Chapter 2: The Wind Carries Whispers
The world was still standing.
The sun still rose.
People still laughed.
And Aria Solenne still walked through it like a ghost wrapped in borrowed skin.
No one noticed the way she flinched at sudden noises now, or how she lingered near reflective surfaces, as though afraid they might blink again—too late, or not at all. She moved through the city the way fog moved through ruins, unnoticed but present, quiet but heavy.
⸻
The bookstore was quieter than usual.
Which was saying something.
The bell above the door hadn't chimed all morning. The air was too still, the silence too perfect. Dust floated lazily in the golden light that spilled from the cathedral's stained glass across the cobblestone alley outside. Inside, everything was just slightly… wrong.
Mrs. Yune hadn't shown up.
That never happened.
Aria had waited fifteen minutes before turning the sign to OPEN. Out of habit, she brewed the tea anyway—two mismatched porcelain cups, as always. One for herself. One for Mrs. Yune. She set the second by the register, steam curling into the stillness. It was cold by the hour's end. Forgotten. Like something sacred left in the wrong place.
The shelves seemed different that day. Taller. Closer. Like they were listening.
Aria busied herself with organizing the mythology section—something calming in the symmetry of spine colors and fragile paperbacks. But when she pulled Legends of the End Times from the bottom shelf, the spine cracked unnaturally loud in her hand.
It fell open in her palms.
Pages fluttered like wings.
Except—most were missing. Torn out. Shredded clean.
Only one remained. Just one.
She will bloom when all else dies.
The words were handwritten. Slanted. Ink smudged as though the page had wept.
Aria stared. Her fingers tingled, the tips warm as if brushing against a low flame. She blinked, shut the book gently, and slid it back into place. She didn't speak. She hadn't spoken much in days. Her voice felt brittle—thin glass balanced too high to risk using.
⸻
The market was crowded, but muted.
Vendors hawked their produce in voices half a note too quiet. Conversations buzzed like insects, too fast to catch. The news played behind one of the stalls on a flickering screen. The volume was low—uncomfortably so, as if it was whispering only to those who already knew.
"—containment zone still expanding—"
"—symptoms remain inconsistent—"
"—sky anomalies under investigation—"
"—animals showing signs of distress—"
Aria chose apples. Red ones. Her favorite. She turned them gently in her hands, as if trying not to bruise them. She avoided the vendor's eyes. Too many people were doing that now.
She bit into one on the walk home.
The flesh inside was black. Soft. Rotting at the core.
She spat it into the street, wiped her mouth, and threw the rest into a bin without a word.
⸻
When she returned to her apartment, the bloom had changed.
What had been one flower now had two—twin crimson heads nestled against the spine of an old poetry anthology. Still no pot. Still no light. Still no explanation. But they looked… awake.
Aria stepped forward slowly, uncertain whether she was more afraid of the plant—or herself.
She reached out. Her fingers brushed a petal.
It shivered.
Not from the wind.
From breath.
As if it had lungs. As if it knew her.
The air around the bookshelf pulsed—once, like a heartbeat.
Twice.
And then stillness.
That was when she heard it.
The faintest sound.
Not a crack, not exactly. More like a sigh under glass.
She turned.
The mirror across the room now had a hairline fracture slicing through the center. Just one. Small. Delicate. Cruel. As if the world behind it had finally begun to bleed through.
Aria didn't scream.
Instead, she stepped closer to it. Her reflection shimmered slightly under the flickering light, a breath behind reality. She tilted her head slowly, testing it.
The reflection didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even breathe.
It didn't look back.
It just waited.
⸻
And Aria—for a moment—wondered if she was the reflection now.
If she had been the one left behind.
And what, exactly, had taken her place.