Away from the noise of the city there is a place So silent that you can only hear the wind... stirring up memories A twenty-year-old girl steps She was walking, and every step embodied an old memory of hers, but... the ashes covered those memories
Every step she takes is an embodiment of her childhood
The wooden door creaked open with a slow, painful groan, as if the house itself wasn't ready to let her back in.
Dust swirled in the air, dancing like faded memories. The scent of old wood and something faintly sweet—like dried herbs—hung heavy in the room.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
She stepped inside.
Leana didn't remember this place clearly, but something about the crooked hallway and the pale curtains tugged at the back of her mind. The house felt like it was holding its breath.
The woman who raised her—old Yumna—used to sit in that wooden chair by the fireplace, humming songs no one else knew. That chair was still there, worn and hollowed by time.
She walked slowly, her boots echoing gently on the creaking floor. A cold draft brushed her ankles. Her fingers traced the chipped paint on the wall, and suddenly…
A whisper. Not out loud—but inside her. A tug in her chest.
She followed it.
Behind a dusty shelf in the bedroom, a part of the wooden floor looked… wrong. Not newer. Not older. Just disturbed.
She knelt.
The floorboard came loose with a soft click, and underneath—wrapped in a thin, yellowed cloth—was a small wooden box.
She froze.
She had seen this box before.
But when?
Her hands were almost trembling as she pulled it out and set it on the bed.
It smelled like lavender. The same scent Yumna always wore.
She opened it.
Inside:
A pair of tiny red shoes, no bigger than her palm.
A small bracelet with beads spelling her name: L-E-A-N-A
A folded piece of paper.
And a photograph. Old. Blurry. Three children standing in front of the village tree.
One of them looked like her. The others… shadows.
She picked up the bracelet and stared. Her fingers remembered the texture before her brain did.
The note was written in a shaky hand:
> "She doesn't remember. That's good.
But if she asks—tell her the fire was just an accident."
Her throat tightened.
Accident?
She turned the photo over. There was a date:
August 13, 2008.
The day of the fire.
Her hand dropped to her side. She sat on the bed, staring ahead. The fog outside pressed against the windows like it wanted to come in.
She whispered to herself:
"Why would she keep this?"
And somewhere… deep in the house…
A floorboard creaked.
She wasn't alone.
She was scared and remained still in her place, holding her breath and...
We go outside for a bit
The sky was gray when Elias stepped onto the gravel path.
His boots crunched softly against the stones as he walked, his coat fluttering behind him in the wind.
He didn't rush.
Didn't look around.
He walked like someone who already knew where the road led.
The trees lining the edge of the village were bare, twisted, and reaching—like frozen fingers trying to catch something that was no longer there.
He paused near an old sign, half-covered in moss.
It read: "Welcome to Aradeth."
He touched the wood with the back of his hand, then pulled away quickly… as if it burned.
A soft whisper drifted past his ear—just wind.
But his eyes narrowed.
He walked deeper into the village.
The buildings were silent, windows dark. Some houses stood straight. Others leaned like they were tired of standing.
He stopped in front of one.
A plain house, with peeling paint and a cracked porch.
But Elias looked at it like it meant something.
His voice was low. Just a whisper.
"…Still standing."
A flash—a memory not quite full:
A little boy hiding under that porch.
A scream. Fire.
And someone grabbing his hand, saying Run, Elias, run.
He clenched his fists.
A dog barked somewhere far away, pulling him back.
He moved on, his breath clouding in the cold air.
He didn't knock on doors.
Didn't ask questions.
He just… waited.
At sunset, he sat by the old well in the center of the village.
Took a silver flask from his coat. Drank.
And whispered to himself:
"They said no one survived.
But someone lied."
His fingers traced a burn mark on his palm.
And his eyes looked up toward the forest.
Toward the past
It has a sequel...