet sort of focus now. You smiled more—at the market, at the temple, at nothing in particular. The bruises beneath your eyes faded. You no longer jumped at loud voices.
They noticed.
And then they started to whisper.
The house had always been a place people crossed the street to avoid. But now they looked longer. Peered from behind the curtains. Paid too much attention to how often Caleb walked into town alone, and how you always waited on the porch for him to come back.
It wasn’t just that Mama was gone.
It was that you seemed… lighter. More alive. As if her absence had let you both become someone else entirely.
And that—more than the mystery, more than the lies—was what truly unsettled them.
Because what kind of children thrive when their mother disappears?
And what kind of family moves through mourning without mourning at all?
That’s when they started watching you more closely.
They noticed how you never locked the front gate anymore. How the lights in the upstairs bedroom burned late into the night. How Caleb sometimes stared too long when you weren’t looking, and how your hand lingered on his back just a little too tenderly when you passed him a bowl of soup.
Whispers became suspicions.
Too close.
Too familiar.
Not right.
It was near midnight when Miss Martha took the orchard path home, her arms full of half-wilted carnations and a chipped pie tin borrowed from her cousin’s wake. The sky hung heavy with clouds and cricketsong, and the trees shimmered with heat still trapped from the day. She walked slowly, as if the shadows themselves might whisper to her if she lingered long enough. Martha always took the long way—said it was for her knees, but everyone knew better.
Martha had a particular gift for seeing what wasn’t meant to be seen. She prided herself on knowing whose daughter snuck out, who’d started drinking early, which widow had a man’s coat drying by her hearth. She was the town’s unofficial historian of shame, chronicler of soft scandals.
That night, she found a new chapter.
She paused just past the fencepost where the orchard opened onto your back yard, your house nestled like a wound between the trees. The light from the back window was low and golden, flickering like candlefire. The curtains had been carelessly pulled back, a breath of summer wind teasing them open.
That’s when she saw him.
Caleb stood with his back to the window, the glass fogged behind him, his silhouette washed in the dim gold light of the lamp. The glow cast a halo along the slope of his bare shoulders, turning sweat-slick skin into something near-sacred, like a fallen saint caught mid-confession.
His chest rose and fell with quiet effort, breath shallow, trembling. The low-slung jeans clung to his hips, unbuttoned and careless, threatening to slip with every twitch of muscle. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. His hands were pressed flat against the wall —tense, white-knuckle— as though bracing himself against a world that kept tilting.
His head hung low, chin nearly to his chest, with his messy dark hair that fell forward, veiling his face in shadow. He still hadn’t looked up.
And—gods, you were there too.
Pinned between his body and the plaster, breathless and gasping.
Your dress was crooked, one strap fallen off your shoulder, the hem hitched high around your thighs. It was a thin summer cotton thing, white with tiny blue flowers, the kind Mama would’ve said was “too soft for a girl your age.” It clung to your damp skin, translucent with sweat. There were faint bruises blooming along your collarbone, purpling down your throat, where Caleb’s mouth had been—not angry, but reverent.
One of your hands was buried in his hair, the other pressed against the small of his back. Your leg curled up around his hip, bare foot flexed against the wallpaper, trying to pull him closer even though there was no space left between you. It wasn’t just the position—it was the way your eyes were closed, the soft part of your lips parted, the faint sound of your sighs echoing against the wall.
It looked like he was praying.
Like your body was the altar, and he couldn’t stop confessing.
That was when Martha dropped everything.
The pie tin clattered to the ground with a metallic ring, carnations scattering like startled birds. One bloom landed face-down in the dust. Her breath caught sharply in her throat. She backed away slowly, half-tripping on a root, heart pounding loud enough to drown the cicadas. She could have looked away. Could have turned and gone back the way she came.
But she didn’t.
She stood there and watched, face pale, fingers trembling at her throat. She watched the way Caleb cradled your jaw in one hand, whispered something against your cheek, kissed your mouth like he was starving and only you could save him. His hips rocked forward in rhythm, desperate, aching, like he was trying to crawl inside you just to feel whole again.
And then he looked up.
Not quickly. Not startled. Just… aware. As if he’d always known she was there. His eyes—unnatural and violet, lit from within by something that had no business being human—met hers through the dark glass.
And he didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
He held your body closer, one strong arm curling around your waist, the other still cradling your jaw like it was something sacred. As if shielding you from her gaze. As if daring her to look away first.
He held you like you were both wrapped in something ancient and sacrilegious. Something too holy for the world to understand. Something that did not care for sin or shame or consequence.
And in that moment, Martha knew two things:
She had seen the devil staring back at her.
And worse, he was in love.
—
Martha didn’t tell anyone that first night.
She staggered home with her skirts clutched in both hands, flowers long forgotten, the borrowed pie tin denting her hip with every step. Her mouth was dry, throat raw from the gasp she hadn’t let out, and the image—the truth—seared itself behind her eyes like a holy vision turned rancid.
She didn’t sleep. Just sat in her chair by the window, staring out toward the orchard, toward that house, the way you might watch for wolves—or lightning.
By morning, the story had already begun writing itself inside her, word by trembling word.
She told her cousin first. Not directly. Just a few shaken words in the church foyer as they adjusted their hats and smoothed their skirts. “Something’s not right up there,” she whispered, hands fluttering like frightened birds. “I saw… I saw something I shouldn’t’ve.”
