Elia pov
"We are both cursed— the healer and the harmed, the beast and the bridge."
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I don't believe in monsters.
That's what I told the director when she handed me the Cain file. Seventeen-year-old boy. Expelled. Violent episode at school. Selective mutism.
"It's just trauma," I said. "He's not a danger. He's scared."
I said it like I believed it.
But now, five sessions in, I'm not so sure.
---
Jase Cain sat across from me, hood up, fingers fidgeting with a thread on his sleeve like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. Same posture. Same silence.
The clock ticked somewhere behind me, loud in the stillness.
I tried not to sigh.
I wasn't new to this—teenagers with walls built so high even they forgot what was on the other side. But Jase was different. Not just guarded. Not just traumatized. He was... tuned to something I couldn't name.
"Jase," I said, keeping my tone soft. "Would you like to tell me what you're feeling today?"
No answer. I was used to that by now.
Outside, the wind pushed against the windows in slow, thoughtful gusts.
Greystone in early fall felt like a place caught between seasons—chilly in the mornings, golden in the afternoons, foggy by dusk.
It used to comfort me. Lately, it felt like something watching.
I tapped my pen against the side of my clipboard, glancing at the empty space beneath Session Five. I didn't want to write no response again. It felt too final. Like giving up.
I looked at him again. He was still staring at the corner of the rug, unmoving—except for his fingers, still rubbing that same thread.
But then, the air shifted.
The lights dimmed—not visibly, not even enough to notice unless you were already watching for something strange.
I'd learned to trust the tension in my body before the logic in my head.
I blinked.
That's when he looked at me.
Eyes not brown, not green. Something in between. Sharp and bright like glass in sunlight.
And then, he said it.
"Why do you smell like fire?"
The room felt suddenly small.
"I'm sorry?"
His gaze didn't waver.
Then something behind those eyes trembled—fear? Confusion? Recognition? I wasn't sure.
He dropped his head. The thread snapped between his fingers.
The session timer buzzed like a warning. Jase stood so quickly his chair scraped the floor.
He didn't say another word.
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After Hours
It was nearly seven when I left the clinic.
I locked the office, tucked my bag under one arm, and pulled my coat tight around me as the cold set in. Greystone nights were brisk in October, the air laced with woodsmoke and fallen leaves.
The parking lot was mostly empty. Just my car, and Dr. Valen's little white compact at the far end. He always stayed late. He once told me he liked the quiet after people left. Said the building breathed differently at night.
I used to think that was poetic.
Now I wasn't so sure.
As I reached my car, I paused—keys halfway out of my bag.
Something made me turn back toward the office windows.
The lamp on my desk was still on.
I frowned. I didn't remember leaving it.
With a sigh, I walked back, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
Everything looked the same, but I couldn't shake the feeling something had shifted. My coat brushed a chill off the wall. A faint scent lingered—smoke, maybe. But the fire alarm hadn't triggered, and nothing smelled burned. Just… warm. Dry. Like wood catching flame in a dream.
I stepped into my office. The lamp flickered once, then steadied.
On the shelf beside the door was the small wooden box I never touched. A gift from my grandmother years ago. No note. No explanation.
I never opened it.
Didn't know why.
But tonight, I stared at it for longer than I meant to.
I reached for it. Then stopped.
The sensation that something was watching returned. I closed the door behind me a little faster than necessary.
straight to my bed,I fell like a log, really needed to calm the noise in my head.
---
That night, I dreamt in fragments.
The snow came first—thick, quiet, endless. Then the circle of ash. The smell of something burned but holy.
I stood inside it. Around me, voices whispered in languages I didn't recognize.
Across from me, a small boy cried. Not Jase. But somehow… also him.
His hands were stained with blood. His eyes were too old for his face.
"Don't let them take me."
I turned, desperate to help him, but an invisible wall held me in place. The edges of the ash glowed gold.
Then someone took my hand.
I couldn't see their face—just white robes, long fingers, and a mark on their wrist: a crescent moon with a single line through it. Like an eclipse trying to break.
"You are the vessel," the voice said.
"The monster remembers the fire. So must you."
I tried to ask what it meant, but the snow turned to smoke, and the child screamed—
---
I woke with a jolt.
My room was dark, except for the low orange glow from the streetlight outside.
I sat up, my breathing shallow. My wrist tingled.
I pulled up my sleeve.
Nothing there.
But then I saw the sheet.
Near my hip, right where my wrist had rested—burned into the fabric, faint but unmistakable
A crescent moon. And a line.
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