PROLOGUE

The first time I swallowed the ashes, I expected nothing.

No whispers, no visions, no ghosts clawing their way through

the walls. Just silence, thick and suffocating, as the bitter dust settled on

my tongue. It tasted of burnt paper and something else—something

deeper, something lost.

Then, I heard him.

"Did you miss me?"

I froze, the voice threading itself through my ribs, coiling around

my lungs. It was him. Not an echo, not a memory distorted by grief. It

was his voice, as real as the ring still wrapped around my trembling

finger.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But more than anything, I

wanted to hear him again.

1
 So, I took another bite

Love demands sacrifice, they say. But no one tells you what

love demands after death. How it lingers in the spaces between breaths,

in the weight of an empty bed, in the ashes sealed within an urn.

I had lost him once. I would not lose him again.

Even if it meant consuming what little remained of him.

2
 CHAPTER I: THE DELIVERY

The box arrived in the late afternoon, left at the doorstep without

ceremony. The delivery man hadn't waited for a signature. Just a quiet

knock and the fading crunch of boots against gravel. Alma hesitated

before picking it up. The weight in her arms felt heavier than it should

have, as if grief itself had settled inside.

She placed it on the dining table and stared at it for a long

moment. The brown wrapping was unremarkable, yet it carried the

unbearable finality of what lay within. Her fingers found the tape,

peeling it back with slow, deliberate movements. When the box finally

opened, the glossy black urn inside gleamed under the fading daylight.

Its polished surface reflected her face—distorted, hollow-eyed, broken.

Her breath caught in her throat as she lifted it out. Carefully, she

walked to the mantle, placing it beside the wedding photo that had

remained untouched since Rafael’s death. In the picture, they were

3
 smiling, eyes bright with the promise of forever. Now, the

contrast was stark: life and death, captured side by side.

A sharp knock startled her. Clara.

“You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” her sister said, stepping inside

before Alma could protest. Her arms were full—a casserole dish, a

bottle of wine, an unspoken plea.

“I’ll be fine,” Alma replied, voice steady but brittle.

Clara sighed, setting the food down. “You say that, but you haven’t

been fine for weeks.” She reached out, squeezing Alma’s hand. “Please.

Let me stay.”

Alma wanted to refuse, but exhaustion clawed at her bones. “Just for

a little while,” she relented.

The evening passed in a haze. Clara filled the silence with small

talk, but Alma barely heard her. The urn’s presence loomed, an

unspoken weight pressing down on her chest. Every few minutes, her

eyes drifted back to it. It was impossible not to.

4
 Clara noticed. “You don’t have to sit here and stare at it, you

know.”

Alma forced a tight-lipped smile. “I’m just… trying to

understand.”

“What’s there to understand?” Clara’s voice softened. “He’s

gone.”

Gone. The word struck like a blow. Alma exhaled sharply,

shaking her head. “It doesn’t feel real.”

Clara hesitated, then nodded. “I know.”

She left an hour later, pressing a lingering kiss to Alma’s

forehead. “Call me if you need anything.”

Alma only nodded, shutting the door behind her.

As the night deepened, silence settled over the house. Alma

curled up on the couch, watching the urn from across the room. The dim

glow of the living room lamp cast shifting shadows on its surface.

5
Slowly, she reached out, running her fingers over the delicate etchings.

They felt impossibly cold.

“How can you be in there?” she murmured. “How can a whole

life fit into something so small?”

No answer came. Only the steady ticking of the clock and the

faint creak of the house settling.

Sleep did not come easily. She drifted in and out, waking to the

phantom touch of Rafael’s hand against hers, the ghost of his voice

calling her name. Each time, she turned toward the urn, half-expecting

something—anything. But it remained still, silent.

By morning, she was exhausted. Clara’s concerned phone call

barely registered. Neither did the knock of a neighbor dropping off

groceries. Everything outside the walls of her home felt distant, unreal.

She moved through the day like a sleepwalker, the weight in her chest

pressing heavier with each passing hour.

That evening, she poured herself a glass of wine. One glass

turned into two. Then three.

6
 Her mind wandered. What was left of Rafael inside that urn?

Ash and bone, they had told her. But what if there was more? What if

some part of him remained? Science couldn’t explain everything. There

were stories—whispers of those who had found ways to speak beyond

the grave, who had bridged the chasm between life and death.

She traced the rim of her glass, staring at the urn. “What if

there’s a way to bring you back?” she whispered.

The silence felt heavier than before, like it was listening.

A chill ran down her spine. She shook it off, draining the last of

her wine and setting the glass aside. It was grief, she told herself.

Nothing more.

Yet, as the night stretched on, the thought remained, curling

around her mind like smoke.

And then she heard it.

A sound—faint but unmistakable. A whisper, just on the edge of

hearing. Her name.

7
 She froze. The room was empty. The doors locked. The

windows shut tight against the night air.

Still, she felt it. A presence.

Her pulse pounded. Slowly, she stood, crossing the room. Her

hand hovered over the urn. The air felt charged, electric.

“Rafael?”

The silence stretched.

Then, ever so slightly, the urn shifted.

Alma stumbled back, heart hammering. It had to be her

imagination. It had to be.

But as she stared, breath coming in shallow gasps, she

knew—this was only the beginning.

8
 CHAPTER II: THE WHISPER

The first whisper came in the dead of night.

Alma lay in bed, curled on her side, the urn resting on her bedside

table. Sleep had eluded her for weeks, but tonight, exhaustion had begun

to weigh heavy on her limbs. Still, she kept the urn close, as though

proximity could somehow bridge the chasm of loss. The room was

quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall.

Then, just as she began to drift between wakefulness and sleep, she

heard it.

A voice, soft yet unmistakable. "Alma."

Her eyes flew open, heart hammering. The room was the same

as before—the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the

curtains, the bedside lamp casting a dim pool of light. Nothing had

changed.

And yet, something had.

9
 She held her breath, straining to listen. For a moment, silence

stretched so thin she wondered if she had imagined it.

Then, the voice came again.

"Alma, it’s me."

The sound was faint, almost swallowed by the hush of the night,

but it was there. And it was familiar.

Rafael.

A shudder ran through her. She bolted upright, staring at the urn.

The room felt suddenly smaller, the air charged with something she

couldn't name. Her hands trembled as she reached out, fingers grazing

the cold, smooth surface.

"Rafael?" Her voice cracked. "Is it really you?"

Silence. Then, barely above a whisper, the reply came.

"I don’t know… but I’m here."

10
 Alma sucked in a sharp breath. Her chest ached, the weight of

grief pressing against her ribs. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she

clutched the urn, her fingers tightening around it as though holding onto

him.

"How is this possible?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"I thought I lost you forever."

The voice was faint, distant, like an echo carried from a place

she couldn't reach. "I never left," Rafael murmured. "But it's… hard.

The connection is weak."

Desperation clawed at her. She leaned closer, pressing her

forehead against the urn. "Tell me what to do. Anything, Rafael. I’ll do

anything. Just don’t leave me again."

A pause. Then, a sigh, barely more than a breath. "I don't know

how long I can stay."

The voice wavered, flickering in and out like a candle struggling

against the wind. Alma clenched her fists. "No, please, don’t go."

11
 But the whisper faded, dissolving into the quiet. Alma waited,

her heart thundering in her ears, but there was nothing. Just the hollow

silence of an empty room.

She spent the rest of the night clutching the urn, her mind racing

with questions. Had she imagined it? Was it grief twisting her thoughts?

Or was this real?

By the time the first light of dawn crept through the curtains,

Alma had made up her mind.

She needed to find a way to bring him back.

The following days were a blur. Alma scoured the internet,

searching for anything—anything—that might explain what had

happened. She found stories, myths, rituals whispered through

generations. Some spoke of spirits tied to objects, lingering echoes of

the dead. Others hinted at ancient practices, ways to strengthen the veil

between worlds.

She didn't know what she believed. But she had to try.

12
 Late one night, she sat on the floor of her bedroom, candles

flickering around her. She had read about energy, about focus and intent.

If Rafael’s voice had reached her once, maybe she could make it

stronger.

"Rafael," she whispered, hands resting on the urn. "Come back

to me."

She closed her eyes, listening. Seconds passed. Then minutes.

Nothing.

Frustration bubbled in her chest. "Please," she begged. "I need

you."

A faint chill prickled at her skin. The candle flames shuddered.

Then, just barely, she heard it.

"Alma."

Her breath caught. "Rafael?"

13
 "I'm here. But I can't…" The voice cracked, strained. "It's not

enough."

Tears blurred her vision. "Then tell me what to do."

Silence.

Then, slowly, a single word, so quiet she almost missed it.

"Ashes."

Alma froze. A cold dread curled in her stomach. "What do you mean?"

The whisper was already fading. "Find a way."

Then, nothing.

The room fell still once more, the candles flickering as if disturbed by a

breath of air. Alma sat frozen, Rafael’s last words looping in her mind.

Ashes.

She glanced at the urn, her pulse pounding in her ears.

What if the ashes weren’t just remnants?

14
What if they were a doorway?

15
 CHAPTER III: THE WHISPER

Desperation has a way of making the unthinkable seem rational.

Alma had spent days—no, weeks—researching, combing through

obscure forums, forgotten manuscripts, and ancient texts, searching for

something, anything, that could bring her closer to Rafael. It was an

obsession born out of grief, a need so visceral it consumed her. Every

night, she sat at her desk, candlelight flickering over fragile pages, her

fingers trembling as she traced archaic symbols with growing

fascination and dread.

The answer, when she finally found it, was as horrifying as it was

intriguing: consuming the ashes could create a bridge between the living

and the dead.

It sounded like madness. An old folktale, a desperate superstition. And

yet, she couldn’t dismiss the whisper she had heard the night before,

faint but unmistakable, curling around her like smoke: Alma.

16
 If there was even a sliver of a chance to speak to Rafael again,

she had to take it.

The first attempt was tentative. That evening, she sat on the floor of her

dimly lit apartment, the urn before her, her breath unsteady. A single

candle burned on the table, its wax pooling like molten sorrow. With

shaking hands, she reached for the urn’s lid and slowly twisted it open.

The ashes inside were fine and gray, remnants of a life reduced to dust.

Her stomach churned.

She hesitated. Was this truly what she wanted? A part of her screamed

that it was wrong, unnatural, but another part—one far louder—insisted

that it was necessary.

With a deep breath, she pinched a small amount between her fingers and

placed it on her tongue. The texture was dry, clinging to the roof of her

mouth, the taste bitter—like charred regret. A wave of nausea crashed

over her, and she gagged, her body rejecting the act even as her heart

demanded she continue. Tears streamed down her face as she forced

herself to swallow.

17
 Then, the world shifted.

The candle’s flame flickered wildly, shadows stretching unnaturally

across the walls. A coldness seeped into the room, not the kind brought

by an open window but something deeper, more profound—a chill that

sank into her bones. The silence grew thick, pressing in around her,

making it harder to breathe.

And then he was there.

At first, he was nothing more than a blur, a distortion of light and

shadow. But as she blinked, the form solidified. Rafael stood before her,

his figure shimmering like a mirage, his eyes dark pools of sorrow and

love.

“Alma,” he said, his voice a whisper yet deafening in the quiet room.

She choked on a sob. “Rafael…” Her fingers curled against the floor. “I

couldn’t bear the silence. I needed to see you.”

