Suburbs Misty Oaks: 1922
The chipped paint of the grand staircase seemed to whisper secrets as Pecola Ennui, Seventeen and blind since infancy, navigated its worn steps with the practiced ease of a seasoned explorer. Her bare feet, calloused yet soft, padded silently against the aged wood. The mansion, once a testament to her family's opulent past, now creaked and groaned around her like a slumbering beast, its vast echoing halls filled with the dust of forgotten years and the whispers of untold stories. It was a labyrinth of shadows and silence, a fitting reflection of her solitary existence.
Sunlight, filtered through the grime-coated windows, cast elongated, dancing shadows that played tricks on the limited vision she did possess. Pecola didn't see in the way others did, but she saw in a way all her own – a subtle shift in temperature, the faintest change in air pressure, a whisper of scent on the breeze. This was her world, a world sculpted by the nuances of touch, sound, and smell, a world she knew intimately, its secrets etched onto her soul.
Her companion, Floof, a fluffy English sheep dog with mismatched eyes, padded softly at her heels, a furry shadow weaving through the intricate tapestry of the mansion's forgotten elegance. Floof was more than just a pet; he was her guide, her confidante, a silent observer of her world, a comforting presence in the grand, echoing emptiness.
"Careful there, little one," a deep, warm voice rumbled from the kitchen, startling Floof into a startled bark. Arnold, the mansion's chef, a jovial man with a booming laugh and a perpetually flour-dusted apron, emerged, a steaming bowl in his hands. "Soup's on, Mademoiselle Pecola."
Pecola smiled, her face illuminated by the warmth of Arnold's presence. "Thank you, Arnold," she replied, her voice soft yet clear. The aroma of the soup, a fragrant blend of herbs and vegetables, filled the air, a comforting presence in the often-austere atmosphere of the mansion. The rough wood of the kitchen table, scarred and worn smooth in places, felt cool beneath her fingertips. Pecola traced the grain with a fingernail, the rhythmic scratching a counterpoint to the insistent, joyful beat of Arnold's congas. He was a whirlwind of motion, a blur of flour-dusted apron and humming, his broad smile illuminated by the warm glow of the hanging pendant lamp.
"More garlic, my love?" he called out, his voice a vibrant tenor above the percussive rhythm. He didn't even look up from expertly dicing an onion, the blade flashing in the light.
Pecola shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "Perfect as it is." She tapped a steady rhythm on the table, a silent response to the congas, her fingers moving with a practiced ease.
Arnold chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "You're a better percussionist than you give yourself credit for, you know." He tossed a handful of herbs into the sizzling pan, the scent of oregano and basil filling the air. "That's a very convincing conga line you're conducting there."
Pecola laughed, a light, tinkling sound that chased away some of the mansion's inherent gloom. "Only when you're providing the music," she replied, her fingers still dancing on the wood. "Besides," she added, leaning forward conspiratorially, "I'm saving my energy for the dancing later."
He grinned, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling deeper. "Ah, yes. The tango. I've been practicing my dips." He winked, then returned to his cooking with a flourish, the congas continuing their vibrant beat, a joyful soundtrack to their silent conversation. The rhythmic clatter of his knife against the cutting board, the sizzling of the pan, and Pecola's subtle tapping combined to create a surprisingly harmonious symphony in the otherwise silent mansion.
One afternoon Pecola travels up the steps into one of the rooms of the mansion
"Floof, you coming?" Pecola called, her voice barely a whisper above the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams slanting through a grimy window.
Floof barked a sharp affirmative, tail thumping a staccato rhythm against the cracked flagstones. He watched, his head cocked, as Pecola, her hands outstretched, navigated the precarious stack of crates with an uncanny grace. One wrong move and the whole thing would come tumbling down, but she moved with the confidence of someone who knew the terrain intimately, despite her blindness.
Floof yipped, as a crate wobbled precariously.
Pecola chuckled, a soft, breathy sound. "I'm fine, old friend." She landed silently on the dusty bookshelf, sending a cloud of particles swirling around them. Floof darted around her legs, sniffing at a discarded slipper before settling with a contented sigh.
Pecola's fingers danced across the spines of the books, a silent ballet of exploration. She ran her hand along the raised lettering of one particularly thick volume, her brow furrowing in concentration. "Hmm," she murmured, "I think this one's about...alchemy? Or perhaps...cartography?"
