Chaptxr 4
Reality kept slipping, and the only thing holding me together was starting to unravel.
Nin dab qarsadaa, qiic baa kashifa
One who hides fire will be revealed by its smoke
Chaptxr 4
As we came to the end of our walk, the sun set and fog was covering the streets again. For the past month this eerie fog covered the town at night, not drifting as fog should, but coiling and twisting. Being in the fog was a familiar sensation that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. This sensation had been growing for weeks, intensifying with each recurring dream. Those desert visions walked the knife-edge between wonder and terror, leaving me hollow and disoriented when I woke. The scorching sand beneath my feet, hot enough to pull memories of childhood summers from the depths of my consciousness.
A sky so vast it defied comprehension, endless blue stretching toward infinity until it blurred with the horizon. The woman with warm brown eyes calling my name in a language I shouldn't understand but somehow did. Rich incense and exotic spices lingered in my nostrils long after consciousness reclaimed me, clinging to the edges of reality like persistent ghosts unwilling to fade completely. The distant rhythm of drums that matched my heartbeat like my very pulse had surrendered to it’s cadence. Each sensation danced at the edges of my awareness, dissolving whenever I tried to focus directly.
A shadow moved at the corner of my vision—there and gone—but enough to make my pulse spike. The street blurred, momentarily replaced by vast dunes stretching beneath an alien sun before reality snapped back with painful clarity, the transition so abrupt it left me dizzy and disoriented again.
I wanted to tell Levi about it all—the dreams, this fog, the crawling sensation that something was shifting in the tectonic plates under my life. But what would I say? The words formed and dissolved in my mind like the fog itself, inadequate to capture the enormity of what I was experiencing.
Hey, I keep having these weird dreams that invokes feelings that I’m certain aren't mine, I’m having visions where my reality fades away multiple times a day. and now the weather feels threatening.
The absurdity of it hung heavy in my thoughts and weighed down my tongue. He'd roll his eyes, make some joke about pre-graduation anxiety or too many horror movies. The corners of his mouth would quirk upward and his brows would furrow, an expression that had always been equal parts affection and exasperation. A look reserved exclusively for moments when he thought I was overthinking things.
Or worse—what if he didn't laugh it off? What if he looked at me with that careful mixture of concern and pity reserved for people losing their grip on reality? "Waris, it's just fog," he'd say in that carefully neutral tone, the one that always made me feel like I was being handled. Then I'd feel even more isolated within whatever this was. Trapped behind a glass wall that separated me from everyone else's reality.
I felt myself sigh out loud.
"I don't remember asking for an escort," I teased, nudging his shoulder with mine, the familiar contact grounding me momentarily in the present.
"Tough shit," Levi quipped, lips quivering upward, "You're stuck with my obnoxious ass indefinitely."
I snorted, the sound cutting through the unnatural stillness. "Lucky me. Got the extended warranty and everything."
He must have noticed it too—why else would he walk me all the way to the corner, nervously stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket? His knuckles were still red from whatever training he'd done before ours, small crescents of dried blood across the ridges like crimson moons etched into his skin. Our sessions were intense, but I'd never drawn blood. It isn’t unlikely that he’d practice until his skin split open. He never talked about it, that part of his life existing in a space between sentences.
He lingered on the corner, his body angled toward mine and his feet already preparing to leave. The streetlight above cast hollow shadows beneath his cheekbones, emphasizing the angles of his face in ways that made him look older and solemn.
The curfew meant no children playing outside despite the early evening hour. No dogs barking at passing strangers. No cars rolling past with their familiar mechanical hum. Even the usual buzz of television static leaking through cheap apartment windows had gone silent.
Silence stretched between us, tangled with the unnatural stillness of the neighborhood. Not the comfortable quiet we sometimes shared after training, those moments when we were too exhausted to speak but too content to part. This was taut, like the moment before a thunderclap.
Levi exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair, his eyes kept scanning the street like someone looking for specific dangers. The missing people must really be freaking him out
"Getting clingy, Hoffman?" I tried to make my voice light, to recapture our usual rhythm, but unease bled through the words. My words seemed to fall flat in the air, absorbed by the fog rather than traveling naturally.
Levi smirked, his shoulders hunched slightly against the damp chill. "Just making sure you don't faceplant into the sidewalk and make me feel bad about laughing."
I rolled my eyes. "I'll manage." I said backing away toward my house.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing at shadows, his gaze tracking movement of something invisible. It was a look I was starting to recognize…lethal. I get being cautious—hell, even dangerous—but why the hell would Levi need to be lethal?