His expression twisted, an ache mirrored in his eyes. “What have you

done?”

18
 A lump formed in her throat. “I—I had to. I couldn’t just let you

go.”

He knelt before her, reaching out as if to touch her, but his hand passed

through hers like mist. He sighed. “This isn’t natural, Alma. There are

consequences to this.”

Her body trembled. “What kind of consequences?”

Rafael’s form flickered, his edges growing fainter. He looked away, pain

etched into his face. “Every action has a price. You’ve opened a door

that won’t easily close.”

A cold dread coiled in her stomach. “I need you, Rafael. I can’t go on

without you.”

His gaze softened, but the sorrow never left his eyes. “I never wanted

you to suffer. But the dead aren’t meant to linger.”

Before she could respond, his image wavered. The room darkened

further, the candle sputtering violently before steadying once more. And

just like that, he was gone.

19
A choked sob tore from Alma’s throat as she collapsed onto the floor,

clutching the urn to her chest. Her heart pounded, her breath ragged.

She had gotten what she wanted.

But at what cost?

That night, she didn’t sleep. She sat by the candle, staring into the

shadows, waiting. The emptiness gnawed at her, worse now than before

because she had seen him, heard him. It was no longer just a memory

haunting her—it was real. And she couldn’t stop now.

The second attempt came the next evening.

This time, she prepared herself. She drew the curtains, lit more candles,

and placed the urn before her with a quiet reverence. The weight of

what she was doing settled over her like a shroud, but she refused to

waver. She had come too far.

20
She took a slightly larger amount of ash this time, pressing it against her

tongue, willing herself to endure the taste. It coated her mouth like dust,

dry and bitter, but she swallowed it down.

The reaction was immediate.

A sharp gust of wind swept through the room, though the windows were

shut. The candles flickered wildly, casting erratic shadows against the

walls. Her body went rigid, the cold from the night before returning,

more intense this time, creeping beneath her skin like frost.

Then—

A whisper, close to her ear. “Alma.”

She turned sharply. Rafael stood in the corner, more defined than before,

his features clearer, his presence stronger.

She exhaled shakily. “Rafael…”

But something was different this time. His expression was troubled, his

stance tense. And when he spoke, his voice carried a warning.

21
“You have to stop.”

22
 CHAPTER IV: THE RULES

Rafael’s presence was fleeting, a flicker in the void. He explained the

rules: every time she consumed his ashes, they could speak, but the

connection came at a cost. The ashes were finite, and when they were

gone, so was he.

Alma’s heart ached at the thought of losing him again, but the pull of his

voice was stronger than her fear. Each conversation was a lifeline, a

balm to her fractured soul. She learned things she never knew about

him, about their life together, and about the secrets he had kept. Things

he had been too afraid or too ashamed to share in life were now

whispered to her in the fragile space between the living and the dead.

But the more she consumed, the more she began to notice changes

within herself. Her reflection grew gaunt, her eyes hollow. Sleep eluded

her, her thoughts consumed by the ashes. The taste, once bitter and

acrid, became familiar, almost necessary. The ashes weren’t just a

23
bridge—they were a burden, one that threatened to consume her

entirely.

“Promise me you’ll stop before it’s too late,” Rafael urged during one of

their brief encounters.

Alma nodded, but her resolve wavered. Each conversation felt like an

addiction, pulling her deeper into a spiral she couldn’t escape. She

rationed the ashes, at first sparingly, then desperately, prolonging his

presence by mere moments. But it was never enough. She craved his

voice, his words, his presence. It felt wrong, monstrous even, but it also

felt like love. How could she let go when he was still here, still

speaking, still existing in some way?

One evening, as she prepared to consume another pinch, a knock at the

door startled her. She froze, the ash-laden spoon trembling in her hand.

Who could it be at this hour? The knock came again, more insistent this

time. Slowly, she set the spoon down and approached the door, her heart

pounding. When she opened it, she found Clara standing there, her

expression a mix of worry and determination.

24
“We need to talk, Alma,” Clara said, stepping inside without waiting for

an invitation. “I know something’s wrong. And I’m not leaving until

you tell me what it is.”

Alma hesitated, glancing over her shoulder toward the table, where the

spoon still rested beside the small urn. The weight of secrecy pressed

heavily on her chest. Clara’s eyes followed her gaze, and understanding

dawned in her expression. She reached for Alma’s hands, gripping them

tightly.

“You look like you haven’t eaten in weeks,” Clara said, her voice

trembling. “You’re pale, thinner. And you’re always locked away in this

apartment. I’m worried about you.”

Alma wanted to deny it, to brush off Clara’s concern, but the words

caught in her throat. A lump of emotion swelled in her chest,

threatening to choke her. She had pushed people away, locked herself in

this prison of grief and longing, tethered to Rafael by the ashes that

should have been scattered to the wind long ago.

25
“I can still hear him,” Alma whispered finally, her voice barely audible.

“I can talk to him. When I take the ashes, he’s there, Clara. He’s still

here.”

Clara’s eyes widened in horror. “Alma… what are you saying?”

Alma pulled away and walked to the table, her fingers hovering over the

urn. She knew how it sounded. She knew how mad it was. But it was

real.

“It started as just a whisper,” she continued, staring into the urn’s

depths. “Then I saw him. Felt him. Every time I take a little more, he’s

clearer. But the ashes—they’re running out.”

Clara let out a sharp breath, her hands pressing against her temples.

“This isn’t healthy, Alma. It’s… it’s grief warping your mind. I don’t

know how you’re hearing him, but you have to stop. Please.”

A cold gust of air swept through the room, though the windows were

shut. The temperature dropped, and Alma shivered as a familiar

presence filled the space. Rafael was there, unseen but palpable,

26
lingering between worlds. She turned toward the invisible tether

between them, willing him to appear, to make Clara understand.

“Alma,” Rafael’s voice was softer this time, almost mournful. “She’s

right.”

Alma stiffened. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t say that.”

“You have to let me go.”

Her breath hitched, a silent plea trapped in her throat. Her knees

buckled, and she collapsed onto the chair beside the table. Clara rushed

forward, wrapping her arms around Alma as silent sobs wracked her

body. The realization crashed over her like a wave, suffocating, final.

Clara held her tightly. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

The ashes sat untouched on the table. Alma knew it would take every

ounce of strength she had left to resist their call. But as the presence in

the room faded, as Rafael’s voice grew distant, she clung to Clara’s

warmth, to the life still ahead of her. It was time to let him rest.

27
 CHAPTER V: SECRETS UNVEILED

Alma’s heart pounded against her ribs as Clara’s sharp eyes swept

across the dimly lit room. The candlelight flickered with the draft from

the open window, casting eerie, shifting shadows over the urn perched

solemnly on the mantle. Alma’s fingers tightened around the spoon, its

handle warm from her grip. The ashen residue clung to the metal, the

last remnants of her secret ritual. Panic coiled in her chest as she fought

the urge to shove the spoon into her pocket, but it was too late. Clara’s

gaze landed on it, her expression shifting from curiosity to suspicion.

“What’s this?” Clara asked, stepping forward.

“It’s… nothing,” Alma stammered, her voice brittle with the weight of

her deception. Her free hand twitched, reaching for the spoon, but Clara

was quicker. She snatched it from Alma’s grasp, holding it up to the

candlelight.

28
Clara’s brow furrowed as she scrutinized the strange, powdery

substance clinging to the silver utensil. Her lips parted slightly, then

pressed into a thin line. “Is this—?” Her breath hitched. “Ashes?”

Alma swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat only grew heavier. She

had no words, no excuse to mask the truth. Clara’s disbelief quickly

shifted to horror, then anger.

“Alma, what the hell are you doing?” Her voice rose, cracking with

emotion.

Alma’s chest tightened like a vice. “You wouldn’t understand,” she

whispered, turning away.

“Try me.” Clara stepped closer, her arms crossing over her chest, as if

bracing herself for impact. “I’ve been watching you fall apart for weeks.

You hardly sleep, you barely eat. You talk to yourself when you think no

one’s listening. And now… this?” Her voice wavered. “If you think I’m

just going to stand by while you—” She sucked in a breath. “Please,

Alma. Talk to me.”

29
Alma hesitated. The room felt impossibly small, suffocating. The

candle’s glow wavered, casting shifting shadows over Clara’s worried

face. The weight of isolation pressed against Alma’s ribs, urging her to

spill the truth, to let someone else carry the burden she had shouldered

alone for too long.

She exhaled shakily. “I can speak to Rafael.”

Clara blinked. “What?”

“Through the ashes.” Alma clenched the spoon in her palm. “When I

consume them, I can hear him. I can see him. It’s like he’s here with

me.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Then

Clara let out a laugh—sharp, bitter, incredulous. “You’re joking. This is

some kind of sick joke.”

“It’s not,” Alma insisted, her voice trembling. “I swear it’s real.”

30
Clara shook her head, taking a step back as if physical distance could

separate her from the unsettling truth. “Do you even hear yourself? This

isn’t grief, Alma. This is… madness.”

Alma flinched as if struck. “Maybe it is,” she snapped. “But it’s the only

way I can feel him again. Don’t you understand? I can’t lose him

twice.”

Clara’s shoulders sagged, her anger dissolving into something softer,

more fragile. “You haven’t lost him,” she said, voice gentle. “Not the

way you think. But this? Alma, this isn’t right. It isn’t healthy.” She

hesitated before reaching out, her fingers grazing Alma’s wrist. “Please.

Let me help you.”

Alma recoiled, pulling away. She turned toward the urn, running her

fingers over its smooth, cold surface. “I don’t need help. I need Rafael.”

Clara’s breath hitched, but she said nothing. The silence stretched

between them like an uncrossable chasm. Finally, she sighed and

stepped back toward the door.

31
“I can’t watch you do this to yourself,” she whispered. “But I’m not

giving up on you.”

Alma didn’t turn around as the door clicked shut. The sound echoed

through the empty house, reverberating in the hollows of her chest. But

even after Clara was gone, her words remained, lingering in the air like

the scent of burning wax.

Alma clutched the urn to her chest, waiting for Rafael’s voice to

whisper through the darkness.

Hours passed. The candle burned lower, the flame trembling as if

burdened by the weight of unspoken truths. The house settled into

uneasy stillness.

Alma sat curled on the floor, the urn cradled in her lap. Her breath came

slow and steady now, the earlier confrontation fading into the

background.

“Rafael,” she whispered. “Are you there?”

32
The room remained silent, but Alma waited. The moment stretched, the

shadows deepened. And then—a whisper, faint as the wind.

“I’m here.”

Relief flooded her veins. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. “Clara

knows,” she murmured. “She thinks I’m losing my mind.”

The voice was softer this time, almost sad. “And what do you think?”

Alma hesitated. Did she even know anymore? The world beyond this

house felt distant, unreal. Only this remained—the quiet, the ashes, the

whispers of a love that refused to fade.

“I think,” she whispered, “that I can’t let you go.”

Silence. Then, just before the candle guttered out, the voice

returned—low, lingering, almost tender.

“Then don’t.”

33
 CHAPTER VI: THE FIRST PIECE

The next time Alma consumed the ashes, she was careful to lock the

door and draw the curtains. She had double-checked the latch, ensuring

no one could stumble upon her in this strange, secret ritual. The small,

ornate container rested in her palm, cool and smooth. Her fingers

trembled as she lifted it closer.