She picked up a smaller book, its leather cover surprisingly soft beneath her fingertips. She brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. "Cinnamon," she whispered, a hint of wonder in her voice. "And... something else. Earthy. Like... damp soil?"
She opened the book, the pages rustling like dry leaves. "It's about herbs," she announced, turning pages slowly. "The Perennial Forest. But... it doesn't say much about the forest itself. Only the herbs. Strange." She traced a faded illustration of a strangely shaped leaf. "Wonder what it's like?" she mused, a hint of longing in her voice. She closed the book, a thoughtful frown etched on her face. "Floof, perhaps an exploration is in order? After all, someone has to solve this mystery!"
Ami another caretaker in the mansion her shadow creeped.
Later that week, The doorbell chimed, a brittle sound in the otherwise silent house. Mary Ennui entered, her perfectly coiffed hair a stark contrast to the tremor in her hand as she accepted Pecola's offered glass of water. The clink echoed unnervingly loud. Joy trailed behind, her eyes sweeping the room with a detached appraisal. Her dress, a vibrant emerald green, seemed to clash with the subdued elegance of the dining room.
"Such a lovely setting, isn't it mother?," Joy drawled, her voice a silken blade. A faint smile played on her lips, but her eyes held nothing but cold calculation.
Mary Ennui forced a brittle laugh. "Thank you, dear. Dinner will be served shortly." Her voice was tight, each word measured and precise.
The meal progressed in strained silence, punctuated only by the scrape of silverware . Mary Ennui's smile was a careful mask, cracking occasionally to reveal a flicker of something akin to despair. Joy picked at her food, her gaze flitting between her adoptive sister Pecola and her mother, a silent judgment hanging in the air.
Pecola, her small hands clasped tightly in her lap, watched them both. The silence became unbearable. Suddenly, Pecola's voice, small but clear, cut through the tension. "I want to go to public school," she said, her eyes fixed on her plate. A fork clattered to the floor. Mary Ennui's carefully constructed façade momentarily shattered. Joy's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. The silence, this time, was heavier, thick with unspoken words and simmering resentments.
"Public school? You, Pecola? That's absurd," Joy spat, her perfectly manicured nails drumming a staccato rhythm on the mahogany table. Mary's hand flew to her throat, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. Her eyes darted between Pecola and Joy, wide with a mixture of fear and something akin to desperate pleading. "Joy, please," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the ticking grandfather clock in the hall.
Pecola's jaw tightened. Her gaze, unwavering, met Joy's scornful stare. "I applied," she stated, her voice quiet but firm, the words each a carefully placed stone in a wall she was building against their disapproval. Silence descended, thick and suffocating. The only sound was the erratic thump-thump-thump of Mary's heart, a frantic drumbeat in the tense stillness. Joy let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Oh, Pecola, you always were so... ambitious." The sarcasm dripped from her words like venom.
Mary, defeated, simply sighed, a sound that carried the weight of years of unspoken anxieties. Pecola didn't need to hear another word. The unspoken judgment, the palpable disdain, was enough. With a quiet dignity that belied the turmoil inside, she turned and walked away, the click of her heels on the polished floor echoing the finality of her retreat. The door to her room clicked shut, sealing her in a world of silence, broken only by the quiet sob that escaped her lips the moment she was alone.
The next day, in a dressing room prepping for a photoshoot. "Ready, darling?" Mary chirped, adjusting Joy's already perfect curl. The flashbulbs popped, blindingly bright, as Joy posed, a practiced smile plastered on her face. A faint tremor in her hand went unnoticed.
Later, a seamstress pinned Joy's gown tighter. "A little more, cherie. You want to look your best, don't you?" Joy's breath hitched. Her reflection showed a stranger: beautiful, yes, but brittle, strained.
Pecola noticed Joy cover her stomach with her hand.
That evening, the chauffeur, Mr. Henderson, turned to Pecola. "Home, Miss Pecola?" His voice was kind, but distant. Pecola nodded, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. The carriage pulled away, leaving her on the curb. The mansion loomed, huge and unwelcoming. From her vantage point, she saw the faint glow of lights from the upper windows – the laughter, she imagined, of a life she couldn't share. A chill wind whipped around her. She hugged herself tighter, shivering, not from cold, but from loneliness. The opulent house, once a sanctuary, felt miles away.
Yet, in the midst of her solitude, a flicker of something else ignited – a quiet determination. The whispers of the mansion's walls seemed less like warnings and more like challenges. The secrets that haunted her family history were no longer just a mystery, but a call to action.
