Ten years later.
Time is running out.
Rain pelted the empty street in relentless torrents, soaking through my jacket and drumming against the worn canvas of my hood like the ticking of a clock that no longer cared for mercy. I stood just outside the glass doors of the recruitment building, hands shoved deep into the pockets of my thin jacket, every breath fogging into a ghost in the icy air. Night had fallen, and with it came a bitter, creeping cold that felt less like weather and more like judgment.
Everything I owned was stuffed into a canvas bag slung across my shoulder, weighing me down as though each item was a memory I had no choice but to carry. The rain didn't bother me anymore. Nor did the stares from strangers or the whispers I caught when I turned my back.
My focus was on the door. The wooden panel that separated me from a sliver of hope—the kind that, after everything I'd endured, felt like a cruel joke.
Inside, I could see shadows moving, hear muffled voices, feel the pulse of decisions being made. Conversations, laughter. None of it included me.
I shifted my weight from one boot to the other. The soles, already worn thin, squelched with rainwater. My right eye stung from a mix of wind and old tears. Or maybe it was just the weight of knowing that everything hinged on a single name being called.
Mine.
"Rose."
That name meant everything once. Before the fire. Before the betrayal. Before I became the ghost of the person people now whispered about.
Today was supposed to be the day I took my life back.
The door opened with a loud creak, and a young woman stepped out. She was neat, dry, confident. Her presence filled the silence around her like a bright, unwanted light. She held a clipboard, and as she scanned the crowd, her lips curled into a professional smile.
"All right, everyone, I'm going to read out the names now. If your name is called, please step forward and stand to my right."
Nods. Agreement. Anticipation. Everyone obeyed.
Everyone but me.
I stood still, eyes locked on her face, praying. Hoping. Pleading.
This was it.
She began reading.
One name. Then another. And another.
With each word, my heart slammed harder against my ribcage. Every name that wasn't mine felt like a fist to the chest.
Still, I waited.
I refused to cry. Not here. Not again.
They were all moving now, standing in line, some grinning, some wiping relieved tears. I was the only one left behind.
No.
"Excuse me?" I called out, my voice cracking with disbelief. "Pardon me?"
The woman looked at me like I had spat in her coffee. She adjusted her clipboard and raised an eyebrow.
"Yes?"
"My interview went extremely well," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I was told I was the top candidate. So why wasn't my name called?"
She didn't answer immediately. She just stared at me, her jaw tight.
"Rose," she said, slowly, deliberately. "You know who you are. Have mercy on us and leave. We were kind enough to let you into this building. We had no idea you were that Rose. You've made headlines. We don't want trouble."
News. Headlines.
I was a living rumor, a walking scandal. I wasn't a woman. I was a warning.
The sting of rejection didn't surprise me anymore. I had grown used to it. The ache, the burn in my chest, the numbness that followed—it was routine. But that didn't make it any easier.
I didn't say another word. I didn't have to. I grabbed my bag, turned on my heel, and walked out into the rain.
The bus had already left.
The last one.
Fifteen kilometers stood between me and my makeshift home. My jacket clung to my skin like paper, useless against the downpour. I pulled it tighter around me anyway, walking with slow, heavy steps, head down.
My boots squished with every step, letting in water through seams I had stitched too many times. My stomach growled so loudly that I feared it would attract animals. I hadn't eaten since Tuesday. It was now Friday.
Music played in my mind—not real music, but a symphony of memory and madness, composed of thunderclaps, whispers, and screams from a decade ago.
Ten years since that night.
Ten years since I became a pariah.
My parents were gone. Dad, either dead or vanished. Mom had remarried and left me in the ashes of her old life like an unwanted diary entry. No one took my side. Not then. Not now.
I walked.
Past shuttered houses, past parked cars and flickering streetlights, into the woods where my house stood alone. A forgotten place. An abandoned cottage covered in moss and rot, with trees towering over it like silent judges.
Graffiti greeted me. The word "SLUT" sprayed across my broken gate in crude black letters.
Of course.
Let them call me names. Witch. Slut. Liar. I carried them all.
My house was barely livable. The plaster walls were cracked and leaking. The windows were broken. Trash piled up outside where others dumped what they didn't want. But inside, I had tried to make it mine. A tattered curtain. Some patched-up furniture. A table. A bed that sagged in the middle like my spirit.
When I stepped inside, I exhaled.
Then I gagged.
The stench of vomit was everywhere. Not from me—I hadn't eaten enough to throw up. But the house had a way of smelling like pain. Like decay. Like sorrow pressed into the floorboards.
I laughed.
I actually laughed.
A smell-less rose, ruined by a scent she couldn't control.
I didn't even have time to change before a knock shattered the silence.
I froze.
No one knocked on my door. Ever.
Fear surged through me.
What if it was him? What if someone had come to finish what was started ten years ago?
I had no knife. No defense.
"Who is it?" I asked.
A pause.
"I'm here, child."
Father Anthony.
Relief flooded me. I opened the door, and there he stood—wet, but composed. Behind him, to my surprise, stood Mother Kerry.
"Come in," I whispered, stepping aside.
They entered. The room seemed smaller with them inside, their presence heavier than the storm outside.
"How was the interview?" he asked.
I buried my face in my hands. No need to answer.
"Don't worry, child. One day the truth will rise. People will see."
I nodded, but something was different. He was different. Distant. Almost afraid.
Mother Kerry hadn't said a word. Her eyes never met mine.
Then his tone shifted.
"When was the last time you ate?"
"Umm..."
"Truth."
"Tuesday."
They both inhaled sharply.
Tears welled in my eyes. I hated it. I hated their pity. Hated how small it made me feel.
"I'll send you something," Father Anthony said, standing and heading toward the door. Kerry followed. They didn't notice I was still listening.
"Why don't you just tell her, Father?" she whispered. "Tell her the truth."
"I can't," he replied. "She looks so lost. So broken. I can't bring myself to do it."
"But she's a risk. People threatened us today. We could lose everything."
"We can't abandon her. We're all she has."
"What about Bella? That poor girl suffered because of her. Now it's happening again. Rose needs to be gone. What if... what if what they say about her is true?"
Silence.
Cold silence.
And just like that, the last shred of safety inside me shattered.
Even they think I'm a monster.
Even they—my only family left—want me gone.
I closed the door without a sound and slid down to the floor.
I pressed my hands to my ears, but I could still hear them. Still hear everything.
They think I'm the problem.
They think I'm dangerous.
The witch returns.