The taste was just as bitter, clinging to her tongue like a curse, but this

time, the connection came quicker, sharper. The world around her

seemed to tilt, the shadows stretching, thickening. And then, he was

there.

“Alma,” Rafael’s voice enveloped her like a warm embrace, familiar

and aching all at once. He stood before her, a flickering outline, as if he

were both there and not, the very fabric of him unraveling at the edges.

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them.

“Rafael, I missed you.”

34
“And I missed you,” he said. But something was different. His face was

strained, his expression pained, as if merely appearing cost him

something vital. His eyes, once filled with warmth, now held a shadow

that hadn’t been there before.

Alma felt her heart tighten. “What’s wrong?” she asked, the weight of

her fear settling over her like a heavy shroud.

Rafael hesitated before speaking. “The ashes,” he said slowly. “They’re

not just a link. They’re… a part of me. Every time you use them, you’re

taking something from me.”

Alma’s breath hitched. The realization crashed over her like a wave,

suffocating and relentless. “I didn’t know. Rafael, I’m so sorry—”

“I’m not angry,” he interrupted, his voice softer now. He reached for

her, his hand flickering like candlelight, unable to make full contact.

“But you need to understand the cost. When the ashes are gone, so am I.

Completely.”

35
Her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the table for support. “I

don’t care about the cost,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I just

need more time with you.”

Rafael’s expression darkened. “Time won’t stop the changes, Alma. It’s

not just me who’s affected.”

Her stomach churned. “What do you mean?”

He took a step closer, the air around him shimmering like heat on

pavement. “You feel it, don’t you?”

Alma swallowed, her gaze shifting toward the mirror on the far side of

the room. She had been avoiding her reflection for days, afraid of what

she might see. But now, she had no choice. Slowly, she turned her head.

A gasp caught in her throat.

Her skin had lost its warmth, its vibrancy. A sickly pallor stretched

across her cheeks, and her eyes—once dark and bright—were sunken,

shadowed. Even the shape of her face seemed different, hollowed out,

drained.

36
She barely recognized herself.

“This isn’t just grief,” Rafael murmured. “It’s something else. The more

you take, the more it changes you.”

Alma’s fingers curled into fists. “But I don’t have a choice.” Her voice

cracked under the weight of her desperation. “I can’t lose you again,

Rafael.”

He exhaled, a pained sound. “You never lost me, Alma. I’m here.”

“But for how long?” she countered, her throat tightening. “How many

more times can I see you? How much more of you is left?”

Rafael hesitated. “Not much.”

A sob tore through her, raw and unforgiving.

He lifted his hand as if to wipe away her tears, but he couldn’t touch

her. The moment his fingers neared her cheek, they flickered like static

before vanishing altogether.

37
Alma let out a ragged breath. “There has to be a way,” she pleaded.

“Something I can do to stop this.”

Rafael’s gaze drifted past her, distant, as if he were listening to

something she couldn’t hear. A shiver ran through him, his form

distorting.

“There’s more to this than you know,” he said. “You need to be careful.”

Before she could demand an explanation, his image wavered. His edges

crumbled like burnt paper caught in the wind.

“Wait,” she begged. “Rafael, don’t go—”

But he was gone, leaving only the silence, thick and suffocating.

Alma staggered back, her legs weak beneath her. She pressed a hand to

her chest, struggling to catch her breath. The room felt colder, the air

heavier. The weight of what she had done—what she was still

doing—pressed down on her.

Her gaze returned to the mirror. The changes had already begun,

creeping into her like an infection.

38
And if Rafael was right, they would only get worse.

But she couldn’t stop.

She wouldn’t.

39
 CHAPTER VII: THE JOURNAL

Determined to understand what was happening, Alma returned to her

research. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across the

cluttered desk where she sat. Books and notes lay scattered around her,

remnants of her desperate attempts to make sense of the eerie

occurrences that had overtaken her life.

Her gaze settled on an old leather-bound journal tucked beneath a stack

of brittle parchment. She hesitated before pulling it free, her fingers

brushing over the worn cover. It smelled of dust and decay, as if time

itself had seeped into its very fibers. This was the journal she had

discovered during her earlier searches—a relic belonging to Dr. Elias

Mendoza, an anthropologist whose work delved into ancient rituals and

the supernatural.

She flipped open the cover, revealing delicate, yellowed pages filled

with spidery and cramped handwriting. Mendoza had meticulously

documented his findings, detailing obscure practices from cultures

40
around the world. Alma’s eyes darted across the lines, skimming past

sections on burial rites and spirit callings until a particular passage

caught her attention:

“Ashes of the deceased serve as a tether, binding the living to the dead.

But such bonds are fragile, and misuse can invite consequences beyond

comprehension. The living must tread carefully, lest they lose themselves

in the void.”

A chill crept up Alma’s spine, and she unconsciously tightened her grip

on the journal. Was that what was happening to her? Had she

unknowingly crossed a line?

The memory of Rafael’s voice whispering in the darkness sent shivers

through her. It had started as fleeting murmurs, but now it was as if he

was truly there—watching, waiting. Was she losing herself in his

absence? Or had she pulled him back from the other side?

Desperate for answers, she flipped to another entry. Mendoza had

chronicled an ancient ritual eerily similar to what she had been doing.

Her heart pounded as she read:

41
“The ritual follows three distinct stages: the awakening, the bond, and

the descent. The awakening calls to the spirit, drawing it near. The bond

solidifies its presence, intertwining the essence of the deceased with the

living. The descent is the final stage—irreversible. It is marked by a

fundamental shift in the living, where the soul becomes entwined with

the dead, the boundaries blurring until neither can exist without the

other.”

Alma’s breath hitched. The words felt like an omen, a warning meant

specifically for her.

A sudden, forceful knock at the door shattered the silence. Her pulse

spiked, and she slammed the journal shut, her breath shallow. The room

felt colder, heavier.

She hesitated before moving to answer. Her mind raced with

possibilities—had someone been watching her? Did they know what she

had been doing?

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the doorknob and swung the door

open.

42
It was Daniel—Rafael’s estranged brother. His expression was grim, his

eyes dark with unspoken words.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low and urgent.

Alma stepped back to let him in, her mind spinning with unanswered

questions. The journal lay forgotten on the desk, its ominous words

lingering in the air like an unspoken curse.

43
 CHAPTER VIII: SUSPICION

Daniel stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the dimly lit room. The air was

thick with the scent of burnt sage and something else—something

metallic, almost like blood. He hesitated just past the doorway, his

fingers twitching at his sides. The house was eerily quiet except for the

soft creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet. It felt different, heavier,

as if the very walls were holding their breath.

Then he saw it.

The urn sat atop the small wooden table near the window, its polished

ceramic surface gleaming under the faint glow of a single flickering

candle. His stomach twisted. He had hoped—prayed—that the rumors

were just that, baseless whispers meant to stir trouble. But seeing it

there, so prominently placed, shattered any illusions he had clung to.

“So, it’s true,” he murmured, his voice heavy with something between

anger and grief.

44
Alma, who had been leaning against the far wall, stiffened. “What’s

true?” she asked, though she already knew what he meant. Her pulse

quickened, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress.

Daniel turned to face her fully, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp. “I’ve been

hearing things—about you, about Rafael. People are saying you’re

not… yourself.”

A bitter laugh escaped Alma’s lips. “I’m grieving, Daniel,” she said

defensively. “What else would they expect?”

Daniel took a slow step forward. “This is more than grief.” His voice

softened, but the concern in his eyes only deepened. “I know about the

ashes, Alma.”

Her blood ran cold.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, her fingers tightening into fists.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

“Don’t play dumb,” he snapped. “I know you’ve been… using them.”

His voice wavered on the last words, as if the thought itself sickened

45
him. “I don’t know how, but I can see it in your eyes. You’re not the

same.”

Alma forced herself to stay calm. She unfolded her arms, shifting her

weight slightly, trying to mask the panic crawling up her spine. “You

don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Daniel exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Rafael told me

things—before he died.”

That made her freeze. A sharp pang of longing and fear stabbed at her

chest. “What things?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

Daniel’s face darkened, his eyes clouding with something she couldn’t

quite place. “There were secrets he couldn’t tell you,” he admitted.

“Things that could destroy you both. He was scared, Alma. I could hear

it in his voice.”

Alma felt like the ground beneath her had shifted. “That doesn’t make

any sense. Rafael never kept secrets from me.”

46
Daniel shook his head. “That’s what you think.” He looked at her, really

looked at her. “And now you’re messing with forces you don’t

understand.”

Her heart pounded against her ribs. She had always known Daniel to be

skeptical, overly cautious even, but there was something in his

tone—something raw, urgent. He truly believed she was in danger. But

how could he understand what she had been through? How could he

possibly grasp the depth of her loss? The unbearable weight of Rafael’s

absence?

She took a deep breath. “What are you so afraid of, Daniel?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “That you won’t be able to stop. That

whatever you think you’re doing, it’s going to consume you.”

Alma turned away, staring at the urn, at the delicate engravings on its

surface. She traced a finger along its edge. “I won’t stop,” she said, her

voice barely above a whisper.

Daniel inhaled sharply. “Then you’ve already lost yourself.”

47
He turned on his heel, heading for the door. The moment his hand

touched the doorknob, Alma felt a surge of something—anger, fear,

desperation. She wasn’t sure which.

“You’re wrong,” she said firmly. “I haven’t lost anything.”

Daniel hesitated, then turned his head slightly. “You will.”

The door swung shut behind him, leaving Alma alone in the dim room.

The candle flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The urn sat in

its place, silent and unmoving. But Alma knew better.

It was not silent.

It never was.

She reached for it with trembling fingers, pressing her palm against its

cool surface. A shiver ran through her. The familiar whisper returned,

curling around her mind like smoke.

She was not alone.

48
And she would not stop until she knew everything Rafael had kept from

her—even if it cost her everything.

49
 CHAPTER IX: ECHOES OF THE DEAD

Alma sat in silence, her fingers tightening around the cold ceramic

urn. The dim light in the room flickered as if in response to the weight

of her thoughts. The air itself felt charged, thick with something unseen.

It was as though the room no longer belonged entirely to the present.

The past and the unknown wove themselves into the fabric of the walls,

the floor, the very air she breathed.

Then, the whispers came.

At first, they were just a murmur—indistinct, curling through the silence

like tendrils of smoke. She couldn't make out words, only the cadence

of voices. But as she focused, the whispers grew clearer, forming

syllables, sentences. And then, as if a door had been flung open, the

voices transformed into something else entirely. They weren’t just

sounds.

They were memories.

50
Rafael’s memories.

Alma sucked in a sharp breath as the world around her blurred, her

consciousness pulled into something beyond her own mind. The room

melted away, and she found herself somewhere unfamiliar—dark,

enclosed, suffocating.

A single candle flickered in the corner of the space, casting shadows

against damp, cracked walls. Rafael stood in the dim light, his posture

tense, his fingers drumming anxiously against his thigh. Across from

him, a man loomed, his face obscured by the darkness.

“She cannot know,” the man said, his voice sharp with urgency.

Rafael’s face twisted with conflict. “She deserves the truth.”

The man took a step forward, his shadow stretching long and menacing.

“Some truths are better left buried.”

The vision wavered, flickering like a faulty reel of film. Alma tried to

move, tried to grasp onto Rafael, to demand an answer, but before she

could reach him, the scene collapsed in on itself. The darkness

51
shattered, and she was flung back into her own body with such force

that she gasped aloud.