The same monotonous days occurred "Another day, another herb," Pecola murmured, turning a brittle page. The scent of rosemary filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of Arnold's cooking. A conga beat thumped softly from the kitchen.
Arnold emerged, wiping flour from his apron. He held up a steaming bowl. "Soup du jour! Parsnip and potato, a little something to warm the soul."
Pecola smiled, taking the bowl. "Thank you, Arnold." She noticed his face was etched with a familiar sadness.
"My son... you wouldn't believe how much taller he's gotten," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He showed her a blurry picture on his ancient phone, a boy with a wide grin. "Seven years old now. Seven!" His voice cracked.
Pecola nodded, her own eyes welling as she traced the textures of the photo "He looks happy."
Arnold sighed, stirring his coffee. "Happy, yes. But... I miss him so much. And his mother. We should be together. It just... costs so much to get a carriage out for them. I work extra shifts, you know. Every penny I can. But it's never enough." He ran a hand through his hair. "Sometimes I just... I just close my eyes and pretend I can feel her hand in mine, feel his hug..." His voice trailed off.
Pecola looked down at her soup, the parsnips suddenly tasting bittersweet. She knew the feeling. She looked up, a small smile touching her lips. "It sounds... lovely."
Arnold looked at her, a flicker of surprised hope in his eyes. "It is. It's everything." He then added quietly, "But sometimes lovely things feel so very, very far away."
Briefly after dinner in the mansions library
"Pecola, dear," Ami whispered, her hand resting lightly on Pecola's back. The library smelled of old books and beeswax. "This... this is something special. Something your family has guarded for a very long time."
Pecola, her eyes wide, watched as Ami pressed a seemingly ordinary section of the bookshelf. A soft click echoed in the quiet room. The bookshelf swung inward, revealing a dark opening.
"Wow," Pecola breathed, a mixture of awe and apprehension in her voice.
Ami smiled gently. "Careful now, the steps are a little worn."
The air in the small room was thick, heavy with the scent of dust and something else... something ancient and earthy. Pecola saw shelves overflowing with leather-bound books, their spines cracked and faded. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light filtering through a crack in the wall.
Ami pointed to a journal, its cover worn smooth and smelling faintly of lavender. "This one... this is where your family's story begins."
Pecola carefully picked up the journal. Its leather felt surprisingly soft beneath her fingertips. She traced the faded crest, a stylized oak tree, with her fingertip. "What is it?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Ami leaned closer, her gaze following Pecola's finger. "It's... it's hard to say. Some of it is in Old Ennui, a language lost to most. We've tried, but there are gaps... missing pages. But what we can read... speaks of things beyond our understanding." She paused, her eyes distant. "Things about the Perennial Forest... and... and things that move in the shadows." Ami's voice trailed off, a shiver running down her spine. Pecola looked up at her, eyes reflecting the mysterious glow of the journal's aged pages.
Pecola's breath hitched. She traced a frantic scrawl with a trembling finger. "'...the song...it burned...too bright...'" she whispered, her voice barely audible. She flipped a page, her eyes widening at a meticulously rendered symbol – a swirling vortex of lines that seemed to pulse with inner light. "What *is* this?" she murmured, tracing it again.
Further on, a drawing of ethereal figures, their forms shimmering and indistinct, surrounded a central figure – a woman. The caption read: "The Pact. A price paid." Pecola felt a chill crawl down her spine.
She turned another page, stopping abruptly. A tear stained the text, blurring the ink. "'The Breath...rebelled...the ritual...failed...'" she read, her voice catching. The next page was blank, then... ripped. The jagged edges felt sharp beneath her fingertips. Pecola ran a hand through her hair, frustration twisting her features. "No...no, there's more..."
The whispers of the mansion seemed to intensify, a low hum that vibrated in her bones. A sudden gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, and a loose floorboard creaked ominously. Pecola flinched, then sat straighter, a newfound resolve hardening her gaze. "A curse," she breathed, more to herself than aloud. "It's not just blindness. It's a key..." She closed the journal, the weight of the centuries-old secret pressing down on her. The fear was still there, sharp and cold, but now it was mixed with a fierce determination. She had to know. She *had* to find the missing pieces.