He flexed his fingers before raising one in a lazy wave. The streetlight caught the subtle scar across his knuckles—a training accident from months ago that had never fully healed. It was the reason the martial arts club at Eagle Ridge High had been shut down.
Too dangerous, the principal had said. Liability issues.
But everyone knew the truth: Levi had accidentally put the coach’s son in the hospital.
Ryan. Our childhood bully.
Not that I blamed Levi—Ryan had it coming for years. His cruelty was practically an art form, perfected long before high school had the chance to sharpen it further.
He nodded toward my house, "Text me when you get inside." His eyes flicked briefly to the fog before returning to mine.
"What, afraid the boogeyman's gonna get me?" I forced a smirk, massaging my still-sore shoulder from our training, the dull ache a welcome distraction from the growing unease spreading through my chest like frost across a windowpane.
"Writing eulogies isn't exactly my strong suit.".
I snorted, "As if you could string two sentences together."
"Hey, I said it wasn't my strong suit, not that I wouldn't excel at it." He cleared his throat dramatically, posture shifting as he slipped into his theatrical persona. "'Here lies Waris, taken out by a sidewalk crack. She never saw it coming.'"
"Wow." I gave him a slow clap, the sound faintly muffled in the thickening fog. "Truly moving. I'm tearing up."
My foot caught on an uneven section of pavement, and I stumbled for real. Committing to the bit, I sank down onto the sidewalk in an exaggerated death scene, the cold moisture immediately chilling me.
I sprawled out, one arm flung across my forehead with dramatic flair. "Here lies Waris. Done in by cosmic irony and a poorly maintained sidewalk." I lifted my head and opened one eye to see his reaction
Levi shook his head even as he smiled. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're a terrible friend," I shot back, holding out my hand expectantly. "A proper mourner would at least help me up."
He took a few steps forward and grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet quickly. His palm was warm against mine, calluses catching on my skin for a brief moment before he released me. "You'll live on in the acknowledgments page."
"Gee, thanks." I brushed the grit from my jeans, flipping him off for good measure.
All the while, even through our joking, his eyes never stopped scanning the fog around us.
Levi watched as I made my way down the block. I could feel his gaze on my back when I turned to walk away. The weight of his attention followed me like a physical thing, creating more tension between my shoulder blades.
The weirdest part? I almost wanted to turn around and go back.
To grab his arm and say—what, exactly?
That the fog felt off?
That some primal instinct was screaming at me to run in the opposite direction of home?
The urge rose in my throat like bile—acidic, insistent, impossible to swallow.
My gut pleaded for me to run back to him.
But I didn't.
I loved Levi for his instinctive protectiveness, but part of me bristled at it. I wasn't helpless. If there was a threat he was sensing, I wanted to face it head-on, not be sheltered from it like a child too fragile to handle it. Whatever this strangeness was, I deserved to meet it on my own terms.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, squared my shoulders, and continued to step through the fog toward home. Each footfall seemed unnaturally loud, the sound swallowed by the mist rather than echoing naturally. The further I moved from Levi, the heavier the air became, as if crossing an invisible threshold into somewhere else entirely.
The second I stepped inside, the sharp tang of bourbon and lemon cleaner hit me. The scent was as familiar as my own reflection—Edith's particular cocktail of self-medication and aggressive housekeeping. The cleaner was industrial-strength, the kind that burned your nostrils and left your fingertips feeling stripped of their natural oils for hours afterward. It was the smell of Edith's anxiety, her need to control something in a world that had taken so much from her.
She was at the kitchen table, hunched over something, her glass half-empty in front of her. Amber liquid caught the light, glowing like trapped fire. The soft murmur of the TV filled the space, blending with the rhythmic ticking of our old clock. She collected them, these ancient timepieces, as if surrounding herself with the constant reminder of passing seconds could somehow help her pass time.
The kitchen itself was a testament to decades of suspended time. Faded yellow wallpaper, peeling at the seams, revealed glimpses of an even older pattern beneath—tiny blue flowers that had been stylish sometime during the Carter administration. The linoleum floor bore the scars of countless dropped pans and dragged chairs, its once-white pattern now a patchwork of stains and wear marks that told the history of the house more honestly than any photo album.
Cabinet doors hung slightly askew on aging hinges, the wood warped from years of cooking steam. The refrigerator hummed with the labored persistence of machinery well past its prime, occasionally shuddering as if catching its breath. Old copper pots hung from a rack above the stove, their bottoms blackened with use, their sides polished to a dull sheen from years of handling.