She was back in her room. The urn sat heavy in her hands, her pulse

roaring in her ears.

“What didn’t you tell me, Rafael?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Her grip on the urn tightened, as if she could wring answers from it. But

the ashes inside offered nothing. No response, no comfort—only the

quiet reminder of what she had lost.

Alma had lived with grief long enough to recognize that it was not

linear. It came in waves, sometimes gentle, sometimes violent. This,

however, was something else. This was not the simple ache of missing

someone. This was an unraveling. A fracture in the fabric of what she

thought she knew.

Who was that man?

What truth had Rafael hidden from her?

52
She stared down at the urn, her mind racing. If these visions were truly

Rafael’s memories, if his thoughts were somehow lingering beyond

death, then there had to be more. More to see, more to understand.

Slowly, she closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe evenly. If the

memories had surfaced once, perhaps they would return. Perhaps she

could reach for them, pull them forward.

And so she waited.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. The air seemed to press against

her skin, prickling with unseen energy.

Then it happened again.

A whisper, curling at the edge of her consciousness. Then another. They

overlapped, layered upon one another like voices in a crowded room.

But one voice cut through the rest.

Rafael.

“Alma.”

53
Her breath hitched. The sound was not external—it was inside her,

threading through her mind, deep and familiar. But before she could

respond, before she could even fully grasp what was happening, the

world shifted once more.

The candlelit room returned, but this time she was closer. She could feel

the dampness in the air, smell the faint trace of burning wax. Rafael’s

face was clearer now, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

“Then what do you suggest?” he asked, his voice barely above a

whisper.

The shadowed man exhaled sharply. “You know what must be done.”

Rafael shook his head. “I won’t.”

“You have no choice.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things. Then,

slowly, Rafael’s shoulders slumped. “If she ever finds out—”

“She won’t. Unless you’re careless.”

54
Another beat of silence. Then Rafael let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “She’ll

never forgive me.”

The man’s voice softened, though his words remained firm. “It’s better

this way.”

Alma’s pulse pounded as the scene dissolved. She opened her eyes, her

body shivering despite the warmth of the room. The words echoed in

her mind, circling her like vultures.

She won’t. Unless you’re careless.

She’ll never forgive me.

Her stomach twisted. Rafael had kept something from her. Something

he believed would shatter her if she ever learned the truth.

A deep sense of unease settled into her bones. She thought she had

known him. Thought she had understood the man she had loved, the

man she had lost. But now, doubt gnawed at the edges of her certainty.

What had Rafael done? What had he hidden?

The urn sat silent, offering no answers.

55
Alma pressed a hand against her forehead, willing her thoughts to settle.

She couldn’t jump to conclusions. These were just fragments—pieces of

a puzzle she didn’t yet understand.

But she would.

Determination flared within her. She could not let this go. Whatever

truth Rafael had buried, she would unearth it. No matter what it cost her.

She reached out, running her fingers along the smooth surface of the

urn. “I’ll find out, Rafael,” she whispered. “Even if it destroys me.”

As the words left her lips, the candle on her desk flickered

violently—once, twice—before going out completely.

The room plunged into darkness.

56
 CHAPTER X: DESCENT

Alma barely left the house in the days that followed. The world outside

blurred into irrelevance as she delved deeper into the fragments of

Rafael’s memories, her mind entangled in whispers that were no longer

just remnants of the past—they were becoming her present. Each night,

she sat before the urn, waiting, listening, pleading. The memories came

in waves, surging and receding, always leaving her breathless,

disoriented. Some were his, some were hers, and some—she wasn’t sure

whom they belonged to anymore.

She had stopped keeping track of time. The curtains remained drawn,

keeping the outside world at bay. The smell of unwashed dishes and

burnt-out candles thickened the air. She barely noticed. She had to keep

going. There was something there, something vast, something just

beyond her reach. If she could just hold on long enough, she would see

it, understand it.

57
But the search was taking its toll. The whispers that once only came at

night had begun to creep into daylight, murmuring beneath every breath,

threading through every silence. They echoed in the stillness of the

morning, followed her into the bathroom, waited in the corners of the

kitchen. Her reflection in the mirror was not her own—it was gaunt,

hollow-eyed, her lips cracked from neglect. Her fingers trembled as she

reached out, half expecting the glass to ripple like water.

Daniel returned once, pounding on her door. “Alma, open up! We need

to talk.”

She didn’t answer. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out his

voice.

“I know you’re in there.” His voice softened, pleading. “This isn’t

normal. You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping—”

A sudden crash echoed from inside the house. A book from the shelf,

flung violently to the floor. Daniel froze. Alma had not moved, yet the

energy in the room shifted, grew colder. The single candle on the table

flickered before extinguishing itself, though there was no breeze. The

58
silence that followed was thick, charged with something unspoken,

unseen.

Daniel took a hesitant step back. “Alma,” he said carefully, his tone

measured, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the space between

them. “Whatever you think you’re doing, you need to stop.”

But she wasn’t listening. Her gaze was fixed on the urn. It called to her,

pulsing with something beyond memory, beyond understanding. The

whispers swelled, insistent now, wrapping around her like invisible

tendrils. They were not just his whispers anymore. There were others.

Voices that did not belong to Rafael. Voices that had never belonged to

anyone living.

She turned her back on Daniel, the door, the outside world. They did not

matter. Not anymore.

Night fell, though she barely noticed. The shadows lengthened, twisting

into shapes that seemed to breathe. She pressed her hands against the

cold ceramic of the urn, willing it to give her more.

And it did.
59
This time, the memories did not come in flickering images or whispered

words. They came as a flood. A rush of heat, of terror, of something

pressing against her chest, crushing the breath from her lungs. She was

no longer in her home. She was somewhere else, somewhere dark,

where the walls pulsed as though alive. The air smelled of charred flesh

and something metallic, something rotten.

She tried to move but couldn’t. The weight of unseen hands pressed

down on her shoulders, forcing her to kneel. She gasped for air, her

vision spinning. And then, a voice. Not Rafael’s.

“You should not be here.”

The words slithered through the darkness, curling around her like

smoke. She tried to speak, but her lips would not move. Fear gripped

her throat, squeezed until she thought she might break. Then,

hands—cold, skeletal—reached for her face, tracing the outline of her

cheek with something too sharp, too long to be human fingers.

She screamed, but no sound came out. The darkness swelled, pulling her

under.

60
Then—

Light.

She was back. Gasping. Her knees against the wooden floor, her palms

flat against the ground, her entire body shaking. The candle, long

extinguished, was alight once more, its flame burning blue. The urn sat

before her, still and silent.

But something had changed.

She could feel it.

Something had followed her back.

61
 CHAPTER XI: WHISPERS IN THE DARK

Chapter 11: Whispers in the Dark

The nights grew longer, stretching endlessly into the abyss of Alma’s

unraveling mind. The whispers no longer came in fragments—they

spoke in full sentences now, calling her name, urging her forward.

"You were never meant to know."

"But now you must."

Alma sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, the urn before her, the

candlelight flickering in uneasy patterns. Her skin was clammy, her

breath shallow. She could feel something shifting in the air, as if the

walls themselves were warping under the weight of a presence unseen.

“Tell me,” she whispered to the urn. “What did Rafael keep from me?”

The shadows thickened.

And then—

62
A voice.

Not in her head.

Not in her mind.

It came from behind her.

"Alma."

She turned sharply, her heart slamming into her ribs. The room was

empty.

But the voice had been real.

And it had been his.

A cold shiver ran down Alma’s spine. Her fingers dug into the wood

beneath her, grounding her, forcing herself to breathe. She licked her

dry lips and glanced at the urn again. The candle flame wavered wildly,

stretching unnaturally toward the ceiling as if reaching for something

unseen.

63
The air grew dense, charged with an electricity that made her hairs stand

on end. A low hum vibrated through the room. Her pulse quickened as

she turned her gaze to the nearest window. The glass had fogged over,

though no warmth came from within her. Slowly, a shape began to form

on the surface—letters traced by an unseen hand.

A.

L.

M.

A.

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening. The letters smudged,

distorted as if someone had dragged their fingers through the

condensation. The whispering started again, a chorus of voices

overlapping, their words tangled and indistinct. But one cut through the

noise.

“Listen.”

64
Alma’s chest tightened. Her hands trembled as she reached for the urn,

her fingertips brushing against its cold surface. A sudden gust of wind

tore through the room, though the windows remained shut. The candle

extinguished, plunging her into darkness.

Then—a scraping sound.

Something shifted behind her.

A floorboard creaked.

Alma shot up to her feet, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “Who’s

there?” she demanded, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the

answer. Her voice quivered, betraying the steadiness she tried to

maintain.

Silence.

Then, another whisper, closer this time. “You already know.”

She spun around wildly, her eyes darting into the shadows. Nothing but

the empty room greeted her—yet the weight of unseen eyes pressed

against her skin. She stumbled backward, knocking over the urn. It hit
65
the floor with a dull thud, the lid dislodging. A fine, gray dust spilled

onto the wood, and as it did, the whispers ceased.

Alma froze.

A single breath—low and ragged—exhaled behind her.

Before she could react, something touched her shoulder.

Cold. Fingertips pressing lightly, lingering for just a moment before

vanishing. Alma whirled around, fists clenched. The darkness seemed

deeper now, almost swallowing the edges of the room. She was not

alone.

The candle suddenly reignited, its flame taller and wilder than before. It

cast elongated shadows that danced eerily along the walls. The spilled

ashes on the floor shifted—moved—as if stirred by an invisible force.

Slowly, painfully, they began to take shape, forming letters.

A message.

HELP ME.

66
Alma’s breath hitched. Her hands trembled as she crouched, tracing the

letters with her fingertips. The words weren’t just a plea.

They were a demand.

A chill coiled in her stomach. “Rafael?” she whispered, barely able to

hear her own voice over the pounding of her heart.

No response.

The temperature in the room plummeted. A soft hiss filled the air, the

sound of something unseen shifting, creeping closer. Alma could almost

feel it now, a presence lingering just beyond the veil of the living. Her

mind screamed at her to flee, to leave the house and never look

back—but her heart, her desperate heart, kept her rooted in place.

The candlelight flickered once more before something—a whisper, a

sigh—echoed in the room.

“You must know.”

Alma felt her body sway. Her vision blurred for a second before sharp

clarity returned. She turned her gaze back to the urn, its contents still
67
spilled across the floor. The ashes pulsed, a ripple of energy running

through them as though something inside them had awakened.

And then—

A hand emerged.

Blackened, skeletal fingers stretched upward from the ashes, clawing at

the wooden floor as if trying to break through from another world. Alma

stumbled backward, a scream caught in her throat. The hand grasped the

floorboards, dragging itself forward.

Then, a second hand appeared.

And with it, Rafael’s voice, hollow and distant, yet unmistakably his.

“Alma.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she watched, horror and grief tangling inside

her. She wanted to reach out, to hold onto what little remained of

him—but this was wrong. The ashes swirled, thickening, forming

something more than just a hand. A shadowy figure began to rise,

68
emerging from the urn’s remains. His face—Rafael’s face—materialized

in the flickering light.

Pale.

Haunted.

Tormented.

“You must know the truth,” he rasped, his voice a mere echo of the man

she had once loved.

Alma swallowed down the terror that threatened to consume her. She

clenched her fists, steeling herself. “Tell me,” she said, voice steadier

than she felt.

