Samara slowly stirred back to consciousness, her senses gradually reacquainting themselves with the world. Beneath her lay the warm, forgiving earth, its texture oddly comforting against her skin. The dazzling sun, however, was obscured by an assembly of townsfolk who had clustered around her, their silhouettes forming a makeshift barrier against the glaring light.
A familiar sense of disorientation washed over her as she thought, I must stop waking up like this. Blinking away the haziness, Samara's gaze found Adelia, the young girl's face a canvas of worry. Deep lines of concern furrowed her youthful brow, and Samara mustered a faint smile, an effort to ease the palpable anxiety hovering like a cloud over the crowd.
As her vision sharpened, she noticed Tomlin and another unknown man gently lifting her into a sitting position. The moment she was upright, a disquieting wave of nausea crashed over her, her stomach churning rebelliously. I’m going to be sick, she realized with dread.
Adelia, quick to react, called out urgently. Cyril soon emerged from the sea of onlookers, clutching a small wooden cup filled to the brim with water. Adelia pressed the cup to Samara’s lips, and she gratefully gulped down the cool liquid, feeling it quell the rising tide of nausea.
Stabilizing herself, Samara offered a weak but reassuring smile to the concerned faces around her. She attempted to stand, flanked by Tomlin and the young man with hair like spun golden wheat, his eyes mirroring the same rich hue. As she swayed unsteadily, her independence fought against her body's protest, and she gently disengaged from their support, a silent declaration of her recuperating strength.
Adelia dispersed the crowd with a commanding presence that belied her age. Her authoritative and clear voice ushered the townsfolk back to their daily tasks, their curiosity satiated for now.
Tomlin and Adelia exchanged a brief but meaningful conversation, ending with Adelia taking Samara's hand and guiding her through the dispersing crowd and back to the house's safety. Inside, Adelia steered Samara towards the bedroom, pointing decisively towards the bed.
Understanding Adelia's silent instruction, Samara gratefully sank onto the bed, the softness of the mattress a balm to her aching body. As she lay there, eyes closed, she focused on her breath, letting it anchor her amid the throbbing discomfort of her injuries. With each breath, she tried to make sense of the mysterious voice that haunted her thoughts, which lingered on the edge of her consciousness before the world plunged into darkness.
Samara listened to the fading echoes of Adelia's careful steps retreating from the room. The soft click of the door signaled her departure, leaving Samara alone with her swirling thoughts. Her eyes, wide open, traced the intricate patterns of the wooden planks above her, each line and knot weaving a story in the aging timber.
As she lay there, the voice she had heard before losing consciousness whispered through her mind like a breeze through autumn leaves. It was unmistakably youthful, its timbre laced with innocence yet carrying an undercurrent of urgency. A young boy’s voice... but who? And why those words? What was I supposed to keep? The questions spun around her head, elusive and teasing.
She sifted through her memories, trying to anchor the voice to a face. Her friends were yet to embark on the journey of parenthood, their lives still unencumbered by the laughter and cries of children. And her mother's side of the family, with their brood of young ones, had become distant echoes in her life – their gatherings a thing of her distant past. At work, her interactions never extended to the innocent chatter of children. The disconnect left her puzzled, the voice in her mind an enigma with no clear origin.
Samara repeated the cryptic message to herself as she lay still, a mantra to preserve its essence. Yet, each repetition slowly morphed the voice into her own, diluting the distinctiveness of the mysterious young boy. The authenticity of the memory began to wane, replaced by her internal voice, a frustrating echo of what it once was.
Time seemed to stand still in that small room, the gentle creaks of the house her only companion. The world outside moved on, but Samara remained anchored to the bed, lost in her introspection—hours slipped by unnoticed, a silent witness to her solitary reverie.
Eventually, the steady rhythm of her heart and the whispers of the house coaxed Samara back into a restless slumber. Now a haunting lullaby, the voice and its message guided her into dreams where answers might be found.
In the dreamscape of her slumber, Samara found herself on the edge of a vast lake, its waters shimmering under the sunlight. Looking down, she saw the reflection of her younger self, a child of about eight years, with wide, curious eyes gazing back at her from beneath the water’s surface.
Confusion clouded her mind. What is this? Why am I a child again?