I hesitated in the doorway, watching her. Her shoulders curved inward protectively, her normally rigid posture softened by something that looked like defeat. The warm overhead light cast deep shadows beneath her eyes, emphasizing the lines that mapped her face. Edith drinking wasn't new. Edith looking nostalgic was.
On the TV, a news anchor's voice droned on with solemnity: "The search continues for missing local resident Samuel Hensley, last seen two nights ago near Prescott Street..."
My stomach twisted. Prescott Street. That was two blocks away. The face on the screen looked ordinary—middle-aged, slightly balding, the kind of person you'd pass on the street without noticing.
I glanced at Edith again. She wasn't paying attention to the news.
She turned another page in the worn-out photo album in front of her, her fingers tracing something with uncharacteristic tenderness. The album itself was so old, its burgundy cover faded to a dusty rose along the spine, its corners frayed from years of handling. It was the same album she'd kept locked in her bedside drawer for as long as I could remember—the one I'd been forbidden to touch under penalty of her considerable wrath.
I dropped my bag by the door, the soft thud announcing my presence. "You're drinking early."
"You're late," she muttered, not looking up. Her voice was hoarse, worn down from chain-smoking and yelling at the television. Years of hard living had etched themselves into her vocal cords, giving even her quietest statements a raspy, authoritative edge.
"It's barely 6." I crossed my arms, the defensive posture instinctive after years of navigating her unpredictable moods. "Curfew's at 7." The kitchen light flickered briefly, casting momentary shadows across the worn countertops, glinting off the collection of mismatched glasses in the drying rack like miniature lighthouses warning of dangerous shores.
Edith scoffed, nudging a plate across the table toward me with impatient fingers. Rice, some kind of overcooked beef, fork stabbed into it like an afterthought. Steam had long since stopped rising from the food, leaving a congealed mass that looked as appetizing as wet cardboard. The plate itself was chipped along one edge—a casualty of one of Edith's drunken evenings when objects had a tendency to become projectiles.
"Curfew's when I say it is." Her words carried the familiar weight of unquestionable authority, though something in her tone seemed sad.
I sat down across from her, the wooden chair creaked beneath me, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet kitchen. I started shoveling the food in my mouth with my fork. I was ravenous after training sessions, I could eat anything at this point. The muscles in my shoulders were still tight from training with Levi, a pleasant ache that grounded me in my body when everything else seemed increasingly untethered from reality.
The news droned on in the background. A reporter's voice layered over grainy security footage of a man walking alone down the street. A flicker of movement in the footage made me squint, but the clip cut off before I could really see it, replaced by a meteorologist gesturing at a map showing an approaching storm system.
I turned my attention back to Edith, or rather, to the photo album she had open before her like a sacred text.
She never looked at old pictures. She barely acknowledged the past existed. The past was dangerous territory for Edith, filled with landmines she'd spent decades carefully avoiding. She didn't keep photos on the walls, didn't celebrate anniversaries, didn't reminisce about "the good old days." Her relationship with memory was one of careful containment and rigorous denial.
But there she was, flipping through yellowed Polaroids, eyes scanning faces. Her fingertips moved over the images with a tenderness I'd never seen her display toward anything living. There was something almost reverent in the gesture, as if she was touching something sacred.
I frowned, taking the last bite, setting down my fork. "What's with the trip down memory lane?"
For a moment, I thought she wasn't going to answer. The silence stretched, filled only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the low murmur of the television. The way her fingers traced the edges of faces, she was remembering something she had spent years trying to forget. Like she was saying goodbye to ghosts that had haunted her for decades.
Then, without looking up, she murmured, "Just remembering things." Her voice held an unfamiliar quality, a hint of something soft.
Edith had never been soft. Not once. Not in the 18 years I had been under her roof.
But before my uncle, Edith's brother, died she had at least been tolerable. A force of nature I could maneuver around rather than a direct assault on my existence. She had her sharp tongue and sharper rules, but there had been fleeting moments, when she was kind and gentle. A time when grief hadn't completely calcified around her heart, turning it into something impenetrable.
I remembered being seven, hiding behind the couch as my uncle laughed, ruffling my hair as he passed. He had been the buffer between us. The thing that softened her edges. His laughter had filled the house then, warm and genuine, a counterpoint to Edith's perpetual scowl. He'd smelled of engine oil and peppermint, and his hands had always been gentle despite their strength, their calloused surfaces tender when he'd bandage scraped knees or wipe away tears.