The cousin leaned in, breathless. “What kind of something?”
Martha only shook her head, eyes wide. “The kind you can’t unsee.”
It was all she had to say. The cousin, eager and wide-mouthed, filled in the rest.
By the time Sunday service was over, the butcher’s wife had heard. Then the schoolteacher. Then the woman who ran the boarding house, who passed it along to the girl who swept the church steps, who whispered it to her brother, who whispered it to his friends with dirt under their nails and lust in their eyes.
The tale grew swollen and slick with suggestion. It twisted like smoke between mouths, changed shape with every retelling. The orchard house, long a source of rumour, bloomed with new horrors.
They said Mama hadn’t gone to visit a cousin at all.
They said she’d seen something—heard something—and fled into the night. Or worse: that she’d been put in the ground and covered over with sweet-smelling flowers and lies.
They said the boy and the girl—Caleb and you—had taken to sleeping in the same bed. That she called his name like a hymn, and he touched her like she was an altar. That they only came into town when they needed bread or thread, and left again just as quickly, looking flushed and lit from within like candles burning at both ends.
The town turned on its haunches.
Old women turned their noses up at the orchard fence, clutching their shopping baskets like they might shield them from blasphemy. Men at the barbershop muttered into their shaving bowls about the rot of young blood and what happened when a house was left unsupervised too long. Even the children stopped cutting through the back trail, swearing the trees whispered to each other, and that they saw strange lights flickering behind the curtains at night.
The postman, whose route took him past the house twice a week, swore he’d seen Caleb shirtless on the porch, cigarette between his lips, a girl’s laughter curling out the window behind him like smoke. He didn’t wave. Just stood there and stared until the postman’s truck rolled past.
“They don’t act like siblings,” he muttered later in town. “Ain’t never seen siblings look at each other like that.”
And still, the house stood quiet. Untouched. Not quite dead, not quite living.
You and Caleb moved through the days like nothing had changed. He walked with his hand on your lower back. You wore loose dresses that slipped off your shoulders, skin blooming with half-hidden marks like soft bruises. You looked brighter. Fuller. As though something terrible had been lifted. As though whatever you’d buried beneath the floorboards had finally stopped haunting you.
But that was what unsettled them most of all.
You were happy.
And in this town, happiness without permission was the worst sin of all.
So when Miss Martha crossed the street to avoid you in the grocer’s lane, when the pastor began to preach just a little louder about purity and repentance, when someone tossed a Bible into your yard in the dead of night—it wasn’t just out of disgust.
It was fear.
That something had grown in the orchard that no one could name.
And it was blooming right in front of them.
—
The fear festered.
By the second week, whispers had turned to plans.
The pastor called a special meeting—just the women at first. A prayer circle, he said, though no one prayed. They gathered in the fellowship hall under the low light of lanterns and muttered their concerns like curses. It was Miss Martha who finally spoke what they all were thinking.
“They’re not right. Something unclean is happening in that house.”
Heads nodded, slow and solemn. The pastor’s wife—always quiet, always watching—spoke next. “It’s like Sodom, isn’t it? All sweetness on the outside, but rotten under the skin. That kind of sin spreads.”
After that, it stopped being about what you and Caleb were doing—and started being about what it meant. A blight. A curse. A sickness that could leap from house to house if it wasn’t rooted out. Mothers began pulling their children closer. Fathers looked up from their newspaper columns with hard-set jaws.
The pastor stepped into the pulpit that Sunday with fire in his throat. He didn’t say your names—not directly—but every word rang like judgment:
“They have turned their backs on the Lord, and the Lord has turned His face from them. We are not meant to watch wickedness thrive in silence. You know what must be done.”
A silence fell over the church. Thick. Final.
The men stayed behind after the final hymn.
They spoke in low voices beneath the great wooden cross, surrounded by the scent of wax and old leather. Caleb’s name came up first. Then yours. Then Mama’s—how long had it been since anyone had seen her? Was it possible, someone asked, that she never left at all?
That night, someone lit a torch.
And just like that, a line was crossed.
The orchard trees seemed to whisper louder in the wind, their leaves twitching like nervous hands. Even the crickets were silent. You felt it in your spine—that something had shifted. That something was coming.
And then came the knock.
Late. Too late for anything good.
Caleb answered the door in worn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dust clinging to the hem like he’d just come from the cellar or the far side of the orchard. His hair was unkempt, shadows clinging to his face like old bruises.
Behind the cracked door stood three figures—Elias, Royce, and Thomas—men molded by the land and hardened by years of sermons and silence. Elias held a Bible, its leather cover weathered and flaking like old bark, his fingers curled around it like it was a weapon. Royce had a coil of rope, thick and stiff, slung across his chest like it belonged there—his jaw set, eyes flat with purpose. And Thomas, ever silent, gripped a rusted shovel, the edge jagged from use, its metal lip bumping softly against the porch rail as he shifted, like it was eager for dirt.
The man in front—Elias, the deacon, a taxidermied smile stretched too tight over yellowing teeth—tilted his head in mock kindness. “Evening, Caleb. We’d like to talk.”
Caleb didn’t open the door any farther. He stood like a statue behind the wood, filling the threshold, one hand braced on the frame. The porch light flickered once, then held steady.