The shadow of Rafael lifted his head. The candlelight shimmered within

his hollow gaze.

And then he spoke.

69
 CHAPTER XII: REFLECTION

Alma avoided mirrors.

At first, it had been a subconscious decision, an instinct she didn’t

question. But over time, the aversion solidified into something

deliberate. The glassy surfaces unsettled her, whispering doubts she

couldn’t quite silence. She draped cloths over the mirrors in her home,

turned her back to reflective shop windows, and refused to glance at

puddles after the rain. It was easier that way.

But one evening, as she passed the hallway mirror, something caught

her eye.

She stopped.

Her reflection stood still, just as it should. But something was off.

Her eyes.

They were darker. Hollowed. Wrong.

70
A trick of the light?

She stepped closer.

Her reflection did not move.

Her stomach lurched. The candle in her hand trembled as she raised it

higher, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

Then—

The reflection smiled.

Alma screamed, stumbling backward, nearly dropping the candle. Its

warm glow flickered wildly, sending grotesque shadows flailing across

the walls. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the illusion to disappear.

When she dared to look again, her reflection mirrored her expression of

terror, as if nothing had happened.

She gasped for breath. Perhaps exhaustion was playing tricks on her

mind. It had been a long day, filled with restless thoughts and too many

unanswered questions. Yes, that had to be it. A lapse in reason. A brief

hallucination.
71
Yet the unease coiled around her, refusing to dissipate.

Alma tore herself away from the mirror, hurrying down the corridor

with unsteady steps. She reached her bedroom and locked the door,

heart pounding. Crawling into bed, she wrapped herself in the blanket,

willing sleep to take her away from the gnawing dread.

That night, she dreamt of shadows moving behind the glass.

The following morning, the memory clung to her like mist. She busied

herself with tasks, avoiding the mirror at all costs. But curiosity gnawed

at her resolve. What had she seen? Could she truly trust her own

perception?

By evening, she found herself once more standing before the hallway

mirror, candle in hand. Her pulse quickened as she studied her

reflection.

Normal.

Relieved but still wary, she exhaled shakily and turned away.

Then, in the periphery of her vision—movement.

72
She whirled around, but her reflection remained motionless.

“Who are you?” she whispered, the words slipping from her lips before

she could stop them.

The silence was deafening. Then, a slow, deliberate smile spread across

the reflection’s face once more.

Alma’s breath hitched. This time, she did not scream. She couldn’t.

Terror had locked her throat, frozen her limbs. Her reflection stepped

forward—out of sync, breaking every natural law she knew. One foot

emerged from the glass as if it were water.

“No,” Alma whispered, stumbling back. “This isn’t real.”

But reality had already unraveled.

The thing in the mirror reached toward her, its fingers elongating

unnaturally, stretching through the veil of glass. The candlelight

flickered wildly as the air grew thick, heavy with an unseen force.

Alma turned and fled.

73
The house groaned as if protesting her escape. The hallway seemed

longer, the doors farther. Shadows twisted and stretched around her,

reaching, beckoning.

She dared not look back.

A whisper slid through the darkness, crawling into her ear like a spider.

“You can’t run forever.”

She reached the front door, yanking it open with trembling hands. The

night air hit her like a wave, cool and sharp. She stumbled onto the

porch, gasping, heart hammering against her ribs.

Silence.

The world outside remained undisturbed. No monstrous reflection

clawed its way into reality. No shadows slithered from the threshold.

Had she imagined it?

A slow, sinking dread pooled in her stomach.

74
Summoning what little courage remained, she turned back toward the

house.

The hallway mirror stood just beyond the entrance.

And in it, her reflection still smiled.

75
 CHAPTER XIII: DANIEL

Daniel barged into the house two nights later. He wasn’t going to wait

for Alma to open the door.

The moment he crossed the threshold, an icy dread curled around his

spine. The house—once meticulously kept—was in complete disarray.

Papers littered the floor, some torn as if by frantic hands. Wax dripped

down the walls from countless melted candles, forming grotesque,

frozen rivulets like hardened tears. The air was thick with the pungent

scent of burnt incense, cloying and suffocating. Shadows flickered

along the walls, twisting unnaturally in the dim candlelight.

And in the middle of it all, Alma sat with the urn clutched in her arms,

her lips moving soundlessly.

Daniel swallowed hard. He had never seen his sister like this. Alma,

who had always been so poised, so controlled. This was something else

entirely.

76
“Alma.” His voice was firm, but beneath it was pure fear.

She didn’t respond.

He stepped further inside, the floorboards creaking under his weight.

“Alma, look at me.”

Slowly, as if wading through a dream, she lifted her head.

Daniel recoiled.

Her eyes—no longer hers—were filled with something else. Something

ancient. Something hungry.

A shudder ran through him. “You need to stop this,” he whispered.

Alma’s lips trembled. Her fingers tightened around the urn, pressing it

against her chest as if she could absorb it into herself. “I… I can’t.”

Daniel took a cautious step closer. The air crackled, as though the very

atmosphere resisted his presence. “Yes, you can. This—this isn’t you.”

77
She jerked away violently, her voice rising in a fevered pitch. “You

don’t understand! He’s here, Daniel! He’s trying to tell me something,

but I can’t hear him clearly yet.”

Daniel’s stomach clenched. “Alma, Rafael is gone.”

“No,” she breathed, shaking her head furiously. “He’s with me. And I

have to listen.”

Something shifted in the air. A low hum vibrated through the

floorboards. The candle flames flickered unnaturally, stretching toward

Alma as if drawn by an unseen force.

Daniel’s breath hitched. The shadows in the room deepened,

lengthening unnaturally despite the dim light. He wasn’t sure if he was

looking at his sister anymore.

A whisper—low, guttural—seeped through the air. It wasn’t coming

from Alma. It was coming from everywhere.

Daniel’s pulse pounded in his ears. “Alma, you have to stop this. This

isn’t Rafael. Whatever you’re talking to—it’s not him.”

78
Alma blinked, her expression flickering, caught between anguish and

something else. Something foreign. Her lips parted as if to argue, but no

sound came. Instead, her body tensed, her fingers convulsing around the

urn.

Then, the whispering intensified.

The papers on the floor rustled though no wind stirred. The walls

groaned as if the house itself was exhaling. The candles flared high and

then sputtered, casting dancing shadows that did not match Daniel’s

movements.

Alma gasped, her hands flying to her temples. “No, no, no—stop, I

can’t—”

Daniel lunged forward, gripping her shoulders. “Alma, listen to me!

You have to let him go!”

Tears streaked down her face, but her eyes—those hollow, haunted

eyes—never wavered. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she choked out.

“The silence. The emptiness. He was my everything, Daniel. I can’t lose

him again.”
79
Daniel softened, his fingers loosening on her arms. “I know you loved

him,” he murmured, his own voice trembling. “I know how much it

hurts. But this? This isn’t love, Alma. This is something else.

Something dark.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “But if I let go… what’s left of him?

What’s left of me?”

He hesitated. He wanted to tell her she would be okay. That time would

heal her. But the truth was, he didn’t know if she would ever be whole

again.

The hum in the room grew louder, rising to an unbearable pitch. The urn

in Alma’s arms vibrated violently.

Then—

A crack.

A hairline fracture splintered across the surface of the urn.

80
Alma let out a strangled sob. Her hands trembled as she tried to hold it

together, but the crack widened, spiderwebbing out in delicate,

merciless lines.

Daniel reached for it. “Alma, let go!”

“No!” she screamed, but the moment she tightened her grip, the urn

shattered.

Ash exploded into the air, swirling in an unnatural cyclone around them.

The candle flames surged, casting their twisted figures in grotesque,

elongated shapes. And in the center of it all, the shadows converged,

forming something—someone.

Daniel’s blood ran cold.

A shape coalesced in the thick cloud of ashes. It was a man, but not a

man. It had Rafael’s features—his eyes, his mouth, his outline—but it

was wrong. The edges of his form wavered, flickering between

something human and something monstrous.

Alma reached for him, tears streaming down her face. “Rafael…”

81
The thing smiled. But it wasn’t Rafael’s smile. It was something

stretched too wide, something that didn’t belong on a human face.

Daniel moved instinctively, throwing himself between them. “Alma,

step back!”

Her voice cracked. “I have to—”

“No,” Daniel barked, shoving her behind him. “That’s not Rafael. That’s

not him.”

The entity cocked its head. Its eyes—dark, endless voids—locked onto

Daniel.

Then, it spoke.

“Why do you fight me?”

The voice slithered into Daniel’s ears, slipping into his mind like cold

tendrils of smoke. He gritted his teeth, fighting against the pull, against

the whispers that begged him to listen, to obey.

He clenched his fists. “Because you’re lying.”

82
The thing’s smile widened. “Am I?”

The room trembled. The walls groaned. The air thickened with

something ancient and insidious. Alma whimpered behind him, but

Daniel didn’t dare turn away.

He met the thing’s gaze head-on. “You are not Rafael,” he said, each

word carved from steel. “And you are not welcome here.”

The shadows recoiled. The thing snarled, the form of Rafael flickering,

unraveling.

Daniel seized the moment. He grabbed Alma’s wrist and pulled her

toward the door. “Now, Alma!”

She hesitated, her gaze flicking between him and the writhing darkness.

But then, with a choked sob, she ran.

The moment they crossed the threshold, a deafening shriek tore through

the air. The house shuddered violently as if the very walls were wailing.

Then—

83
Silence.

Daniel and Alma collapsed onto the grass outside, gasping for breath.

The house loomed behind them, still and dark. The candles inside had

gone out. The ashes had settled.

And Rafael—whatever had worn his face—was gone.

Daniel turned to Alma, who sat trembling, her arms wrapped around

herself.

He exhaled shakily. “It’s over.”

But as Alma’s fingers dug into her arms, as her eyes remained locked on

the house, Daniel wasn’t so sure.

Because something told him—this wasn’t over at all.

`​ `​

84
 CHAPTER XII: WARNING

​ That night, Daniel refused to leave.

He stayed by Alma’s side, his gaze steady on her as she sat in the

flickering candlelight. Shadows danced across the walls, stretching and

curling like unseen fingers reaching from the dark. The air felt heavy,

charged with something unspoken, something neither of them dared to

name.

Alma barely spoke, her fingers tracing the urn’s surface again and again,

as if trying to etch its shape into her skin. The cool ceramic was smooth

under her touch, but it did nothing to soothe her. The whispers had

grown louder, their words slithering through her mind, coiling around

her thoughts until she could no longer distinguish them from her own.

Daniel shifted uncomfortably. He had watched this ritual unfold for

weeks, seen the way Alma sat entranced, lost in conversation with

something unseen. Tonight, though, something felt different. The room

was colder than usual. The shadows seemed darker. And Alma—she
85
looked more distant than ever, her eyes glazed, her lips parted as if on

the verge of speech but never quite reaching it.

He had to say something. He had to break whatever trance had settled

over her.

“What if it’s not Rafael you’re speaking to?” he finally asked, his voice

barely above a whisper.

Alma’s head snapped up, her eyes sharp and burning. “What?”

“What if it’s something else?”

She hesitated, the question lodging itself in her mind like a splinter. She

had never considered it before. Why would she? She had believed,

needed to believe, that the whispers belonged to Rafael. That he had

found a way to linger, to reach her. That love could defy death.