Then he died and the soft edges went with him.
Edith wasn't a mother. She wasn't even a guardian in any meaningful sense of the word. She was just the person who happened to be legally stuck with me. Her obligation rather than her choice.
She had her rules. No talking back. No running in the house. No food after 8 PM. No touching anything that wasn't mine. No bringing up the past. Ever.
That last one was her favorite, enforced with particular vehemence.
She never talked about my parents. She never talked about what happened to them. She never even said their names. It was as if they'd never existed—as if I'd sprung fully formed from the earth rather than from two people who'd once been real, who'd had dreams and voices and favorite songs, who'd left genetic echoes in the curve of my smile and the texture of my hair.
I learned early not to ask.
Not unless I wanted a sharp slap to the face and an evening scrubbing the floors. Not unless I wanted to be locked in the basement with nothing but the sound of her pacing overhead and the cold floor beneath me.
I should've let it go. I should've just eaten my food and gone downstairs to the sanctuary of my room
But my eyes caught on something—a familiar face in the album. A child, not older than 2 years old. Gap-toothed, smiling, curly hair a mess, staring straight at the camera. Something about the eyes, the set of the jaw, the particular curve of the smile as if I were looking at a reflection through the distorted lens of time.
Was that me?
Before I could ask, Edith turned the page. The movement was a quiet assertion of control, a border being reestablished between what I was permitted to know and what remained hers alone. The image vanished, replaced by strangers whose faces meant nothing to me. I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting with a premonition I couldn't articulate even to myself.
The back of my neck prickled, tiny hairs standing at attention like silent sentinels warning of approaching danger.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt safer in this house than outside. Despite everything that Edith was and wasn't, despite the years of cold neglect and brittle tolerance, the house at least was known. The dangers here were familiar.
Whatever waited in the fog was something else entirely.
__
The sand is always warm beneath my feet.
I was used to it by now. The desert dreams had come for months, regular as the phases of the moon. Each night, the heat rising through my soles, the endless horizon shimmering with possibilities, the sense of belonging I never felt in waking life.
A flicker of red caught my eye.
I turned sharply, but the desert was empty. The dunes stretched in every direction, their curves like the body of some massive sleeping creature. The sky above burned white-hot, yet cast no shadows below, as if light itself obeyed different laws in this realm.
Another dream— I was sick of cryptic whispers and half-formed visions. If the universe was trying to tell me something, it could stop fucking around and spit it out clearly, without the symbolic veneer that left me more confused upon waking than enlightened.
"Wake up."
A voice. Mine. It resonated through the endless sand, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The vibration of it made my bones ache.
I put my hand in front of my face, shielding my eyes from sand blowing in winds that touched nothing else in the landscape. My skin prickled, a deep unease curling around my ribs like ghostly fingers. This was different from the usual dreams. There was a desperation there..
KAC!
WAKE UP
WARIS, KAC!
The ground shook beneath me, the sand rippling like water. The red flickered again at the periphery of my vision—not fire, something like a.. wing?
Was that a... fucking wing?
Massive, crimson, translucent like stained glass held up to sunlight. It extended beyond my field of vision, impossibly large and beautiful.
The thought came and went, lost as the desert ripped away from me, the dream collapsing like a sandcastle beneath a wave.
I bolted upright, gasping, sweat making my old t-shirt cling to my skin like a second layer. My breath came shallow, my body tensed, ears straining against the heavy silence that filled the basement. The cold air was a shock against my damp skin, the contrast disorienting after the heat of the dream world that still clung to the edges of my consciousness.
I’d fallen asleep.
A crash from above.
A scream—sharp, muffled, cut off too soon, as if a hand had clamped over the source.
Glass shattered, the sound crystal-clear even through the floorboards.
I froze. My pulse pounded against my skull, a steady drumbeat of panic that made it difficult to think clearly. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them, trying to focus on reality…or was this still a dream?
Thud. Thud. Drag.
FUCK. Definitely reality.
My eyes snapped to the ceiling, tracking the uneven, jerking movements above me. Someone was being dragged across the kitchen floor, the sound of a struggling body was unmistakable.
Edith.
My stomach clenched, nausea creeping up my throat like bile.
"Where is the girl?" a voice demanded, its tone carrying a quality I'd never heard before.
My breath locked in my throat, my body instinctively stilling.
He was looking for me.
xoxo
Until your shadow meets mine again—
Simxn
Author, Crown of Thorns: Desert Rose • Editor, The Alchemxst