“You don’t look like men come to talk,” Caleb said quietly.
Thomas chuckled, low and humorless. “That depends on how the talking goes.”
Elias’ smile didn’t falter. “We’ve had… concerns,” he said. “Worries. There’s a sickness in this town, Caleb. And folks say it starts here. In this house.”
Caleb’s brow twitched, but his mouth stayed a hard line.
Elias shifted his weight, clearing his throat. “Where’s your mama, son?”
Caleb blinked slowly.
“She’s not here.”
“That don’t answer the question.”
Royce leaned forward slightly, the fibers creaking. “We heard she never left. That she’s still here, under your floorboards, feeding the roses.”
Caleb’s jaw clenched. “She’s not here,” he said again.
Elias narrowed his eyes. “Ain’t nobody seen her in weeks. Not since the girl started wearing her apron. Not since the bread started showing up at the market with your name on it. People talk.”
“They always have,” Caleb replied. “Only difference now is they’re listening to each other.”
“And they’re listening to the Lord,” Elias snapped. “He tells us something’s wrong in that house. That you and that girl—”
“You mean her,” Caleb said, voice low and sharp.
Elias continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “—ain’t living the way decent people live. They hear the sounds, Caleb. They see her out there with bare shoulders and those marks blooming like bruises on her neck. They say she walks like a woman who’s been claimed.”
Caleb didn’t flinch. “She has been.”
Royce stepped forward. “So you admit it. You’re not brother and sister.”
“We never were.”
“Then what are you?” Elias asked, eyes gleaming. “Lovers? Heathens? Devil-marked and half-mad?”
Caleb met his gaze with a calm so cold it burned. “We’re something you wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re a sin,” Elias said, spitting the word like it tasted foul.
“No,” Caleb said. “We’re a mirror. And you just don’t like what you see.”
The shovel scraped once against the porch. “Where is she?”
“She’s in the kitchen,” he said softly. “Making dinner. Hands in the sink, humming to herself. We had turnips left from the root cellar, and she wanted to roast them with rosemary. Said they make the house smell warm.”
Elias’ smile twitched.
“She doesn’t know we’re here?”
Caleb met his eyes again. “She does.”
“And she’s not scared?”
Caleb’s lips tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile—something older, steadier, heavier than any fear they’d brought with them.
“She’s not scared,” he said. “Because she has me.”
And then he shut the door. Slowly. Cleanly. No slam. Just a quiet finality, like the last line of a prayer.
Inside, the bolt clicked into place.
And outside, on that porch, the men stood frozen, torches flickering behind them, unsure whether they’d just been turned away by something unholy… or something sacred.
—
The mob’s voices thundered like a gathering storm outside the orchard house—shouts of “Sinners! Repent!” and “Turn back from your wickedness!” pounding against the walls. Lanterns bobbed like angry fireflies, casting long, trembling shadows.
Caleb stood by the front door, clad in worn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, his expression unreadable but his eyes steady. You stood beside him, the heavy scent of gasoline thick in the air, the weight of what was to come pressing down on your chest.
Among the crowd, Gideon’s face was pale and conflicted, eyes darting between the angry mob and the house where you and Caleb waited. He had been dragged here by his parents, forced into a hateful chorus he wished he could escape.
Caleb’s voice cut through the chaos. “We’re here. What is it you want?”
Elias stepped forward, Bible in hand. “You’ve turned your backs on God. This ends tonight.”
You and Caleb exchanged a glance—silent understanding in the midst of chaos. Neither of you were naïve enough to think running would save you. You could have fled into the night, disappeared into shadows beyond the orchard.
But you both knew the truth.
If you kept living, you would only repeat the cycle Mama taught you—the way love could consume and destroy, like the twisted hunger between her and her husband. You loved each other too fiercely, too dangerously. You feared one day that love would devour you whole, body and soul, like a slow, relentless fire.
Caleb’s hand found yours, fingers curling tightly. His voice was low, filled with a fierce tenderness. “We can’t keep running from what we are. We love too much. And that love… it could tear us apart, just like it did them.”
You nodded, the lump in your throat growing heavy. “We’re not afraid of dying, Caleb. We’re afraid of living a life where love becomes a cage—or worse, a weapon.”
Caleb brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, violet eyes burning with raw emotion. “So if this is our end, it will be together. On our own terms.”
The crowd’s shouts faltered as you pulled a small lighter from your pocket. The flame flickered to life, steady and fierce.
You let the burning metal drop onto the gasoline-soaked porch. A hiss, then a roar as flames swallowed the wood like a living thing.
Caleb wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close as heat curled and twisted around the doorframe.
One last time, he whispered against your skin, “I love you.”
“I love you,” you breathed back, voice breaking but steady.
Hand in hand, you stepped inside the fire—into the blaze that would end the pain, the fear, the cycle.
Outside, the mob’s cries turned frantic. Some shouted for mercy, some wept, others stood frozen in shock.
And Gideon—his heart shattered and heavy—stood at the edge, caught between the demands of his parents and the devastating truth of the two people he had cared for most choosing fire over fear.
The orchard house burned bright, a blazing testament to love too fierce, too broken, to survive in a world built on fear.