But now, a thread of doubt wove its way through her certainty. If it was

Rafael, why hadn’t he told her what she needed to know? Why were his

words always fragmented, circling back on themselves? Why did he

86
never answer when she asked where he was, what had happened to him,

why he had left her?

A shiver crawled up her spine. What if Daniel was right? What if

something else had been speaking to her all along?

She pressed a hand to her temple, trying to silence the noise inside her

head. The whispers—no, not whispers anymore. A single voice now,

insistent, urgent.

Don’t listen to him.

Alma’s breath hitched. It had never said that before.

Her fingers tightened around the urn. “It is Rafael,” she murmured,

though the words felt weaker now, more uncertain. “I know it is.”

Daniel exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “How do you

know? Have you ever asked something only he would know?

Something no one else could answer?”

Alma opened her mouth, then closed it. She had asked questions. Many.

But every answer had been vague, elusive, wrapped in riddles and
87
half-truths. Was it grief that had blinded her? Had she only heard what

she wanted to hear?

The candlelight flickered, and the shadows shifted. For a moment, Alma

swore she saw a figure moving in the corner of the room, just beyond

the reach of the light. A trick of the flame, she told herself. Just a trick

of the flame.

But then the whisper returned, curling into her ear like a breath against

her skin.

He doesn’t understand. But you do. You know the truth.

Alma flinched. The voice—was it Rafael’s? Was it ever?

Daniel leaned forward, his voice firm but pleading. “Alma, please. I’m

worried about you. If this thing—whatever it is—isn’t him, then you

don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

A gust of wind rattled the window, though the night outside was still.

The candle flickered violently, nearly extinguishing, and Alma felt

something tighten around her chest, something unseen but suffocating.

88
“I need to hear him,” she whispered, barely audible.

Daniel reached out, gripping her wrist. “What if he’s gone? What if this

is just… something using you?”

The words struck like a physical blow. Alma yanked her hand back,

cradling the urn against her chest as if shielding it from Daniel’s doubt.

“No,” she said, more to herself than to him. “He’s not gone. He

promised.”

A silence stretched between them, thick with unsaid things. Daniel’s

expression softened, but there was sorrow in his eyes, a quiet grief of

his own. “I want to believe you,” he admitted. “But I’m scared for you,

Alma.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She wasn’t sure if it was from sadness

or fear.

Then, before either of them could speak again, the candle’s flame

snuffed out entirely.

89
And in the sudden darkness, the whisper came again—louder, clearer,

closer.

He’s lying to you.

90
 CHAPTER XV: RITUAL OF SHADOWS

​ Alma couldn’t sleep.

The whispers had changed.

They were no longer Rafael’s.

They were deeper, more guttural. Twisting words into something almost

incomprehensible, like syllables drenched in tar, sluggish and wrong.

She strained to understand, but each attempt left her head throbbing

with an unnatural pressure.

She sat upright in bed, her pulse racing. The darkness around her felt

alive, thick and suffocating, curling around her limbs like unseen

tendrils. The shadows in the corners of her room deepened, shifting in

ways that defied logic. Something was watching.

She needed answers.

And she knew what she had to do.

91
Her fingers trembled as she reached beneath the loose floorboard,

pulling free the ancient book she had hidden weeks ago. The leather

binding was cracked, the pages brittle with age. The symbols scrawled

across them always unsettled her, their meanings elusive yet somehow

familiar. But tonight, she didn’t hesitate.

She turned the pages with careful precision, searching, scanning for the

ritual she had discovered before but never dared attempt. The one that

promised communication. The one that whispered of reunion.

She gathered what she needed: the candles, their waxy surfaces cool

against her palm; the salt, a fine white line of protection; the thread from

Rafael’s old jacket, frayed but still holding his scent. And finally, the

ashes, resting in the small, weathered urn she had never been able to

part with.

She placed them in the center of the drawn circle, her breath coming in

short, uneven gasps. The candle flames wavered, casting flickering

shadows that stretched unnaturally across the walls.

Her throat was dry as she spoke.

92
“Rafael,” she whispered. “If you’re there… show me.”

The candlelight dimmed. The air turned ice cold, stabbing through her

thin nightgown like needles of ice. The warmth of the room had

vanished, replaced by something heavy, something ancient.

Then—

The shadows moved.

A slow ripple coursed along the walls, a shifting, writhing darkness that

coiled like smoke. Alma’s breath hitched. She clutched the book tighter,

fingers pressing into the brittle parchment.

“Rafael?”

A low hum filled the air, a vibration that buzzed against her skin,

through her bones. The room trembled. The candles guttered, their light

pulsing like a dying heartbeat. The shadows gathered, merging into a

single shape.

A figure.

93
For a brief, agonizing moment, she thought it was him.

But then she saw the eyes—

Not Rafael’s warm brown gaze, but hollow pits of blackness, endless

and void. The figure tilted its head, the motion too slow, too deliberate.

A whisper slithered through the room, not from the figure but from

everywhere at once.

“Alma.”

She gasped, stumbling back, the book nearly slipping from her grasp.

“Who are you?” she demanded, though her voice wavered.

The figure stepped forward. The salt circle should have held it

back—should have—but the lines had smeared, distorted. A mistake. A

single breath too close had broken the protection.

The figure stopped at the edge, the flickering candlelight outlining its

too-thin frame.

“Rafael?” she tried again, desperation creeping into her tone.

94
The figure’s head twitched. The shadows at its feet pulsed, twisting like

a mass of writhing tendrils. Then, finally, it spoke.

“He called. I answered.”

Alma’s blood ran cold.

She had expected Rafael. Prayed for him. But she had called out into the

void, and something else had answered.

The candles flickered violently. The air grew thick, suffocating, pressing

against her lungs like a weight she couldn’t shake. The figure stepped

closer, just past the broken salt line, and she felt it—a presence so

immense, so wrong, that her knees buckled beneath her.

She dropped to the floor, her fingers scrambling for the book, for the

page, for something, anything to undo this. The whispers grew, curling

around her mind like vines, invasive, suffocating.

“You should not have called.”

A hand—long, skeletal, too many joints—emerged from the mass of

darkness.
95
Alma’s breath hitched.

Her heart pounded against her ribs. The words on the page blurred, her

vision swimming with panic.

The room shook as the figure moved closer, its form flickering, shifting

between solid and shadow. The whispers turned into a roar, an

unbearable cacophony of voices—pleading, screaming, warning.

Then, beneath it all, one voice broke through.

“Alma.”

It was faint, but she knew it. She would know it anywhere.

Rafael.

Tears burned in her eyes. “Rafael! Where are you?”

The figure jerked, its form convulsing as if something fought against it.

The darkness at its feet churned violently.

“Alma…” The voice came again, strained, desperate. “Don’t let it in.”

96
She gritted her teeth, her hands flying over the book. She had made a

mistake. She had opened a door that should have remained shut. But she

could fix this.

The whispers rose to a shriek as she found the counter-ritual. She tore

through the instructions, heart pounding as she read the final words

aloud, her voice shaking but determined.

“In lumina, abscondite! In lumina, redeatis!”

The candles flared, their light blinding. The shadows recoiled, the figure

screaming—a hollow, distorted sound that sent shivers down her spine.

The air grew hot, the pressure around her lifting as if something

immense was being pulled away.

Then—

Silence.

The candles burned steady once more. The oppressive cold had

vanished.

97
Alma gasped, her entire body trembling. Her fingers clutched the urn,

holding it close as she fought to steady her breathing.

She glanced at the book, the pages now eerily still. The symbols no

longer seemed to writhe under her gaze. But she knew better.

Something had answered her call tonight.

And it was still listening.

98
 CHAPTER XVI: TRUTH UNVEILED

The moment the ritual was complete, Alma felt it.

A presence.

It was vast. Overpowering. Wrong.

She couldn’t breathe.

The air thickened, pressing against her lungs, forcing her to her knees.

The whispers turned into screams, piercing and relentless, weaving

through the chamber like a violent storm. The flickering candlelight cast

jagged shadows against the walls, their movements unnatural, sentient.

The symbols drawn in blood upon the floor pulsed as if alive, the

crimson ink darkening into something void-like.

Alma clutched her head, pain splitting through her skull. A searing heat

spread through her veins, an unseen force pulling at the edges of her

consciousness. It was inside her, clawing its way deeper, unraveling her

mind thread by thread.

99
Then, the shadows spiraled around her, twisting, coiling, merging

together—until finally, they took form.

A figure.

Not Rafael.

Something else.

Something ancient.

Something that had been waiting.

Alma choked on a sob, her body trembling. She tried to scramble back,

but her limbs refused to obey. Her heart pounded wildly, her breaths

shallow, uneven. The figure loomed before her, its form constantly

shifting, as though it couldn't decide what it wanted to be. Sometimes

human, sometimes something far removed from humanity.

A hundred eyes blinked open across its surface. Limbs unfurled,

stretched impossibly long, before retracting back into the writhing mass

of its body. Its presence radiated malice—an intelligence too vast for

comprehension, a will too insidious to resist.

100
The entity tilted its head, its form flickering in and out of existence.

When it spoke, its voice was everywhere, vibrating through the walls,

through the air, through her bones.

"You called me."

Alma’s breath hitched.

"You opened the door."

Her mind reeled. The ritual had been precise—every line, every chant,

every offering performed exactly as Rafael had instructed. This wasn’t

supposed to happen. Rafael had promised he would be the one to return,

that he would cross the veil and step back into her world. But as she

gazed into the churning abyss of the being before her, she realized, too

late, that Rafael had never been speaking to her.

Something else had been listening.

Something else had answered.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, this isn’t right. I—I was

supposed to bring him back.”

101
The thing chuckled—a deep, reverberating sound that scraped against

her skull like rusted metal.

"You never brought him back, little one. You only let me in."

A sickening realization sank into her gut. The incantations, the

offerings, the meticulous steps she had taken—it had all been a lie. A

trick. She had not opened a path for Rafael to return. She had opened a

door for something far worse.

Her hands trembled as she pressed them to the cold stone beneath her,

trying to steady herself. “I—I didn’t mean to,” she stammered. “I just

wanted—”

“To see him again?” The entity’s form flickered, momentarily shifting

into Rafael’s likeness, his warm brown eyes staring back at her, his lips

curling into the soft smile she had missed for so long.

For a moment, hope surged within her. “Rafael?”

Then the illusion shattered. The warmth in those eyes bled away,

replaced by an abyss of writhing darkness. The mouth that had once

102
whispered promises of love to her stretched impossibly wide, revealing

rows of jagged, shifting teeth. The thing grinned.

“You were so easy to deceive.”

Alma let out a strangled cry, pushing herself backward, her fingers

scrambling against the stone floor. She wanted to run, to flee, but the

shadows coiled around her ankles, dragging her down.

“Please,” she begged, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t know.”

A clawed hand extended toward her, brushing against her cheek. The

touch was ice and fire all at once, sending a searing pain through her

body.

“Such a fragile thing,” it mused, its voice both mocking and pitying.

“So desperate for love, for closure. But you were never meant to bring

him back. You were meant to break the seal.”

Alma’s eyes widened. “The—seal?”

The entity chuckled again. “The barrier between your world and mine.

It was weakening. It needed only a willing hand to tear it open.”

