My mother stiffened, her fingers tightening around the edge of my bed. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the wooden frame, her body visibly tensing. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice brittle as dry leaves. Her eyes darted toward Savienne, searching for something, anything, that might soften the blow of what she had just heard. "We can't just—"
"What do you mean, Savienne?" My father's voice thundered over hers, cutting through the tense air like a blade. He stepped forward, his towering frame dominating the small hospital room. His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had gone pale. "You can't drop a bomb like that and expect us to just accept it!" His voice cracked with fury, but there was something else—something raw—lurking beneath the surface. Fear?
Savienne didn't flinch. She turned to face him fully, her silver hair catching the harsh fluorescent light. Her steely gaze bore into his, unyielding. "She's been marked," she said, her tone sharp and matter-of-fact. "What I did just now? Temporary. A patch to keep them off her scent. If you stay in your home, they'll find you. And if they find you…" Her voice trailed off, leaving the unspoken words to suffocate the room.
My father's face darkened further. "So that's it?" he barked. "We uproot our lives—again—because of your mess?" His voice was a whip, lashing out with every syllable. He jabbed a trembling finger at her, his anger barely held in check. "This is your fault, Savienne. All of it."
I flinched, my father's words slicing through the air like a shard of glass. He was always the calm one, the rock our family leaned on. Seeing him unravel like this sent a shiver down my spine. The knot of fear that had been growing in my stomach tightened until it was a solid mass.
Savienne's gaze didn't waver. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she shot back, "You think I wanted this? That I planned for this to happen?" Her voice was low, but the razor-sharp edge in it left no room for misunderstanding. "You have no idea what I've sacrificed to keep her safe."
I finally found my voice, though it was weak and unsteady. "What do you mean?" I croaked, looking from one to the other. "What are you talking about?"
Neither of them answered. They didn't even acknowledge me. The weight of their silence pressed down on me, hot and stifling.
"Enough."
The single word cut through the tension like a knife. Harold stepped forward, his crimson eyes glowing faintly under the fluorescent lights. His white hair seemed to gleam, adding to the ethereal quality of his presence. He placed a firm hand on my father's shoulder. "We're all on edge," he said, his voice even and calm. "Let's take a step back. She needs rest. We'll discuss this later—when we've all calmed down."
For a moment, I thought my father would explode. His jaw worked furiously, and his fists flexed as if he were still holding onto his anger. Then, finally, he gave a curt nod and stepped back, his shoulders slumping as the tension drained from him.
My mother lingered, her gaze softening as she looked at me. She ran her hand gently over my hair, her touch warm but hesitant. "Rest, Anne," she murmured, her voice breaking slightly. Then, with visible reluctance, she followed the others out.
The door clicked shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I curled up on the bed, pulling the scratchy blanket tightly around me. My mind raced, replaying their words over and over. Marked? A patch? What did it mean? What weren't they telling me? My thoughts spiraled, and exhaustion eventually dragged me into a restless sleep.
When I woke, the room was bathed in silvery light. The moon hung high in the sky, casting an eerie glow over everything. The rhythmic drip of the IV beside me was the only sound, steady and unchanging.
I shivered as a cold breeze swept across my skin. My gaze darted to the window. It was open, the sheer curtains billowing in the wind.
Frowning, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the cold tile stung my bare feet. The chill in the air was unsettling, like a warning I couldn't quite place.
As I reached for the window, a voice stopped me in my tracks.
"Truths are hard to find."
I froze, my breath hitching in my throat. The voice was soft but clear, and it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
"Who's there?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
The air shifted, and a figure emerged from the shadows. She wore a Victorian-style dress, her chestnut curls tied back with a delicate ribbon. Her eyes, gleaming with an otherworldly light, locked onto mine.
"I may not have the answers you seek," she said, her voice melodic and haunting. "But I can guide you to them."
"Guide me where?" I stammered, taking a shaky step back. "Who are you?"
She smiled faintly, her expression both kind and distant. "Meet me in the heart of the forest," she said, her voice a whisper that lingered in the air. "When the clock has the right angle."
"What does that even mean?" I asked, but she was already fading, her form dissolving into the shadows. The scent of lavender lingered in her wake.
Morning came, and the soft rays of sunlight spilled into the room, pulling me from my uneasy sleep. I glanced at the IV stand beside me. It was empty now, the faint sting in my arm a reminder of its recent presence. My chest felt heavy with questions, but there was no time to linger on them. We were leaving for Harold's house.
The drive was quiet, punctuated only by the hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel beneath the tires. For the first time, I paid attention to the scenery of this unfamiliar place—a world that felt pulled from the pages of a book I had never read.