—
By dawn, the orchard house was reduced to a blackened skeleton — a charred ruin where flames had danced their merciless dance through the night. The fire had devoured everything: the walls that once held laughter and secrets, the floors worn smooth by footsteps, and the fragile memories nestled within its beams.
The early morning air was thick with smoke and ash, still rising in lazy spirals against the pale sky. Police officers cordoned off the scene with yellow tape, their faces grim and expressionless beneath wide-brimmed hats. Firefighters, their gear soot-streaked and heavy, moved among the ruins, hosing down smoldering embers and probing the debris for any sign of life.
The townsfolk gathered behind the barriers, eyes wide and voices hushed with a mix of fear and fascination. They sifted carefully through the ashes, desperate for any trace of you or Caleb — some sign, some whisper of your existence.
But there was nothing.
No bones. No ashes. No remnants to mourn.
Only two relics remained.
Near the cracked, blackened hearth lay the brittle skeleton of an older woman—the delicate curve of her bones unmistakably female, fragile like a fading hymn. Beside her rested a weathered skull, bleached white by years underground, silent and eternal—a man’s skull, cracked but unyielding.
Whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd.
“Mama… and her husband.”
Gideon stood apart, his breath fogging the cold morning air. He had once run through this garden — chased butterflies beneath the heavy, sun-dappled boughs of the old apple tree, his laughter mingling with Caleb’s and yours in days before whispers turned to rumors, before fear twisted into something darker.
The apple tree still stood, tall and proud amid the ruin, its gnarled branches twisting defiantly toward the pale dawn. Its bark was scorched black near the roots, but green leaves clung stubbornly to its limbs, shimmering like emerald flames against the ash-gray sky.
Gideon’s gaze was fixed on the tree, his voice barely audible as if speaking to the spirits lingering in the smoky air.
“Like a crown of thorns worn by saints and sinners alike, they burned… but their roots run deeper than fire. They are the martyrs of this orchard, bearing love that both saved and destroyed.”
His eyes, heavy with sorrow and regret, traced the scarred earth beneath the tree. Memories flooded back—Caleb’s reckless smile, the way he’d once carved your initials into his skin with a nervous laugh; your whispered promises, a fragile rebellion against the darkness that Mama had taught you to fear.
Gideon swallowed hard, the weight of the moment settling deep into his bones. He had been forced to join the mob, pushed by his parents’ fearful hands and the preacher’s relentless sermons. But even now, standing here amidst the ashes, he knew the truth: those two had loved too fiercely to live in a world so cruel. They had chosen their fate—not out of despair, but out of a desperate hope to break the cycle that had bound them since childhood.
“Their love was both salvation and sacrifice,” he whispered. “Like two stars burning so bright, they consumed each other to save what little light remained.”
The orchard held its breath, a silent witness to the story that fire could not erase.
A story of love that defied condemnation.
Of broken chains and the price of freedom.
And beneath the apple tree, Gideon vowed that their memory would never fade—that some flames, no matter how fierce, could never destroy the roots of the soul.
Holy shit this is one of the best pieces I have read on this site, the atmosphere, the writing style, the prose??? The themes are so nuanced I had so much fun reading this <333
"I don't think I want forever," you whisper, suddenly staring at the ceiling. Then comes the rustle of sheets as he turns to face you. Crisp linen that always smells fresh thanks to how meticulous he is with laundry. He always says, "Unclean sheets are basically a field day for microbes. Why would I ever want to procrastinate washing them when we spend so much of our time here, in one way or another?”
"What?" he asks, breaking the quiet of your bedroom, his voice deepened from the half-asleep state he was in moments ago.
He watches you intently, the contours of your face highlighted by the golden incandescent glow of the nightlight, your eyebrows pinched together the way they get when you are deep in thought.
"I think...forever is far too long. We'd hate each other by then." You say as you eventually turn to your side to face him, watching his face twisted in contemplation.
"Why do you think that?" his fingers reach over to tuck your hair behind your ears.
"I mean, don't you see all those couples in their late forties, they look like they want to rip out each other's vocal cords for just speaking."
He huffs out a sound akin to a laugh, "Honey, I don't think visualising my elder cousins as the epitome of a marriage is a very fine idea."
"That's not the point," you purse your lips, that is exactly the couple you'd been visualising. Kento's cousins, a couple with two kids who oscillate between intense affection and clenching their jaws at each other at family events, making aggressive eye contact as if no one notices when they've been fighting.
"There'd come a point where you would know all the people in my life intimately, and I would know all the people in your life, and our source of entertainment would become scrutinising their lives. We'd sleep in the same bed for years, live in the same house for years and eventually we will wake up all cranky, annoyed at seeing each other's faces daily, fight over dishes in the sink and laundry and then end up going back to bed to do it all over again." You utter out slowly, mindfully.
Kento is quiet for a devastating while, and you think you have offended him for a second before he breaks into a soft smile.
"That, honestly, sounds like a dream," he says, surprisingly. "Well, maybe we will argue, get annoyed at monotonous routines, but never will I ever go to sleep, not grateful for waking up beside you every day," he breathed out. "I do that, you know? Lay in bed and just pause for a while, grateful to have found you, to be able to spend every day with you," he mutters.
"No matter how much time passes, and how much we drive each other mad from habits that'd be harder to get rid of as we age, I'd still want you every day," he says, and you can't help but nuzzle closer to him, his arms easing around you.