Later that week Pecola traced the ornate molding above the fireplace, her fingers brushing the cold wood. A faint click. She pressed gently. Nothing. Then, harder. A tiny, almost imperceptible whirring sound. She smiled grimly.'' Found you.''
The hammer felt surprisingly light in her hand, yet somehow, weighty with purpose. A sharp tap, and the lens popped loose, revealing a tiny, sophisticated camera. She smashed it against the marble hearth.
Upstairs, in Joy's guest room, the camera was hidden inside a teddy bear, its button eyes gleaming innocently. Pecola didn't hesitate. *Crack*. The stuffing spilled out like pale entrails.
In the library, she found another, nestled amongst the spines of antique books. This one was tougher. She had to pry it loose with the hammer's claw. A satisfying *snap* echoed in the silent room as the casing broke.
In the hallway, she paused, listening. Silence. Only the rhythmic *tap, tap, tap* of her hammer as she worked, a counterpoint to the suffocating silence of the house. Each camera she disabled felt like a tiny victory. A small rebellion. Each *crack* and *snap* a testament to her burgeoning independence. She wiped sweat from her brow, breathing heavily but exhilarated. The darkness no longer felt oppressive. It felt...protective.
That night Pecola ventures out her winding climbing down landing on a bush as the night air breezes through her hair. Floof follows her into the Perennial Forest
Pecola shivered, pulling her shawl tighter. "Floof," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the wind's sigh, "do you hear that?"
Floof whined softly, his head tilted, his ears pricked. He nudged her hand with his wet nose.
The voice, clearer now, sang a wordless melody, a lullaby of sorrow and longing. Pecola's cane slipped on a loose stone, sending a jolt up her arm. "It's...it's calling me," she breathed, her voice trembling.
A whisper, like a breath on her ear, brushed against her cheek. "Pecola..."
She stopped, her heart hammering against her ribs. The darkness seemed to pulse, to breathe around her.
Another whisper, closer this time, slithered into her mind. A child's giggle, sharp and fleeting. Then, a man's voice, deep and weary, "Forgive me..."
Pecola stumbled forward, her hand outstretched, grasping at the shadows. "Father?" she choked out, her voice a ragged whisper lost in the rustling leaves.
A new whisper, feminine and sharp, cut through the others, "Don't trust him..."
Brune's voice Pecola's late father, faint but unmistakable, drifted from the deeper shadows. "Pecola, my sweet girl...don't let them...take..." The sound faded, swallowed by the forest's hungry maw. A sob escaped Pecola's lips. She clutched Floof closer, the warmth of his small body a feeble shield against the chilling whispers.
"Blind fool," hissed Joy's voice, each syllable a tiny, icy shard. "Useless, pathetic. You'll... never..." Pecola flinched, a hand flying to her chest where a phantom pain bloomed. The memory of Joy's sneering face, the way her eyes narrowed to slits, stabbed at her.
Mary's voice slithered next, a silken whisper that curdled into something foul. "Control yourself," it urged, a venomous command. "Keep the... secret... hidden." Pecola saw her mother's cold smile again, the way her gaze seemed to strip her bare, leaving her feeling exposed and judged. A chill ran down her spine.
Then Ami's voice, like warm honey. "You are strong, Pecola," it murmured, soft as a feather. "You are brave. Don't... forget... who you are." The words were a balm, soothing the burning wounds left by the others. Pecola felt a small, fragile hope blossom in her chest.
Arnold's voice chimed in, a bright melody cutting through the gloom. "Life is a song, Pecola!" he sang, his voice full of sunshine. "Dance... to its rhythm!" The image of him, grinning, strumming his guitar, filled her mind. She almost felt the rhythm thrumming in her feet.
The voices swirled, a dizzying vortex. Joy's spite, Mary's chilling control, Ami's gentle reassurance, Arnold's joyful song – all crashed together. Pecola gasped, her head swimming. "Who... am I?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the din. "What... am I doing...?" The memories of her life flickered, like dying embers in a windstorm – her family, the grand mansion, Ami's face... all blurring, fading... Except Floof. The comforting weight of Floof beside her remained. A solid, tangible presence in the chaos.
"No...no!" Pecola gasped, her voice barely a breath against the rising chorus of whispers. The ground lurched beneath her, sending a jolt through her already trembling body. "Stop it!" she cried, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands clamped over her ears.
The whispers slithered into her mind, twisting familiar faces into grotesque parodies. Her childhood home became a blurry image, the laughter of her friends a distant, hollow echo. "Who...who am I?" she whispered, her voice caught in the tightening grip of fear.
