Blood pooled beneath him—warm, thick, and still.
The storm screamed above, shaking the crimson-stained trees like ghosts in mourning.
He was nineteen. Still a boy.
Barely clinging to breath as ash—gray like his tired eyes—fell softly over the ruined field, fading like a dream you're not sure you had.
His last sight before the blade pierced his skull—through his left eye—was a cascade of red petals drifting down with the rain.
Beautiful.
Cruel.
Too still for a world in flames.
They felt like an apology he hadn't asked for. A final whisper from something that had haunted him forever.
Then—silence.
No thunder. No pain.
Only the quiet. Dense. Endless.
A life extinguished.
A cycle reborn.
Leonard shot up in bed, gasping. The mattress groaned under his weight. Sweat ran cold down his back.
Dawn bled through the blinds, cutting gold lines across his skin.
"What the hell was that?" he whispered, voice frayed at the edges. "Another nightmare? Great. Just what I needed."
His hands slid over his face. No wound. No blood. Just the bitter aftertaste of fear.
"Maybe I can still get some sleep..." he muttered, though he didn't believe it.
Beside the bed, a cracked phone buzzed to life.
6:43 a.m.
Time, as always, showed no mercy.
Leonard climbed out of bed carefully, not waking his younger brothers.
Calli murmured something in his sleep. James snored, sprawled across his blanket like a starfish.
The hallway was short and cold, painted in a faded sky-blue. A faint hum echoed from the old heater inside the walls.
"Still broken?" Leonard whispered. "Figures. Coldest winter in ten years and this thing picks now to die."
The bathroom door hung slightly open. He slipped inside.
Small. Dim. Functional.
A chipped mirror. A cracked sink. A rusted pipe that sputtered brown water before clearing.
It smelled like wet metal and cheap soap.
"Disgusting…"
He stepped under the hot stream. It burned, but at least it felt real.
The water did nothing for the heaviness clinging to him.
"I'm so damn tired... Haven't slept right in a week."
When he dried off, he stood in front of the mirror.
His reflection stared back—black hair clinging to his face, skin pale, gray eyes too alert for someone so hollow.
Then—blood.
Sliding down his chest. Slow. Vivid.
He blinked. Looked down.
Nothing.
Just his skin.
He swallowed hard. "Okay. That's new."
He didn't mention it to anyone.
Not Calli. Not James. Not even himself again.
Leonard dressed quickly: scuffed brown boots, a faded red shirt with a white azalea emblem, worn pants, and a frayed crimson scarf older than any of them.
Downstairs, he passed a row of dusty photo frames.
"Heading out now, Grandma..." he whispered, without looking at them.
Outside, frost gnawed at the pavement. Snow clung to rooftops like a warning. The streets were quiet—just the sound of his boots crunching the ice.
Storefronts flickered to life one by one. In a furniture shop window, the TV blared the morning news.
"A new investigation unit has been formed in Ottawa, dedicated to unexplained phenomena..."
Leonard rolled his eyes.
"More scams. Paranormal cases? What a joke."
He walked faster. Passed the Blackthorn Bakery.
Something about that place always made his stomach twist. He didn't know why.
Then—familiar light.
CENTRAL OF KNOWLEDGE
Library & Bookstore
Home.
The bell above the door chimed softly.
Dust. Paper. Quiet. The scent of memory.
At the front desk, Theo scribbled something into his notebook.
Liam—Leonard's best friend—booted up the old computer.
"Morning, guys," Leonard said, still shaking off sleep.
"Morning, Leo," Liam replied. "Rough night?"
"You could say that."
"You're on used books today. Big haul came in last night. After that, help Emma and Aria at the front."
"Yeah, okay."
Leonard tied on his apron. Tucked a pen and notepad into the front pocket.
The store stretched quiet behind him, aisles winding like roots.
He headed toward the back—
Beyond the aisles, where dust whispered secrets and silence held forgotten stories — something waited. And it was watching.