"And I personally think my cousins are the most terrible couple," he says and laughs at the incredulous look you give him. "Hear me out, I think they have their disagreements, but in the end they love each other immensly, they know when not to go too far even during their arguments. They sit close, keep watching each other, even when they fight. It's probably not ideal in the traditional sense, but it's what keeps them close and honestly, what marriage is ever perfect?"
You sigh, resting your head against his chest, listening to his slow breaths, the relaxed thump of his heart. "I don't think we will argue that much anyway, you have the patience of a saint, and you are always the first to apologise when I am mad."
He chuckles, kissing your head at that, "I suppose so, I can hardly stand seeing you even remotely upset at me for any reason."
"I think forever is too much to think about, then," you sigh, hand on his cheek. "A day at a time would be better."
"A day at a time sounds wonderful." He adds, pulling you closer.
"I don't think I want forever," you whisper, suddenly staring at the ceiling. Then comes the rustle of sheets as he turns to face you. Crisp linen that always smells fresh thanks to how meticulous he is with laundry. He always says, "Unclean sheets are basically a field day for microbes. Why would I ever want to procrastinate washing them when we spend so much of our time here, in one way or another?”
"What?" he asks, breaking the quiet of your bedroom, his voice deepened from the half-asleep state he was in moments ago.
He watches you intently, the contours of your face highlighted by the golden incandescent glow of the nightlight, your eyebrows pinched together the way they get when you are deep in thought.
"I think...forever is far too long. We'd hate each other by then." You say as you eventually turn to your side to face him, watching his face twisted in contemplation.
"Why do you think that?" his fingers reach over to tuck your hair behind your ears.
"I mean, don't you see all those couples in their late forties, they look like they want to rip out each other's vocal cords for just speaking."
He huffs out a sound akin to a laugh, "Honey, I don't think visualising my elder cousins as the epitome of a marriage is a very fine idea."
"That's not the point," you purse your lips, that is exactly the couple you'd been visualising. Kento's cousins, a couple with two kids who oscillate between intense affection and clenching their jaws at each other at family events, making aggressive eye contact as if no one notices when they've been fighting.
"There'd come a point where you would know all the people in my life intimately, and I would know all the people in your life, and our source of entertainment would become scrutinising their lives. We'd sleep in the same bed for years, live in the same house for years and eventually we will wake up all cranky, annoyed at seeing each other's faces daily, fight over dishes in the sink and laundry and then end up going back to bed to do it all over again." You utter out slowly, mindfully.
Kento is quiet for a devastating while, and you think you have offended him for a second before he breaks into a soft smile.
"That, honestly, sounds like a dream," he says, surprisingly. "Well, maybe we will argue, get annoyed at monotonous routines, but never will I ever go to sleep, not grateful for waking up beside you every day," he breathed out. "I do that, you know? Lay in bed and just pause for a while, grateful to have found you, to be able to spend every day with you," he mutters.
"No matter how much time passes, and how much we drive each other mad from habits that'd be harder to get rid of as we age, I'd still want you every day," he says, and you can't help but nuzzle closer to him, his arms easing around you.
"And I personally don't think my cousins are the most terrible couple," he says and laughs at the incredulous look you give him. "Hear me out, I think they have their disagreements, but in the end they love each other immensly, they know when not to go too far even during their arguments. They sit close, keep watching each other, even when they fight. It's probably not ideal in the traditional sense, but it's what keeps them close and honestly, what marriage is ever perfect?"
You sigh, resting your head against his chest, listening to his slow breaths, the relaxed thump of his heart. "I don't think we will argue that much anyway, you have the patience of a saint, and you are always the first to apologise when I am mad."
He chuckles, kissing your head at that, "I suppose so, I can hardly stand seeing you even remotely upset at me for any reason."
"I think forever is too much to think about, then," you sigh, hand on his cheek. "A day at a time would be better."
"A day at a time sounds wonderful." He adds, pulling you closer.
𐙚 ‧₊˚ Thinking 'bout Older!Toji, who doesn't know how to put eyedrops in his eyes
Newsflash! Would you believe that Older!Toji, who's been advised multiple times by the ophthalmologist (one you force him to visit every six months) to wear his reading glasses, never wears them and ends up with a bad case of dry eyes. Yeah, who could have thought?
Prickly. Would be the right word to describe your husband's reaction to the prescription. He had sat in the clinic, his lips pursed into a thin line, brows furrowed as he sat on the stool, his large form slouched as if being handed a life-threatening diagnosis instead of measly eyedrops for a week.
"Damn thing, why won't it open?" Toji grumbled in your shared apartment now. His thighs spread on the couch, trying to get the tiny eyedrops to expel the solution with aggressive twisting of the little cap.
"You've got to shake it, Toji," you sigh, without looking up from your phone as you sat on the other side of the couch, legs perched on the coffee table.
A loud, exasperated exhale followed, and then the couch almost entirely shook at the force of how hard he was shaking the poor vial.
You scowl towards him at the little 'quake before resuming your scroll. From the corner of your vision, you see Toji lean his head back, stiffly, trying to put the drops but ending up blinking before the solution even hits his eyes. Once. Twice. Every time he ends up instinctively closing his eyes without letting the liquid enter.
"Okay, what the fuck," he groans out, looking at the drops like they personally offended him.