The trees seemed to lean in, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching for her. A low moan rose from the forest floor, weaving itself into the relentless whispering. "Who are you?" a voice hissed, close to her ear, icy and sharp.
Pecola stumbled, her cane clattering on the earth like a death knell. She reached out blindly, her fingers brushing against rough bark, cold damp earth. "Floof..." she breathed, the name a lifeline in the encroaching darkness. But even Floof's image flickered, fading into the overwhelming void.
The whispers intensified, a cacophony of voices, each one a question, a denial of her very existence. "Forget..." a voice murmured. "Who...?" another echoed, closer still.
Terror choked her. She was nothing, a wisp of smoke about to be blown away by the relentless wind of oblivion. "No..." she choked out, the word lost in the growing darkness that swallowed her whole. Her cane flew out of her hand.
Just as oblivion started licking at her heels, ready to swallow her whole, Pecola felt it —
a presence.
Not the whispers. Not the cold wind brushing her skin like invisible fingertips.
No — something else.
A thing emerged from the shadows like a bad idea with excellent timing.
He was tall—unfairly tall, like someone stretched him out in a dream just to make hearts race. His frame was lean, built like a dancer or a liar, all whipcord tension and loose limbs that moved like music you weren't supposed to hear. Jet black from head to toe—hair, lashes, soul—except for those eyes. Slender and sharp, they glinted like cut glass in low light, an unholy shade of jade and emerald that shouldn't have existed in the real world.
Small, at first glance. Humanoid-ish, if you squinted and ignored the fangs. He shimmered like an oil slick kissed by moonlight, grinning like he'd eaten something sacred and gotten away with it. His skin glistened—iridescent and slightly wet-looking, like he'd been born from a puddle of pondwater and glitter and absolutely zero shame.
Huge mischievous eyes blinked slow and lazy, the kind of blink that meant danger or seduction or both. And from that grinning mouth: two very sharp, very unnecessary fangs—like punctuation marks on a problem. The kind of fangs that said, I won't bite unless you beg.
"HAH?" it chirped, hopping out into view like a stage performer. "Is that a girl? A human girl? A blind human girl?"
It tilted its head with malicious curiosity.
"Lost in the woods? How fairytale. I give you six hours, tops."
Its voice was grounded, musical, and aggressively mocking.
Pecola stared blankly. Still. Calm. Eyes glowing softly like moons with no pupils.
The creature froze.
Then grinned wider.
"Oooh... you're one of those," it whispered, nose twitching. "No pupils. Glowy stare. Angelic void energy.
...I dig it."
The creature leapt closer with a speed that would've made lesser souls scream.
Pecola didn't flinch.
"Who... are you?" Pecola asked.
The creature puffed up like a raccoon in a spotlight.
"I AM ANTIC!" it announced, arms spread. "Soon-to-be Top Chief of the Wandering Realm of You-Don't-Need-to-Know. It's exclusive."
It pirouetted.
"Training day one: find something cursed and mysterious. CHECK!"
It pointed at her. Dramatically. Then smirked.
"And you, my glowing goddess of unsettling silence... are?"
Pecola opened her mouth.
Nothing.
The name was gone. Just... void.
Her head tilted slightly as if the loss wasn't surprising. As if she'd already expected it.
Antic blinked. Then leaned in closer.
"You don't know?"
She shook her head once. Calm. Still unreadable.
Antic's ears turned red. His smirk twitched.
"...Oh no."
He clutched his nose.
"...Ohhh NOPE—nosebleed—OH GOD SHE'S—"
Blood dripped instantly.
"I JUST MET YOU—WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME—"
Pecola raised an eyebrow. "...You're bleeding."
"BECAUSE YOU'RE A LUMINOUS MYSTERY GIRL WITH NO NAME!" he cried, backing into a bush. "IT'S A BIOLOGICAL DEFENSE MECHANISM."
He wiped his nose with his sleeve, glaring at her like it was her fault for existing that radiantly.
"Fine! Since you won't give me a name..." he pointed dramatically. "I shall name you myself!"
A pause. He looked around like he was preparing to say something noble.
"No Eyes."
Pecola stared.
Antic grinned.
"HAH. Get it? 'Cause you don't have—oh whatever, it's iconic."
She didn't get it.
