“…You know,” Silvestia said softly, her periwinkle eyes glowing with affection, “I’ve always wanted a little sister.”
Fay turned to her, wide-eyed. “Silvie?”
“…I know I’ve said it a thousand times, but I truly mean it—thank you. For everything you’ve done for me… for all of us. You’ve brought our family back together.”
Her voice trembled with emotion. “…There was a time I thought I’d never see my parents’ smile again. When I was sick and bedridden, it tore me apart seeing how much pain I caused them. I used to pray to Goddess Seraphina every night, asking her to take my life if it meant freeing them from that suffering.”
“…Silvie—” Fay began, frowning gently.
But Silvestia cut in, her voice brighter this time. “But instead of taking me, she gave us you. You’re like… the sticky rice that holds us all together.”
Fay blinked. “…Sticky rice?”
Fay pressed her lips into a thin line, turning the thought over in her mind. As much as the idea of Haxks falling for someone else tore at her heart, she couldn’t ignore the unusual circumstances that defined her very being.
Besides, even if by some miracle she found the courage to confess her feelings, the world was vast—and Haxks could be anywhere in it by now. But there was one thing that was within her reach, one thing she could pursue right here and now, and that was—
“I want to do something special for Mr. Zurrel and Mrs. Lefahne,” she said, her grip on the fishing rod tightening with determination. “You know… as a thank you for everything they’ve done for me.”
Silvestia’s face lit up, her smile radiant. “Well, we’re in the perfect place for that! Mom and Dad love seafood, and if we can catch a catfish—which just so happens to be their favorite—we can make them their favorite dish. And of course, I’ll be here to help!”
“Really?!” Fay’s eyes sparkled with excitement, her voice filled with hope.
“Absolutely!” Silvestia grinned, her expression mischievous. “What’s a big sister for, right?”
Fay’s smile grew even brighter. “Thank you!”
Both girls refocused on the canal, attuning themselves to even the slightest vibration on their fishing poles. But as Silvestia’s concentration deepened, she felt herself slipping into a familiar world.
However, unlike before, the fractured aesthetics she had come to recognize had subtly shifted, leaving behind a more defined and cohesive scenery.
The landscape around Silvestia wasn’t as fragmented as it once was, nor was it cloaked entirely in black and white. Now, patches of color sporadically punctuated the otherwise monochromatic void, breathing life into the scene.
Her focus was quickly ushered toward a familiar apothecary. The echoes of a kind-hearted vendor emerged—a woman known for her generosity, one who frequently rotated her purchases of potions and remedies from different apothecaries to support each of them.
But even those who dedicated themselves to healing were not immune to illness.
The woman had sought help from the apothecary, but like Carl, her health steadily deteriorated instead of improving. Eventually, she became bedridden.
In her concern, Silvestia’s past self had decided to visit, bringing porridge and medicine to offer comfort. However, when she approached the woman’s dwelling, she froze behind a tree upon seeing her being coerced into buying something from a shady figure clad in a travel-worn cloak.
Then, as though the eerie transaction was the unfortunate catalyst, the woman eventually withered away and succumbed to an illness that, by all accounts, should have been easily treatable.
After the incident, time became disjointed, its flow fractured as Silvestia’s past self grew more curious and suspicious. She became relentless in her efforts to spy on the apothecary, carefully monitoring their every move.
One day, a wealthy political figure entered what Silvestia had come to view as the siren’s lair. Her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and intrigue as she eavesdropped on the conversation.
The man, clearly desperate, confessed to the apothecary that his bedroom troubles were causing strife in his marriage, and his wife’s growing frustration had pushed him to seek help. He demanded a supplement to enhance his libido and performance.
But instead of the relief he sought, what he received was a path to ruin. In time, he found himself divorced, stripped of his wealth, and left to languish. Just like the others, he was being periodically visited by the shadowy figure in the travel-worn cloak. Over time, his health deteriorated and he met a tragic end—drained, miserable, and utterly alone.
After considerable investigation, Silvestia uncovered a chilling pattern: a significant number of customers who entered the siren’s lair were inevitably approached by the shady dealer. And the outcome was nearly always the same—those who didn’t stop to seek aid and kept buying instead eventually met their end.
Unfortunately for Silvestia, the consequences of drawing such a conclusion was—
Gasp!
She ducked instinctively the moment the man’s eyes met hers through the window, a sharp shiver running down her spine. He had glanced up from his customer and their gazes locked.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Her heart throbbed erratically in her chest as she braced against the wall, her breaths ragged, her eyes wide with panic.
Terrified, she used the cover of night to hurry home. The darkness had never felt so suffocating.
Later, Silvestia lay in bed, rigid beneath the covers, her breath shallow and quick. The air was thick, almost solid, pressing down on her chest.
Every shadow in her room writhed and twisted, shapes morphing like lurking beasts waiting to pounce. The curtains trembled despite the still night, and the branches outside scraped against the glass like claws testing their way in.
And then there were the eyes.
Through the window, a pair of exasperated, burning eyes drilled into her soul—emotionless yet brimming with a dark promise. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
It felt as if the mere act of acknowledging them would make them real thus sealing her fate. But after what felt like an eternity, they vanished, swallowed by the night.
With her frayed nerves slowly unwinding, drowsiness eventually came. Her eyelids fluttered, her grip on consciousness slipping. In time, the heavy pull of sleep claimed her.
And that was when the evil struck.
She awoke with a start, but it was already too late.
A shadow loomed over her, its form indistinct yet foreboding as if the darkness itself had solidified into something malevolent.
Cold hands pinned her down. Her scream was muffled by a clammy palm pressing over her lips, silencing her terror. Her limbs flailed, but her struggles were meaningless—her captor was too strong.
Then something bitter and acrid was forced into her mouth. She choked, convulsing as the vile liquid burned its way down her throat. It was thick, searing, as though liquid metal had been poured into her veins.
A violent shudder wracked her body, and she could feel it—feel it creeping into every fiber of her being, seeping into her blood, slithering through her like a living curse.
The poison didn’t just burn; it changed her.
It awakened something inside her—something buried deep, something dormant. A hereditary affliction now roused by the venom coursing through her.
Pain exploded in her chest, her organs seizing as if they were being wrung dry. Her heartbeat faltered, erratic and weak. Every nerve in her body caught fire, her veins turning into searing conduits of agony. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps.
Her vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges. The shadow above her remained unmoving, watching, waiting.
Her fingers twitched. Her body spasmed.
And then, the abyss swallowed her whole.