"It's so simple, just pull your lower eyelid down and squeeze."
"Putting anything in my eye sounds freaky as hell," he mutters, trying the steps you said but failing nonetheless, gritting his teeth in frustration.
"You are wasting so much, Toji," you put down your phone, looking at him, his cheeks stained with the drops, making him look like he'd been crying.
"Yeah, help a man out, won't you doll?" Toji huffs, chucking the vial towards you.
"Fine," you huff, unscrewing the drops before shifting closer. You struggle to find the right leverage on the cramped couch, your hands aimlessly trying different angles to ensure the weapon meets the target, but every time, obstacles, i.e., his big shoulders or those ginormous pecs, come between.
He gives you no moment to respond or shift on your own accord; instead, his hands wrap around your waist and position you on his lap. Your thighs encasing his as you straddle him and he just chuckles when you squeak out in protest.
You narrow your eyes as you stare at the handsome twerp beneath you. "Rude."
"It's better than you squirming around." He replies, his palms casually resting on your ass.
You roll your eyes and grab his jaw, tilting his head back forty-five degrees. "Keep your eyes open, don't flinch, I'm going to pull your lower eyelid down a little, 'kay?"
Toji hums, albeit uncertainly, as his Adam's apple bobs with a gulp.
You carefully pull the skin under his eye with your thumb, positioning the eyedrop over his eye. "I'm going to squeeze it now," you warn to keep him from moving. Your fingers press on the little vial, finally dropping the liquid in his eyes.
Toji closes his eyes immediately, his palms gripping your but harder. He squints with his eyes closed as the excess liquid runs down his cheek, which you brush away with your thumb.
He opens his eyes again, this time you repeat the steps for the next eye.
When you are finished with both eyes, Toji finally looks at them, half-lidded, highlighting the subtle wrinkles at the corners.
He sighs deeply as he looks at you with an expression akin to gratitude, all uncharacteristically soft. His thumb is rubbing absent circles on your hipbone. "I suppose you'll have to be the one to put eyedrops for me, all the time."
"This could have been all avoided if you just wore your prescription glasses." A small smile breaks on your face despite your reprimanding tone.
"I look like a nerd in glasses, baby," he smirks up, his hands slowly trailing up your waist, underneath your top. "Like an oldie."
"Yeah well you aren't exactly the most well-read to be called a nerd but it looks hot nonetheless." Toji rolls his eyes at your subtle jab before he shudders as your fingers run through his hair, nails raking his scalp.
"They are annoying to wear, feels like a weird weight on my nose" His fingers trace your ribs now, those damn eyes of his looking over so innocently when his touch is far from innocent. A smirk curls on his face, suave, cocky.
"Yeah but where is your hand going, old man?" You raise your eyebrow, pinching his nose bridge.
𐙚 ‧₊˚ Thinking 'bout Older!Toji, who doesn't know how to put eyedrops in his eyes
Newsflash! Would you believe that Older!Toji, who's been advised multiple times by the ophthalmologist (one you force him to visit every six months) to wear his reading glasses, never wears them and ends up with a bad case of dry eyes. Yeah, who could have thought?
Prickly. Would be the right word to describe your husband's reaction to the prescription. He had sat in the clinic, his lips pursed into a thin line, brows furrowed as he sat on the stool, his large form slouched as if being handed a life-threatening diagnosis instead of measly eyedrops for a week.
"Damn thing, why won't it open?" Toji grumbled in your shared apartment now. His thighs spread on the couch, trying to get the tiny eyedrops to expel the solution with aggressive twisting of the little cap.
"You've got to shake it, Toji," you sigh, without looking up from your phone as you sat on the other side of the couch, legs perched on the coffee table.
A loud, exasperated exhale followed, and then the couch almost entirely shook at the force of how hard he was shaking the poor vial.
You scowl towards him at the little 'quake before resuming your scroll. From the corner of your vision, you see Toji lean his head back, stiffly, trying to put the drops but ending up blinking before the solution even hits his eyes. Once. Twice. Every time he ends up instinctively closing his eyes without letting the liquid enter.
"Okay, what the fuck," he groans out, looking at the drops like they personally offended him.
"It's so simple, just pull your lower eyelid down and squeeze."
"Putting anything in my eye sounds freaky as hell," he mutters, trying the steps you said but failing nonetheless, gritting his teeth in frustration.
"You are wasting so much, Toji," you put down your phone, looking at him, his cheeks stained with the drops, making him look like he'd been crying.
"Yeah, help a man out, won't you doll?" Toji huffs, chucking the vial towards you.
"Fine," you huff, unscrewing the drops before shifting closer. You struggle to find the right leverage on the cramped couch, your hands aimlessly trying different angles to ensure the weapon meets the target, but every time, obstacles, i.e., his big shoulders or those ginormous pecs, come between.
He gives you no moment to respond or shift on your own accord; instead, his hands wrap around your waist and position you on his lap. Your thighs encasing his as you straddle him and he just chuckles when you squeak out in protest.
You narrow your eyes as you stare at the handsome twerp beneath you. "Rude."
"It's better than you squirming around." He replies, his palms casually resting on your ass.
You roll your eyes and grab his jaw, tilting his head back forty-five degrees. "Keep your eyes open, don't flinch, I'm going to pull your lower eyelid down a little, 'kay?"
