Two weeks.
That was all it took.
In just fourteen days, Hawthorne had changed beyond recognition.
The sidewalks were quieter. Markets half-closed. Children no longer played in the squares after school. People spoke in whispers, if at all. The once-cheerful buzz of the town had dimmed to a fearful hush. Even the birds had gone quiet.
But worst of all were the empty chairs.
Mira's home was overrun now. Not with chaos—but with stillness. Her sitting room had been converted into a makeshift infirmary. Five patients lay in silence, their breathing shallow, their eyes flickering behind shut lids. Each day, Mira took their pulse, changed their damp cloths, brewed new tonics—none of which helped. Not really.
Elora moved among them with soft steps, her hands clasped tight behind her back. She couldn't bring herself to touch them again. Not after what Mira had told her. If she used healing magic, it would mask the rot—hide the symptoms for a day or two—and then return with even greater cruelty.
Ashbreath did not want to be healed.
It wanted to mock the effort.
They had tried everything: cleansing potions, binding rituals, ancient symbols stitched in herb-dyed thread. Nothing worked. The rot was invisible and patient.
It fed on hope.
"Still no changes?" Elora asked as she helped Mira stack fresh linen.
Mira shook her head. Her eyes were shadowed with sleeplessness. "No better. No worse. It's like they're dreaming in reverse. Slipping further into something they can't escape."
Elora glanced at the youngest patient, a girl no older than ten. "She was talking yesterday. Not clearly, but... words."
"Names, places, colors," Mira said. "Like they're trying to anchor themselves."
Elora hesitated. "What if we're just waiting for them to die?"
Mira's hand tightened on the basket she held. "We don't say that. Not yet."
Outside, the wind moved sluggishly through the trees. Even the leaves seemed reluctant to fall.
Later that afternoon, Elora ventured into town.
She needed to see it herself.
What she found was worse than expected.
The pharmacy had a line curling around the block, mostly families with children, all wearing handkerchiefs over their mouths. A local pastor stood near the fountain, preaching loudly about cleansing the soul. The grocery store had a sign: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
At the far end of Main Street, two men argued about whether to evacuate.
"It's only the humans," one snapped. "Why should we leave?"
"They're part of this town too."
"They're not from the founding lines. Let nature take its course." one of the men sneered
Elora turned away, disgust tightening her throat.
So that was how they saw it.
The founding families—Knights, Winters, Ashwoods, Barneses—they weren't panicking. They just organized aid. They were watching. Distant. Disinterested. Like the suffering didn't matter as long as it didn't reach them.
She passed a newsstand plastered with a new flyer:
UNEXPLAINED NEUROLOGICAL OUTBREAK
SYMPTOMS: MEMORY LAPSE, DISORIENTATION, VOCAL PARALYSIS
STAY INDOORS. AVOID NON-ESSENTIAL CONTACT.
Elora crumpled the edge of the flyer in her hand.
None of it was enough.
Because no one knew what they were really facing.
And no one wanted to listen
___________________
It was past sunset when the knock came.
Three slow raps against the front door.
Mira didn't move. She stood at the far end of the room, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of bitterroot tea, her face tight with exhaustion and dread. The knock came again, louder this time.
Elora opened it.
A young boy stood outside—no older than twelve, his face pale and eyes red.
"Elora?" he asked in a brittle voice.
She knelt down. "Yes?"
"You helped my sister," he said. "Mara. A few weeks ago. She got sick again." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "They said… she didn't wake up.
The words took a moment to land.
Then they crushed her.
Elora's heart stilled. "She's… gone?"
The boy nodded once, then held out a bundle of flowers. "She liked green things. I thought… you should have these."
Mira moved at last, stepping forward to gently take the flowers from the boy's trembling hands.
"You were brave to come," she said softly. "Now go home. Be with your family."
He nodded and walked away, his small form swallowed by the night.
Elora stood frozen in the doorway.
Tears slid down her eyes and her heart burned in anguish
Mara.
Gone.
She had healed her. Just a spark of light. Just enough to bring her back. Mira had warned her the plague would return stronger. And it had.
Ashbreath hadn't just mocked their healing.
It had punished it.
Elora backed away from the door slowly and sank onto the edge of a chair. Her vision blurred.
"I killed her," she whispered.
If only she had listened
"No," Mira said quietly but firmly. "Ashbreath did. You tried to give her time. None of this is your fault."
But the words didn't soothe. They couldn't. Not when the air itself felt heavier. Angrier. The rot was spreading. The seal—if it even still existed—was failing.
Mara was dead, there was no taking back that.
______________
Later that night, Elora sat in the garden, wrapped in a shawl, staring blankly at the stars.
The flowers from the boy rested beside her—green and vibrant, even under the darkness.
Jessi.
The name echoed in her mind like a warning bell.
Elora stood abruptly and ran back inside.
"Mira," she called, "I need to check on Jessi."
Mira looked up from her notes. "She's fine. I saw her earlier today."
"What about her family? Her mother? Her little cousin?"
Mira hesitated. That pause told Elora everything.
"You haven't checked."
"Elora," Mira said gently, "you can't—"
"I have to." Her voice broke. "I can't lose anyone else."
Mira didn't stop her.
Elora arrived at Jessi's house in under ten minutes.
The lights were off in the living room. That wasn't like them. Jessi's house always buzzed with sound—TV, kitchen clatter, laughter, sometimes yelling.
She knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again.
Finally, the door opened a crack.
Jessi peered through, visibly relieved. "Elora!"
"I needed to check on you."
"Come in."
Inside, the house was quiet. Too quiet.
"My mom's in bed. She's been really tired. And my cousin... he's sick. Fever, sleep-talking. She thinks it's just a flu, but... I don't know. It's weird."
Elora stepped closer. "Don't let anyone touch him without gloves. No Meds. No charms. Just isolation."
Jessi frowned. "What's going on, Elora? Tell me the truth."
Elora met her eyes. "I can't but I want you to know that she'd be alright, okay J?"
Jessi gave Elora a trusting look and nodded