103
Her stomach lurched. She had thought she was performing a sacred rite,

that she was bringing Rafael back from the veil beyond. Instead, she had

undone something ancient, something that had been held at bay for

centuries. She had been nothing more than a key—a pawn in a game she

never even knew existed.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head violently. “No, I—I can fix this.

I can send you back.”

The entity leaned in, its many eyes gleaming with amusement. “You

cannot send back what has already entered.”

The words echoed in her mind, sinking into her very core. The room

darkened, the candlelight flickering wildly before extinguishing entirely.

The air grew heavy with something putrid, something that smelled of

decay and forgotten things.

The shadows rose, consuming everything, wrapping around her like a

suffocating cocoon.

And then, the darkness swallowed her whole.

104
 CHAPTER XVII: BREAKING POINT

​ Alma had not slept in days. Or had it been weeks? Time slipped

through her fingers like grains of sand, dissolving into the air. The walls

of her home had become her prison, the urn her only companion.

But it was more than a vessel now.

It was a voice. A presence. A doorway.

The whispers no longer crept in—they roared, demanding to be heard.

Shadows twisted in the corners of her vision, stretching and curling like

smoke. Rafael was close. She could feel him.

"Just a little more," she told herself.

Her hands trembled as she traced the edges of the urn, its cold surface

searing against her fevered skin. She barely noticed how gaunt she had

become, her body withering under the weight of sleepless nights and

whispered promises. Her once-lively eyes had dimmed, swallowed by

something hollow and unrelenting.

105
The house was changing, too. The air was thick, heavy with something

unseen yet suffocating. The walls, once still, seemed to shift in her

periphery. The wooden floor groaned beneath her feet, as if exhaling the

weight of something ancient. The light from the single flickering bulb

above her cast strange, elongated shadows, twisting into figures that

disappeared the moment she turned her head.

And she did not hear the knocking—at first.

But then—

“Alma!”

A voice. Loud. Desperate.

She blinked, the world snapping back into focus. Her vision swam, the

edges of reality struggling to solidify.

Daniel.

He was at the door, pounding hard enough to rattle the wood.

“Open up! We need to talk!”

106
Alma hesitated. Her fingers clenched around the urn, her knuckles

turning white.

The whispers twisted around her, hissing.

"Don’t let him in."

"He won’t understand."

Her breath hitched. Daniel had been trying to reach her for days. She

had ignored his calls, his messages, the times he had come knocking

before. But now, his voice trembled with something deeper than

concern. It was fear.

And yet, another part of her—the part still tethered to the world

outside—ached to open the door. To be reminded that she was still

human.

Her hand hovered over the doorknob.

And then—

Silence.

107
She frowned.

Had he left?

Then—

A whisper. But this time, it was not inside her mind.

It was right behind her.

"He’s lying to you, Alma."

She spun around, her breath catching in her throat.

The room was empty.

But she knew she was not alone.

Not anymore.

The shadows had taken shape, stretching, writhing, breathing. A cold

breath ghosted against her ear, and her knees buckled. The urn trembled

in her grasp.

“Rafael?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

108
The air behind her thickened, pressing against her like unseen hands.

“Yes,” the voice murmured, and it was him. It was him. But it was

different. Twisted. Drenched in something unnatural.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

“Alma, please!” Daniel’s voice came again, muffled through the door. “I

know what you’ve been doing. You have to stop. This isn’t right.”

The whisper turned to laughter, low and guttural.

“He’s afraid of us,” Rafael said. “Afraid of what we’ve become.”

Alma’s grip on the urn tightened, her fingers digging into the cold

ceramic.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why would he lie?”

A shadow slithered across the floor, coiling around her ankles like

smoke.

“Because he wants to take me away from you,” Rafael said. “He wants

to separate us.”
109
Her breath came in shallow gasps. That couldn’t be true. Daniel had

been her friend for years. He had been there after Rafael’s death. Hadn’t

he?

But the whispers… Rafael… the shadows… they had never lied to her.

They had shown her the truth.

Hesitation warred within her. Her fingers trembled on the doorknob.

Another knock. This one softer. More deliberate.

“Alma,” Daniel’s voice was softer now, pleading. “If you won’t open

the door, at least listen to me.”

She didn’t respond.

“You’re sick,” he continued. “You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. I

found your research, Alma. About the rituals. About the ashes.”

She flinched, bile rising in her throat.

“You think you’re bringing him back, but you’re not. This isn’t him.”

110
A sharp, cold pain lanced through her skull. The whispers shrieked, a

chorus of voices clawing at her mind.

“He’s wrong,” Rafael hissed. “You know me. You feel me.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I—I just wanted—”

“I know,” Daniel’s voice broke. “But you have to let go.”

The shadows surged. The room darkened. The urn burned against her

palms.

“No,” Rafael’s voice turned harsh. “You’re mine, Alma. Don’t let him

take you away.”

Her knees buckled. The walls pulsed. The shadows screamed.

Then—

CRACK.

111
The door splintered open, and Daniel burst inside, his face pale with

horror.

And Alma… Alma stood in the center of the room, surrounded by

darkness, the urn clutched against her chest, tears streaking down her

face.

And behind her—

Something moved.

112
 CHAPTER XVIII: A BROTHER’S PLEA

Daniel returned the next morning.

This time, Alma was waiting for him.

She opened the door before he could knock, her face blank, her eyes

unreadable. The dim morning light cast shadows over her features,

making her appear almost ghostlike. Her hair was unkempt, strands

falling over her face, and her skin, once warm with color, now looked

pale and hollowed.

He took a step back, startled.

"Alma," he said cautiously, his gaze scanning her face, searching for

something familiar. "Are you okay?"

She tilted her head slightly, the corner of her lips twitching. "Why

wouldn’t I be?"

Daniel frowned. "You haven’t answered my calls. People are talking.

They’re worried."
113
She let out a soft scoff. "People always talk."

His jaw tightened. "You’ve locked yourself away in here for weeks. You

look like—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "You need help,

Alma. This isn’t grief anymore."

She laughed—a sharp, brittle sound that sent a chill down his spine.

"And what is it, then?" Her voice was low, almost daring him to answer.

Daniel hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to put it into words. "You tell me."

For a moment, something flickered in her expression.

Something vulnerable.

But then the whispers surged again, wrapping around her like vines.

He’s trying to take it away from you.​

He doesn’t want you to know the truth.​

He’ll never understand.

Her expression hardened, the brief moment of openness vanishing like

smoke in the wind.

114
“I don’t need your help, Daniel,” she said coldly, stepping back into the

dimness of her house.

Daniel clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain calm. "Then tell me

what’s really going on. Because this? This isn’t you."

She smiled.

But there was no warmth in it.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

His heart pounded. "Try me."

Alma gripped the edge of the door. "Do you believe in ghosts, Daniel?"

The question caught him off guard. "What?"

She leaned closer, her voice a whisper. "They talk to me, you know.

They tell me things. They show me things."

Daniel felt a chill creep up his spine. "Alma…"

115
"I see him," she continued, her eyes bright with something unreadable.

"Every night. I hear him. He’s not gone, Daniel. They all say he’s dead,

but he isn’t. He’s still here. And he’s been trying to warn me."

Daniel swallowed hard. "Alma, you need to rest—"

She shook her head violently. "No. You’re just like them. You think I’m

losing my mind. I’m not. I know what I saw. I know what I hear. And I

know—"

She stopped suddenly, looking over his shoulder as if something had

moved behind him. Her entire body stiffened, her breath hitching.

Daniel turned instinctively, but there was nothing there. Just the empty

street, the distant rustling of leaves in the morning breeze.

When he turned back, her eyes had darkened, her grip on the doorframe

tightening.

"You should go," she murmured. "Before he gets upset."

Daniel’s chest ached. "Alma, please—"

116
But she had already begun closing the door. The dim light inside the

house flickered strangely, casting eerie shadows against the walls.

"Wait—"

The door clicked shut.

Daniel stared at it, his fists clenching at his sides. He wanted to knock

again, to force her to listen, to pull her away from whatever darkness

had wrapped itself around her.

But something about the silence beyond the door made him hesitate.

For the first time since this nightmare began, he wondered if Alma was

right.

And that terrified him.

117
 CHAPTER XIX: LIVING AND THE DEAD

That night, the whispers changed.

They were no longer Rafael’s.

They were something else.

Something darker.

Alma woke to the feeling of cold fingers brushing against her skin. She

gasped, bolting upright. The room was steeped in shadows, the candle

she had lit long since burned out, leaving only the pale slivers of

moonlight filtering through the thin curtains. The air was stagnant,

heavy, as if holding its breath.

But she was not alone.

She could feel it.

A presence lingered in the silence, pressing against the edges of her

consciousness. It was not like before, not like Rafael’s voice threading

118
through the stillness, filling her with longing and sorrow. This was

different.

Ancient. Restless.

Something unseen coiled through the room, thick as mist, suffocating in

its weight. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Slowly,

her gaze drifted toward the urn on the small wooden table by the

window. The bronze gleamed faintly under the moonlight, its smooth

surface reflecting only emptiness.

But then—

A shape.

Faint, flickering.

Not quite human.

Not quite real.

But watching.

Waiting.
119
Alma’s breath hitched in her throat. The shadows seemed to move with

it, shifting, stretching toward her, as if drawn by her very presence. Her

fingers trembled as she gripped the edge of the blanket, heart pounding

in her chest. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to flee from whatever

had awakened in the dark.

But she didn’t.

Because she knew.

She knew this thing—this force—was connected to Rafael.

And she couldn’t leave him. Not again.

Her lips parted, dry and trembling. “Rafael?”

The shape moved.

The shadows behind it deepened, swirling, as if the very fabric of the

night had torn open to let something through. A shiver ran down her

spine, but she did not pull away. Instead, she leaned forward, her fingers

aching to reach out, to touch what she knew she shouldn’t.

120
The air hummed. A low, vibrating energy crackled in the space between

them.

A whisper—

Not words. Not quite sound.

A feeling, curling around her, sinking beneath her skin, threading into

her bones.

She should have been afraid.

But she wasn’t.

Because for the first time in weeks—

She felt closer to him than ever before.

Alma swallowed, her pulse a frantic drumbeat beneath her ribs. Slowly,

she reached toward the urn, her fingertips grazing the cold metal. As

soon as she touched it, the air shifted. The shadows thickened. The

shape before her flickered, struggling to hold form, as if caught between

this world and another.

121
The whispers grew louder.

Not Rafael’s voice. Not his warmth.

But something that knew him.

Something that had been waiting.

A slow, creeping dread settled in her stomach. What had she done?

The shape twisted, bending unnaturally, as if its very existence fought

against the rules of the living. The shadows crawled up the walls,

deepening the darkness, making the small room feel vast, endless.

Alma clutched the urn tighter. “Rafael?” she tried again, her voice

barely above a whisper.

The shape jerked, and for the briefest moment, she saw something

within it—a flash of a face, features contorted, flickering like a dying

flame. Her breath stilled.

Not Rafael.

Not Rafael at all.

122
A choked gasp escaped her lips as she scrambled back, her spine hitting

the wooden headboard with a dull thud. The shadows surged forward,

spilling across the bed, curling around her wrists and ankles like unseen

vines. The whispering turned into something else—

A hiss.

Low, guttural, filled with something ancient and angry.

The air grew colder, the weight of the presence pressing against her

chest, suffocating. Alma clenched her eyes shut, her mind racing. She

had called to Rafael, reached for him, but something else had answered.

Something that had been lurking just beyond the veil, waiting for the

moment she reached too far.