Toji hums, albeit uncertainly, as his Adam's apple bobs with a gulp.
You carefully pull the skin under his eye with your thumb, positioning the eyedrop over his eye. "I'm going to squeeze it now," you warn to keep him from moving. Your fingers press on the little vial, finally dropping the liquid in his eyes.
Toji closes his eyes immediately, his palms gripping your but harder. He squints with his eyes closed as the excess liquid runs down his cheek, which you brush away with your thumb.
He opens his eyes again, this time you repeat the steps for the next eye.
When you are finished with both eyes, Toji finally looks at them, half-lidded, highlighting the subtle wrinkles at the corners.
He sighs deeply as he looks at you with an expression akin to gratitude, all uncharacteristically soft. His thumb is rubbing absent circles on your hipbone. "I suppose you'll have to be the one to put eyedrops for me, all the time."
"This could have been all avoided if you just wore your prescription glasses." A small smile breaks on your face despite your reprimanding tone.
"I look like a nerd in glasses, baby," he smirks up, his hands slowly trailing up your waist, underneath your top. "Like an oldie."
"Yeah well you aren't exactly the most well-read to be called a nerd but it looks hot nonetheless." Toji rolls his eyes at your subtle jab before he shudders as your fingers run through his hair, nails raking his scalp.
"They are annoying to wear, feels like a weird weight on my nose" His fingers trace your ribs now, those damn eyes of his looking over so innocently when his touch is far from innocent. A smirk curls on his face, suave, cocky.
"Yeah but where is your hand going, old man?" You raise your eyebrow, pinching his nose bridge.
Guess who had an academic piece they wrote for a competition that got flagged for AI and was not sent? I wrote every single word of it painstakingly. I took over half a month to finish it. I was even selected for the preliminary round because of how good it was, only to end up getting flagged for AI, and all my work went down the drain. Fuck AI. Fuck my life.
Writing is my life, its where I get my sense of fulfillment from and to be discredited like this, despite bing so openly anti AI is just straight up painful.
KUMI HI YESSS IM ALIVEEE (unfortunately) sighhh its been sooo sooo hectic, law school's been killing me uhuhuhu, I finally got some free time in internship period i missed writing so much sob sob (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞
𐙚 ‧₊˚ where you put yourself in a time-out when your thoughts are a bit too freaky around kento when ovulating
cw! suggestive content
You are definitely losing your mind. Anyone would be, if they were greeted with a sight like that, straight out of a woman's wet dreams-- Nanami Kento, cooking so dextrously.
The sleeves of his sweatshirt rolled up, his back flexing with his movements, his waist adorned with that little pink apron. It's not visible, but you know it, it reads 'Sexiest chef ever' in pretty cursive font. You bought it just for whimsies, but now it's become a staple in your household, and when Nanami wears it, the words surely seem like an appropriate tagline.
You remove your shoes and jacket and pad onto the floor, silently hugging him from behind, to which he just breathes out fondly.
"Welcome home," He murmurs, stirring the vegetables in the pan. It smells good, but he smells better. Pine and myrrh are clean, sharp, sophisticated, just like him.
You can't help but press your cheek against his back as you observe him cook. Your eyes trail to his forearms, gripping the spatula, and you can't help but notice all over again--
Kento has great forearms. His skin is smooth, well-moisturised, and clean-smelling, marred with occasional scars from his years as a Jujutsu sorcerer. The surface of his forearms is well-circulated, with veins running their expanse; they pop out when he's exercising, when he's thinking, or when he's frustrated from his job or cooking — they are extenuated by strain. They are also extenuated when his fingers find ways to please you, other than cooking — muscles flexed, chiselled, sharp; veins taut (you think you might as well be a mosquito with how much you obsessed over them)
Kento also has a great back. Broad, sharp, reliable. His shoulders are wide enough for you to rest your head so comfortably on them while napping, perfect to wrap your arms around when you hug him. But his shoulders are also perfect to rest your thighs on, broad enough to have you on him, comfortably. And his back, an exquisite canvas for your newly manicured nails, would come with his back seared with red, streaky marks bedecking his olive skin; they looked borderline painful, but he'd always smile and say they felt like nothing.
"What are you thinking about?" He asks, breaking your reverie as he switches off the stove and turns over to look at you.
"Nothing," you say too quickly, your cheeks heating up terribly. "You are home early today."
Kento hums, with a soft smile, caressing your face as your arms stay wrapped around him. "Work ended early, thought I'd make you something good." His thumb runs over your cheek before pausing. "Your cheeks are so flushed compared to the rest of your face. Was it too cold outside?" He asks so earnestly, and you can't help but curse yourself for being so weird when he's so damn sweet.
"It's nothing," you grumble out, jittery at the warmth of his beautiful brown eyes
His eyebrows furrow at your antics, as he observes how you squirm, half convinced that you are sick. "You're acting strange today," he murmurs.
Oh Nanami. Poor, sweet, innocent Nanami, so unaware of your agony.
You inhale shakily at the pressure of his hand on your jaw, just a little lower, your neck is right there--
"Time out!" you yell, startling Kento, who just drops his hand away like you wounded him. For a moment, you feel nothing but remorse, but you can't trust yourself around him yet. So, you take the most logical step there is: standing facing the wall in a time-out.
