She who sees

Morning broke slow and thin, as if the sun had forgotten how to rise. The snow had stopped, but the silence it left behind was heavier than the storm itself. The cottage windows were glazed with frost, catching the pale light like trapped breath.

Aisha stood by the fire, clutching a mug she hadn't touched. The tea had long gone cold.

The air still smelled of burnt wax and pine smoke — the remnants of the spell, or the memory of one.

Ruby hovered by the window, a faint shimmer in the soft morning light. Her shape was clearer now, her outline almost human again, though her edges still rippled like smoke. When she turned her head, Aisha could almost see her eyes— deep, dark, and old.

Asha... The name brushed against Aisha's thoughts like the rustle of leaves.
Not Aisha — Asha.
She froze.

"That's not my name," she whispered.

Ruby's gaze flickered toward her, and a pulse of quiet recognition passed through the room. Not words, not exactly — but a feeling: It was, once.

The air shifted, and Aisha's grip on the mug tightened until her knuckles whitened.

Memories began to whisper at the edges of her mind— fleeting flashes she couldn't catch: her father's hand resting on her head; her mother's laughter echoing through stone halls; a voice saying, "Remember the bridge, Asha. It only appears when you believe it does."

Her throat constricted. She set the mug down too hard, and it cracked against the table.

Doreen stirred in her chair near the hearth. She looked smaller this morning, her hair loose and silver in the light. But her eyes were sharp— the kind that missed nothing.

"You've seen something." she said simply.

Aisha hesitated. "Pieces. Not enough to make sense of. But..." she trailed off, glancing towards Ruby. The entity drifted closer, a faint hum filling the air. "It's like something's waking up."

Doreen's jaw tightened. "You've opened a door that won't close easily."

"I didn't mean to open anything."

"That doesn't matter now." Doreen rose, crossing to a shelf and pulling down a small iron box, its surface carved with the same sigils that haunted Aisha's parchment. "Your parents thought they could contain Sadon's reach by binding their memories— and yours — but blood remembers what the mind forgets. Now that the bond is fraying, it will call to you."

Aisha blinked. "Call to me? You mean—"

"Draw you back," Doreen said quietly. "To where it began."

The words landed like cold water.

The ruins.

The chapel.

The manor.

Aisha felt the pendant stir against her skin, warming as if in answer.

"I saw him," she whispered. "My father. Bound. Somewhere dark. He's alive."

For a heartbeat, Doreen's face softened— grief, relief, and fear tangled together. "Then he's waiting for you to finish what he couldn't."

The fire popped, sending sparks spiralling upward.  The noise made Aisha flinch; her nerves were stretched too thin.

From outside came the sound of footsteps crunching on ice. A knock followed— hesitant, three sharp taps against the door.

Doreen's head snapped up.

Aisha's pulse jumped.

She moved toward the door, half-expecting Ms. Thorne's dark silhouette on the other side. But when she opened it, a rush of cold air spilled in, , and Tom stood there instead — cheeks flushed, scarf half-untied, his hair dusted with frost.

"Finally," he said, exhaling a cloud of white. "I've been trying to get up here for two days. The snow nearly buried the lane."

"Tom?" Her voice cracked. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugged, his smile faint but genuine. "Checking on you. Nathan said you weren't answering. Figured Doreen might have murdered you with herbal tea or something."

Aisha managed a weak laugh, but Ruby's faint glow near the window pulsed like a warning. Tom didn't seem to see it — didn't see her.

He held out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. "I, uh... found this in the shop. Looked old. Thought of you."

Inside, beneath the wrapping, lay a book— leather cracked, its spine etched with a single sigil that made Aisha's blood run cold.

She looked up sharply. "Where did you find this?"

Tom frowned. "The antiques place in town. It was sitting by the window. The owner said someone left it there last week. No tag, no price."

Doreen crossed the room fast, snatching the book from Aisha's hands. "You shouldn't have brought this here."

Tom blinked, startled. "It's just a book."

"It's never just anything in this family," Doreen muttered.

But Aisha's attention was fixed on the sigil — a mirrored spiral, twin lines meeting in the shape of an eye. It matched the mark that had burned itself into her parchment.

Her pendant pulsed once. The iron box on the shelf rattled faintly.

Ruby's shape shivered, edges dissolving into the air. It begins again...

Aisha's heartbeat echoed the rhythm of the pendant. She stepped back, dizzy with the feeling that the room was spinning around her. The fire dimmed, the light flickering to shadow.

Tom reached for her arm. "Aish, hey—"

But before he could touch her, the book fell open on its own. The pages fluttered wildly, stopping on a sketch— a stone archway, half-buried in snow. Beneath it, in her father's handwriting, were words she had never seen but somehow knew by heart:

"Find the bridge. Follow the pulse."

The pendant burned hot against her skin.

The world tilted.

And for a single heartbeat, she wasn't in the cottage anymore. She was standing in the ruins again — the snow gone, the air humming with ancient light. A shadow loomed where the archway should be, a faint hum vibrating through the ground.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the vision snapped away.

She gasped, clutching the edge of the table. Doreen steadied her, face ashen.

"What did you see?"

Aisha's voice shook. "A bridge. I think it's real."

Doreen exhaled slowly, as if confirming something she'd feared. "Then the path has chosen you."

Ruby's whisper slid through Aisha's mind one last time before the glow faded completely. Remember in parts. The key wants alignment. The bridge will demand the rest.

The words lingered long after the light dimmed.

Aisha turned to the window. The world outside was thawing— the snow melting into streams that ran like silver veins down the hillside. Somewhere beyond the forest, beneath the ruins, something ancient was waking.

And this time, she wasn't afraid to meet it.