But a corner of her mouth moved — not quite a smile. More like a twitch of curiosity. And somehow, that was worse for Antic's self-control.
"Oh no," he whispered. "You're smirking. That's even hotter."
Blood. Again.
Pecola calmly handed him a leaf.
"So, No Eyes," he said later, composing himself while still bleeding slightly, "what brings you to the sexiest haunted forest on the planet?"
Pecola's glow dimmed. Her voice dropped to a near-whisper.
"The whispers," she said. "They started... soft. Then louder. They became voices I knew. They laughed. Mocked. Called me... nothing."
Her fingers curled into her arms.
"I don't know who I am anymore."
Antic didn't joke.
Instead, he knelt down next to her.
"You're still here," he said softly. "That means something."
Then he stood and theatrically twirled again.
"Also, maybe you're just cursed! That's my theory. Sexy and cursed."
Pecola blinked.
Antic blinked back.
"Don't worry," he added, holding out a hand. "I'm exceptionally qualified to help tragic girls with glowing eyeballs and mysterious backstories. Just don't fall in love with me."
Pecola raised an eyebrow.
He blushed hard.
"...I was kidding. Unless you're into that. Are you into that?"
Days bled into nights as they wandered deeper into the Perennial Forest, the line between reality and memory beginning to blur.
"This root," Antic said, holding up a knobby, alien-looking tuber that glistened with moisture, "tastes like roasted nightmares. Surprisingly edible, though. Like chewing regret."
Pecola crouched beside a tree, her fingers brushing a nearby herb with deliberate care. "That one helps with digestion," she murmured. "Especially when you eat roots that offend your ancestors."
A faint, rare smile touched her lips. Antic stared at it too long.
Later, huddled beneath a crooked lean-to stitched together from bent branches and stubborn leaves, Antic's voice broke the quiet. "You feel that? Near the river? That snap—like the world holding its breath too long."
Pecola's eyes, pale and glowing in the firelight, stared past him into the dark. "Yes. A woman's sorrow. Angry. Old."
The Breaths hissed through the trees, a constant murmur beneath the stars. But in this circle—just the two of them and their small fire—there was a rhythm. The breath of the flames, the rustle of skin against makeshift bedding, the unspoken intimacy of shared fear.
"That root smells like burnt sugar," Pecola observed later, sniffing at another piece Antic held near the flames.
He perched above her on a thick, low branch, legs swinging lazily. "Only the sweetest roots burn the loudest, little seer," he said, dropping a luminous berry toward her.
She caught it—bare fingers brushing his as the fruit landed in her palm.
A spark.
Static. Heat. Antic blinked, mouth parting slightly.
Pecola looked up at him, unreadable.
He looked away instantly, thumbing a feather as if it suddenly deserved his full attention. "The Breaths are loud tonight," he said, too casually.
"I feel them," Pecola whispered, voice like cool rain on glass. "They're not words. They're shapes. Like music in the dirt."
Antic offered a hand. She took it.
Their fingers stayed locked a beat too long. He let go first, fingers twitching slightly as if remembering her warmth.
By the next fire, the tension hadn't cooled. Their shoulders brushed as they ate a quiet dinner of crushed nuts and berries.
Antic stared into the flames, then away. Then back. "You ever think about who you were before this forest?"
Pecola didn't answer. A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it fast.
He noticed. Said nothing.
As the sun bled into the earth, casting bruises of violet and orange across the sky, they stumbled upon a clearing. Light, soft and unnatural, glowed from no clear source.
Pecola gasped. The sound was small but sharp.
A humming. No, a pressure. It pressed against her eardrums, her ribs, her thoughts.
"What is this?" she whispered.
A tendril of soft light brushed her cheek, smooth and cold.
She flinched. Then stayed still.
Another tendril slid around her ankle, caressing her skin like a memory that refused to fade.
She stumbled, arms reaching, grasping nothing.
"I feel them," she breathed. "They're... they're singing to me."
The song rose like the tide. Her chest heaved with grief she didn't understand. A sob escaped. She fell to her knees.
Antic caught her before she hit the ground—his bare chest warm against her cheek.
"Whoa, easy, No Eyes," he muttered, his arm bracing her shoulders like a seatbelt forged out of muscle and mischief. "Don't mainline the spectral sadness too fast."
Pecola leaned into him, trembling. She didn't know what felt more overwhelming: the sorrow vibrating from the glowing storm ahead—or the slow, steady beat of Antic's heart under her ear.