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted as a figure darted past her, splashing water onto her. “Hey, watch it!” she heard her younger self exclaim, her voice a blend of annoyance and surprise. The response was a cascade of laughter from the water emanating from a figure whose face remained frustratingly obscured, bathed in a halo of sunlight reflecting off the lake.
“Come on, you said you wanted to learn how to swim,” the figure called out. Samara’s heart skipped a beat as she recognized the voice - the same young boy had invaded her waking thoughts.
That’s him! But who is he?
“I do, but I’m scared. And the water is cold,” her younger self protested, timid yet intrigued.
“Don’t be such a child; come on in!” the boy encouraged with a playful yell.
As a child, Samara hesitantly waded further into the lake, feeling the chill of the water encroach upon her skin. She felt a profound disconnect - this was her memory, yet she couldn’t remember it from her waking life.
Where is this place? Who is this boy?
Her view was locked onto the rippling water, now lapping higher against her young form. “You’re being too slow,” the boy teased, splashing water toward her.
“Stop it! That’s not nice,” she protested, but her words only fueled his joy, leading to more enthusiastic splashes.
Frustrated and soaked, her younger self turned to leave, yelling, “I don’t want you to teach me anymore. You’re not being nice.” As she returned to the shore, two adult figures lounged nearby, engrossed in their books.
Are they my parents?
“Don’t go, I was just playing around,” the boy pleaded from behind.
Ignoring him, she continued towards the shore until she felt a tug on her left arm. “Come on, Sammy.”
Sammy? Who calls me that?
As his hand gripped her arm, a sharp, searing pain shot through her elbow, snapping Samara awake from the enigmatic memory, her heart pounding and a myriad of questions swirling in her mind.
Samara jolted awake with a sharp cry, clutching at her left arm where an inexplicable pain had surged and then faded, leaving behind an unsettling warmth. Confusion clouded her thoughts as she lay in the dimly lit room, the sun now a distant memory in the western sky. Her stomach rumbled, echoing the house's emptiness, but her mind was preoccupied, replaying the strange memory that had interrupted her slumber.
Why can't I remember going to a lake with my parents? And who was that boy?
The memory was vivid yet alien, a fragment of a past she couldn't claim as her own. The sound of the front door creaking open broke her trance, and the soft chatter of Cyril and Adelia soon filled the quiet space. Their silhouettes appeared in the doorway, their eyes sparkling with relief and excitement at seeing her awake.
The children's energy was infectious, their warm embrace enveloping Samara, grounding her in reality.
Meanwhile, far to the north in the grand Aster estate, Mikhail abruptly rose from his armchair, scattering papers and inkwells in a clatter. A raven, his silent guardian, squawked in alarm at the unexpected commotion. Mikhail's heart pounded in his chest, his mind reeling from a long-forgotten memory.
Why am I remembering this now?
Pulling his left sleeve up, he inspected his arm but found no mark or blemish to explain the sudden sharp pain that had awoken him. A sense of unease gnawed at him as he covered his arm again.
Determined for answers, Mikhail approached a bookshelf beside his desk and deftly pulled a blue-bound book. The shelf clicked and slid aside, revealing a hidden passageway bathed in shadows. As he stepped into the passage, Theo entered the room, concern etched on his face.
“Your Grace is something—?” Theo began, but Mikhail, consumed by his quest for answers, marched forward without a word, Theo trailing behind.
With a snap of his fingers, Mikhail summoned orbs of blue flame that danced in the air, casting an eerie light on the ancient stone walls as they descended deeper into the mansion's secrets.
Reaching the dungeon, a sense of foreboding enveloped Mikhail. The convergence spell rune, etched into the floor's heart, emitted a faint blue glow—an anomaly that defied explanation. His steps quickened, drawn to the mysterious luminescence.
Theo lingered at the threshold, his eyes wide with disbelief. Never in his years had he seen the runes activate without a spoken incantation. The scene unfolding before him was unprecedented.
Mikhail knelt by the glowing rune, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. As he gently touched it, the light flickered, struggling against an unseen force before extinguishing completely under his touch. The room plunged into darkness, leaving Mikhail and Theo enveloped in a heavy silence, each contemplating the implications of this unforeseen event.
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