Kento can only look at you, baffled, confused, slightly terrified. "Sweetheart, what is wrong?"
"Don't!" You gasp out, "I am...I am ovulating, and it's bad. I can't--I can't control my thoughts right now, and you're not helping!"
He blinks at that. Once, twice, before walking over to you. "Baby, look at me."
"No."
"Sweetheart, please," he coos, and you peer over your shoulder, begrudgingly, before looking at him, flustered, albeit mortified.
Nanami can't help but smile fondly at your skittish mannerisms now that he knows what's going on. "You could have just told me," he whispers.
"I didn't want to sound needy," you say with a deep sigh, to which he just chuckled.
"I don't mind needy," he utters out, "I like needy, and I'm always more than willing to be there for you, especially when you need me."
It's as though a switch fuses in your brain, wires short-circuiting with sparks all over as you grab him by the hem of his sweatshirt and pull him in for a kiss. It's hurried and shaky, but he's steady, his arms grip your waist tightly, his shoulders are wide enough for you to wrap your arms around, you are so fucked.
You part, panting, forehead resting agaisnt his. "Bedroom. Now."
𐙚 ‧₊˚ where you put yourself in a time-out when your thoughts are a bit too freaky around kento when ovulating
cw! suggestive content
You are definitely losing your mind. Anyone would be, if they were greeted with a sight like that, straight out of a woman's wet dreams-- Nanami Kento, cooking so dextrously.
The sleeves of his sweatshirt rolled up, his back flexing with his movements, his waist adorned with that little pink apron. It's not visible, but you know it, it reads 'Sexiest chef ever' in pretty cursive font. You bought it just for whimsies, but now it's become a staple in your household, and when Nanami wears it, the words surely seem like an appropriate tagline.
You remove your shoes and jacket and pad onto the floor, silently hugging him from behind, to which he just breathes out fondly.
"Welcome home," He murmurs, stirring the vegetables in the pan. It smells good, but he smells better. Pine and myrrh are clean, sharp, sophisticated, just like him.
You can't help but press your cheek against his back as you observe him cook. Your eyes trail to his forearms, gripping the spatula, and you can't help but notice all over again--
Kento has great forearms. His skin is smooth, well-moisturised, and clean-smelling, marred with occasional scars from his years as a Jujutsu sorcerer. The surface of his forearms is well-circulated, with veins running their expanse; they pop out when he's exercising, when he's thinking, or when he's frustrated from his job or cooking — they are extenuated by strain. They are also extenuated when his fingers find ways to please you, other than cooking — muscles flexed, chiselled, sharp; veins taut (you think you might as well be a mosquito with how much you obsessed over them)
Kento also has a great back. Broad, sharp, reliable. His shoulders are wide enough for you to rest your head so comfortably on them while napping, perfect to wrap your arms around when you hug him. But his shoulders are also perfect to rest your thighs on, broad enough to have you on him, comfortably. And his back, an exquisite canvas for your newly manicured nails, would come with his back seared with red, streaky marks bedecking his olive skin; they looked borderline painful, but he'd always smile and say they felt like nothing.
"What are you thinking about?" He asks, breaking your reverie as he switches off the stove and turns over to look at you.
"Nothing," you say too quickly, your cheeks heating up terribly. "You are home early today."
Kento hums, with a soft smile, caressing your face as your arms stay wrapped around him. "Work ended early, thought I'd make you something good." His thumb runs over your cheek before pausing. "Your cheeks are so flushed compared to the rest of your face. Was it too cold outside?" He asks so earnestly, and you can't help but curse yourself for being so weird when he's so damn sweet.
"It's nothing," you grumble out, jittery at the warmth of his beautiful brown eyes
His eyebrows furrow at your antics, as he observes how you squirm, half convinced that you are sick. "You're acting strange today," he murmurs.
Oh Nanami. Poor, sweet, innocent Nanami, so unaware of your agony.
You inhale shakily at the pressure of his hand on your jaw, just a little lower, your neck is right there--
"Time out!" you yell, startling Kento, who just drops his hand away like you wounded him. For a moment, you feel nothing but remorse, but you can't trust yourself around him yet. So, you take the most logical step there is: standing facing the wall in a time-out.
Kento can only look at you, baffled, confused, slightly terrified. "Sweetheart, what is wrong?"
"Don't!" You gasp out, "I am...I am ovulating, and it's bad. I can't--I can't control my thoughts right now, and you're not helping!"
He blinks at that. Once, twice, before walking over to you. "Baby, look at me."
"No."
"Sweetheart, please," he coos, and you peer over your shoulder, begrudgingly, before looking at him, flustered, albeit mortified.
Nanami can't help but smile fondly at your skittish mannerisms now that he knows what's going on. "You could have just told me," he whispers.
"I didn't want to sound needy," you say with a deep sigh, to which he just chuckled.
"I don't mind needy," he utters out, "I like needy, and I'm always more than willing to be there for you, especially when you need me."
It's as though a switch fuses in your brain, wires short-circuiting with sparks all over as you grab him by the hem of his sweatshirt and pull him in for a kiss. It's hurried and shaky, but he's steady, his arms grip your waist tightly, his shoulders are wide enough for you to wrap your arms around, you are so fucked.
You part, panting, forehead resting agaisnt his. "Bedroom. Now."