She felt it in her bones. The sorrow was real. Heavy. Alive.
A tendril of light pulled free from the storm and began to shift—shoulders, limbs, a face blurred by grief.
"Free us," the Breath whispered. "And the truth about your eyes will be revealed."
Antic's expression changed. The grin dropped. Gone was the smug playboy with a penchant for chaos. What remained was a warrior. A son.
"So it's true," he said, voice gone gravel. "You're part of this."
He looked at Pecola. Serious. Unblinking. His hand lingered at her waist just a beat longer than it needed to.
"Your blindness... it's not natural. You're bound to them. We free them—we free you."
Pecola nodded, her own fire rising beneath the sorrow. The Breaths weren't strangers.
They were calling her home.
Days blurred. Then weeks.
"They're not ghosts," Pecola said one dusk, her fingers reaching through the glow near a willow tree. "They feel."
Antic crouched behind her, upper body exposed as usual, skin glowing faintly with firelight. His eyes fixed on the shimmer.
"They're real alright. And really pissed."
He sat beside her, close enough that his thigh brushed hers. "My family," he said slowly, "they were magic. Tricksters. Joyful. Loud."
He hesitated.
"A rival clan—bloodthirsty bastards—took everything. Cursed the Breaths. Wove them into this damn place."
His eyes were bloodshot. His jaw was tight.
"That's why I want to be Chief. Not for the title. For revenge. For them."
Pecola reached out. Her fingers found his.
A flash.
A woman. Warmth. A voice like honey and soil and bread baking in a sunlit oven.
"Ami," she breathed.
Antic blinked. "What?"
"I... I remember someone. Her name. Her touch. Her smell. I don't know who I am... but I knew her."
Antic didn't move, just let her hand linger against his. "Well, shit," he said softly. "She sounds like home."
One morning, Pecola darted up a tree like a spirit let loose.
Antic dropped the apple he was halfway into. "You're blind! That's a death tree!"
Pecola laughed, a rare sound—musical, confident.
"I feel the heartbeat of the branches," she called from the top. "I don't need sight."
Antic exhaled, long and slow, dragging a hand through his hair. "Okay, but that's still hot and dangerous and you need to stop being both."
Pecola cocked her head, her glowing eyes unreadable. "Hot?"
He blinked. "I said not! Not hot. I said knot—like in the tree. Tree knots. You're barky. Rough. Rooted. Definitely not—"
A single bead of blood trickled from his nose.
He froze. Pecola stared.
"...It's allergies," he mumbled, tipping his head back dramatically. "To your—uh—spiritual energy."
She didn't laugh. But her mouth twitched like maybe she almost wanted to.
Antic groaned and buried his face in his forearm. "Kill me. Let a squirrel just leap out and take me now."
That night, they sat by a fire again. The stars eavesdropped—bold, nosy things.
Pecola traced circles in the ash between them. Her fingers moved like she was trying to remember a language only her hands knew.
"Elara," she whispered.
Antic leaned in, his playful grin gone. "A name?"
She nodded, barely. Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes but didn't fall. "I think she loved me. Or... I loved her. It's all cracked."
Antic took her hand—not teasing, not sly. Just real. His thumb brushed her knuckles like he wasn't sure if she'd vanish.
"It's okay to crack," he murmured, voice low and raw. "Even stars explode sometimes."
Their hands stayed linked.
Neither moved.
The fire popped, sparks dancing up into the dark. Pecola's face was golden in the glow, unreadable and quiet.
Then she turned to him. Slowly. Eyes blank but burning with something new.
"You're close," she said, voice soft but firm. "Too close."
Antic didn't pull away.
"I know," he said.
His gaze dropped to her lips for a breath too long. Then—nosebleed. Just a little.
He swore under his breath and tilted his head back, hand clamped to his face.
Pecola blinked, startled. "Are you—bleeding?"
"Don't ask," he groaned.
But her lips twitched. The smallest smile. Dangerous.
"You're really bad at pretending you're not affected."
"And you're really bad at pretending you don't like it," he shot back, nasally, still holding his nose.
Her head tilted in confusion
She didn't answer.
Instead, she reached forward and—very gently—touched the spot just above his heart. Her fingertip lingered.
"You're warm," she said.
Antic's breath caught.
And then she leaned back—just a little. Just enough to leave him cold.
The space between them hummed, charged.
She didn't smile again.
But she didn't let go of his hand either.