The urban sprawl gave way to vast, open fields. The farther we drove, the fewer houses we saw. Soon, the landscape transformed entirely, replaced by clusters of tall trees that reached for the sky like ancient sentinels. The air here felt cleaner, tinged with the scent of earth and leaves.
We passed a narrow road lined with Salinggogon trees, their champagne blush leaves drifting lazily to the ground like confetti. The sight was mesmerizing, almost surreal.
"We're walking from here," my mother announced softly as the car rolled to a stop.
I stepped out, the cool air brushing against my face. Ahead of us was a small wooden bridge, arching over a gentle stream. The sound of the water was soothing, like a melody that nature had composed just for this moment.
My parents led the way, their movements deliberate, as if they had walked this path many times before. I trailed behind, my gaze darting to every detail—the weathered boards of the bridge, the glittering water below, and the towering trees that framed the path like a cathedral.
As we approached the gate of Harold's house, I felt a sense of foreboding and anticipation. The gate itself was old, wrought iron with a pattern of intricate vines that looked like they could spring to life at any moment. Beyond it was a modest house with a charm that seemed both welcoming and mysterious.
The front door opened before we could knock, and out stepped a woman who looked to be in her late thirties. Her long, straight ash-gray hair shimmered faintly in the sunlight, perfectly matching her piercing gray eyes. Her skin was pale but radiant, as if she had been carved from moonlight. Beside her stood Harold, my three siblings, and Dale, his ever-serious expression unchanged.
Harold gestured toward the woman. "This is Eli, my wife."
Before I could respond, Eli crossed the threshold and wrapped me in a warm, firm hug. Her presence was soothing, like a gentle tide washing over jagged rocks. "You've been through so much," she said softly, her voice carrying a maternal warmth. "We're glad you're here."
She pulled back, her eyes searching mine for a moment before she turned to Dale. "Take her to the back," she said. "Let her breathe. She needs it."
I noticed then that my siblings and parents were already moving toward another part of the house, their steps purposeful. It was as though they had rehearsed what to do, each action choreographed and deliberate.
Dale led me to the back garden, his steps measured but silent. The garden was small but serene, bordered by vibrant flowers and shaded by a canopy of trees. In the center was a square opening in the ground, where a staircase spiraled down to the river below.
"Sit," Dale said, gesturing to a set of wrought iron chairs and a table near the opening.
I lowered myself onto one of the chairs, my fingers brushing the cool metal. Dale sat across from me, his usual stoicism softened by a faint air of concern.
"They thought you might need fresh air and a little peace," he said after a moment.
I tilted my head, studying him. "And you? Do you think that?"
He hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the river. "I think you've seen enough chaos for now."
I crossed my arms, leaning back slightly. "That's vague."
"You've been through a lot," he continued, his tone careful.
"Thank you," I said, my voice dry as I turned my gaze toward the river. The sun was beginning to set, its fiery hues reflecting off the water. The sight was beautiful, but it did little to calm the storm brewing inside me.
The silence stretched, and I couldn't take it anymore. "What really happened on the train?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. I kept my eyes on the sunset, refusing to look at him.
Dale exhaled softly, as though he had been waiting for the question. "Those cloaked figures you saw?" he began. "They weren't after you. Their target was me."
I turned to him sharply, my eyebrows knitting together. "What? Why?"
"It's complicated," he said, leaning forward slightly. "Let's just say they had their reasons. You being there was… unfortunate timing."
"Unfortunate timing?" I echoed, my voice rising. "You're saying I got dragged into this mess by accident?"
Dale nodded, unflinching. "That's why I had to act quickly. I put you to sleep so I could handle them. I fought them off and brought you back to class before anyone else could notice."
I stared at him, my mind whirling. His tone was so casual, as if he were recounting a mundane errand rather than a life-or-death confrontation.
"Why are you telling me this so easily?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "Shouldn't this be some big, guarded secret?"
He shrugged. "You've already seen things most people wouldn't believe. Why make it harder to understand?"
A laugh bubbled up, surprising even me. It was brief and tinged with bitterness. "Fair point," I said. Then, I asked like it was part of natural conversation, "What does it mean to meet someone in the heart of the forest when the clock has the right angle?" Well, I realized instead of agonizing the answer, I should make use of the people around me.
Dale's eyes narrowed slightly. "Who told you that?"
I hesitated, then lied. "I read it on a sign while we were driving here. Thought it was strange."
His lips pressed into a thin line. "If my guess is right," he said slowly, "it means you're supposed to meet someone in the forest at 3 p.m."