Her heart hammered wildly. She had to stop this.

Forcing herself to breathe, Alma wrenched her hands away from the

urn. The moment she did, the shadows recoiled, writhing like smoke

caught in a strong wind. The presence faltered, the shape distorting,

losing its form.

123
A sharp, piercing wail echoed through the room, though it came from

nowhere and everywhere all at once. Alma covered her ears, her pulse

roaring in her head. The walls shuddered, the air itself trembling as if

the room could no longer contain whatever had tried to break through.

Then—

Silence.

The darkness settled. The weight lifted.

Alma’s ragged breaths were the only sound that remained.

She opened her eyes slowly, her vision blurred with tears. The shadows

were still. The room was as it had been before—quiet, empty. The urn

sat untouched on the table, as if nothing had happened at all.

But something had changed.

She knew now.

Whatever was in that urn, whatever tethered Rafael to this world—it

was not alone.

124
And she had just let something else in.

Alma swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the sheets. The whispers

had changed that night. And now, they would never be the same again.

125
 CHAPTER XX: THE TRUTH IN ASHES

Alma sat in front of the urn, her hands trembling, her breath coming in

shallow gasps. The silence around her was thick, unnatural. The

whispers that had haunted her for weeks—those soft, insidious murmurs

from the edges of reality—had ceased. The house, once filled with the

eerie echoes of voices she had never invited in, now sat in utter stillness,

as if the walls themselves were waiting, watching.

She stared at the urn, its smooth ceramic surface betraying nothing of

the truth it held. Her fingers hovered just above it, reluctant, uncertain.

For days, she had feared touching it again, afraid of what it might

reveal. But tonight was different. Tonight, something had changed.

Something was about to change.

Her fingertips finally made contact, grazing the cool surface, and in that

instant—

The world shattered.

126
A flood of images slammed into her mind, violent and unforgiving. She

was no longer in her dimly lit living room. No longer kneeling before

the remains of the man she had once loved. She was somewhere else.

Somewhen else.

Rafael.

The name rang through her consciousness like a bell, resonating deep in

her bones. She saw him—not the Rafael she had loved, but a younger

version, standing in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. His face

was partially obscured by shadow, but she knew it was him. Knew it in

the way her heart clenched at the sight.

And he was not alone.

Two figures stood with him, their voices hushed, their words sharp. A

hidden conversation. A secret buried in the past.

“She cannot know.”

“If she finds out—”

“It will destroy her.”

127
Alma gasped, the weight of those words pressing down on her chest like

an iron vice. Her body lurched forward as though physically struck by

the revelation. The voices faded, but their impact remained, seared into

her mind like an unhealed wound.

It was all true.

Rafael had kept something from her. Something important. Something

devastating.

She gritted her teeth, her pulse pounding in her ears. The whispers had

always tried to tell her. They had hinted, pleaded, urged her to listen.

But she had been too afraid. Too unwilling to confront the possibility

that Rafael—the man who had promised her forever—had built that

forever on a foundation of lies.

Now—

Now she knew.

128
But the whispers did not return. The voices that had filled her nights,

that had once dictated her every thought, had gone silent. Because she

was no longer listening.

She was seeing.

And what she saw—

Was the end.

She was standing in the middle of the house, but it was not her home.

Not the way she remembered it. The furniture was different, arranged in

ways that felt unfamiliar. The wallpaper, peeling at the edges, was a

pattern she had never chosen. Even the air smelled different—dusty,

stale, like a place long forgotten.

And yet, she recognized it. The way one recognizes a dream that lingers

on the edges of waking reality.

The sound of footsteps made her spin around. Her breath caught in her

throat as she saw him. Rafael.

129
But he wasn’t alone.

A woman stood beside him, her face half-hidden by the dim glow of a

single overhead light. Alma strained to see her features, but the shadows

clung to her like a veil. She knew, instinctively, that this woman was the

key to everything.

Rafael’s voice broke the silence. Low. Urgent.

“She cannot know.”

The woman shifted slightly, and for the first time, Alma saw a flicker of

hesitation in her posture.

“If she finds out—”

The woman turned, just enough for Alma to see the sharp curve of her

jaw, the piercing depth of her eyes. Familiar eyes.

Alma stumbled back, her hands flying to her mouth.

It was her.

Or rather—
130
A version of her. One that should not exist.

Her own voice echoed through the room, carrying words she had no

memory of speaking.

“It will destroy her.”

And then the scene dissolved, leaving Alma alone once more, gasping

for breath in the darkness of her home. The urn sat before her,

unchanged. Silent. But everything else—everything inside her—had

shifted irreversibly.

The truth was no longer hidden.

She had been the one keeping it from herself all along.

And now, there was no turning back.

131
 CHAPTER XXI: LAST WARNING

Chapter 21: The Last Warning

Daniel came back one last time.

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

There was someone with him—a woman Alma did not recognize. She

stood just behind Daniel, half-shrouded in shadow, her presence

unnerving in a way that Alma couldn’t quite place. She wasn’t old, yet

something about her felt ancient. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders in

waves, and her skin was smooth, but her eyes—they were something

else entirely. Eyes that seemed to see too much, like they could strip

away every secret and lay bare the things Alma had fought so hard to

bury.

“She can help you,” Daniel said, his voice quieter than before, almost

pleading.

132
Alma just stared at them, her breath catching in her throat. The air felt

heavy, as though something unseen was pressing against her chest,

suffocating her. She could still feel the weight of the visions pressing

against her skull, each one a ghostly imprint that refused to fade. Images

flickered in her mind—the darkened corridors, the shifting shadows, the

whispers that curled around her thoughts like vines.

The truth burned inside her, too large to contain. And now, in Daniel’s

desperate eyes, she saw the same fear she had felt all along. The same

uncertainty. The same terror of what lay beneath the surface of all this.

Rafael had hidden something.

And now—

Now she understood why.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. It all made

sense, in a twisted, nightmarish way. The warnings, the cryptic

messages, the way Rafael had avoided certain questions as if speaking

the answers aloud would awaken something they were never meant to

touch. He had known. He had known all along.

133
And yet, he had left her to find out on her own.

Alma took a slow step back, shaking her head, her body trembling as

cold realization seeped into her bones.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered, but her voice barely carried past

her lips.

Daniel took a step forward. The woman beside him did not move, did

not even blink. She only watched, her gaze sharp and unyielding, as if

measuring Alma’s every reaction.

Daniel’s face was full of anguish. “Then help me. Make me

understand.”

But it was too late.

Alma knew that now. The whispers had been right all along. They had

slithered through the walls, through the cracks in reality, warning her

again and again. The truth was never meant to be known. Some things

were better left buried, forgotten, erased.

134
And yet she had dug too deep. She had unearthed something that could

never be hidden again.

Behind Daniel, the woman tilted her head slightly, as if listening to

something only she could hear. Then, at last, she spoke.

“It has begun.”

Her voice was smooth, almost melodic, but there was no comfort in it.

No reassurance. Only certainty.

Alma’s stomach clenched. A chill raced down her spine.

Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows. The temperature in the

room seemed to plummet, the shadows stretching unnaturally across the

walls. The whispers returned, louder now, urgent, insistent.

Alma turned away, squeezing her eyes shut. But she knew it wouldn’t

help.

Because it was too late to stop what had already begun.

135
 CHAPTER XXII: RIFT

Alma stood motionless in the doorway, staring at Daniel and the woman

beside him.

Something inside her cracked—something she had spent weeks trying

to hold together. It was as if the fragile threads of her reality had been

stretched too thin, unraveling before her eyes.

They did not belong here.

Not in this house.

Not in his house.

The woman beside Daniel was unfamiliar, but there was something

about her presence that made Alma uneasy. She was calm—too calm.

Her dark eyes held a weight that Alma did not like. It was knowing.

Intrusive.

136
“Alma,” the woman said softly, her voice carefully measured, each

syllable deliberate. “My name is Dr. Rivera. I specialize in cases like

yours.”

Alma’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile if it

weren’t so empty. Her eyes flickered toward Daniel, who refused to

meet her gaze. He stood rigid beside Dr. Rivera, hands buried in his coat

pockets, as if afraid to move.

“Cases like mine?” Alma echoed, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Dr. Rivera nodded. “Grief can do strange things to the mind. Make us

see what isn’t there. Hear voices that don’t exist.”

Alma’s fingers clenched at her sides. Her nails bit into her palms,

grounding her, anchoring her to something solid. The air around her felt

thick, pressing against her chest, making it hard to breathe.

“You think I’m crazy.”

“No,” Dr. Rivera said calmly. “I think you’re in pain.”

Pain.
137
That was a word that had lost its meaning long ago. Pain was a shadow

she had lived with for months, slipping into her thoughts, twisting them,

whispering things she didn’t want to hear. Pain had become a

companion, a ghost that refused to leave.

She tilted her head, studying the doctor, trying to decide if she would let

her in. If she would let either of them in.

A long silence stretched between them before Alma finally stepped

aside, wordlessly inviting them inside.

Dr. Rivera entered first, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, scanning

the dimly lit room as if cataloging every detail. Daniel hesitated. He

hovered on the threshold, his body tense, his breath uneven.

The air inside was different—thick, heavy, wrong.

Something inside him screamed that he should turn around.

But he had already stepped inside.

And now, there was no going back.

138
The house smelled of lavender and something else—something deeper,

earthier, like the remnants of burnt incense. The living room was cast in

muted shadows, the dim glow of a single lamp flickering against the

walls. The silence was oppressive, pressing against their ears like an

unwelcome weight.

Dr. Rivera took a careful step forward. “This is a beautiful home,” she

said, her voice light, testing the waters.

Alma said nothing. She moved slowly, as if wading through water, her

feet silent against the wooden floor. Her presence in the house was

spectral, blending into the walls, becoming one with the space around

her.

Daniel swallowed hard. He knew this house too well. Knew what it had

been before—before everything changed. It was supposed to be a place

of warmth, of love. Now, it felt hollow, a shell of what it once was.

His eyes drifted to the mantle above the fireplace. The pictures were

still there—frames of memories frozen in time. He let his gaze settle on

one in particular. A photo of him and Alma, smiling, arms wrapped

139
around each other, the sun setting behind them. It felt like a lifetime

ago.

Dr. Rivera’s voice cut through the silence. “Alma, when was the last

time you left the house?”

Alma’s eyes flickered toward her, something unreadable flashing across

her face. “I don’t know.”

“Do you remember the last time you spoke to someone besides Daniel?”

Another pause. This one stretched longer. Alma’s lips parted, then

closed. Her gaze drifted past Dr. Rivera, toward the empty chair in the

corner of the room.

Dr. Rivera followed her line of sight. There was nothing there.

But Alma saw something. Or someone.

Daniel shifted uneasily. “Alma, we’re here because we’re worried about

you.”

140
Alma’s head snapped back toward him, her expression unreadable.

“Worried about me?”

He hesitated. “You’ve been... different.”

She let out a small, breathy laugh, though there was no humor in it.

“Different.”

Dr. Rivera took a step closer. “Alma, what happened that night?”

The words hung in the air, delicate and dangerous. Alma’s shoulders

tensed. The weight of the question settled over her like a heavy blanket.

She knew what night Dr. Rivera meant.

The night everything changed.

Alma’s fingers twitched at her sides. Her breath grew shallow.

“I don’t—” she started, but the words lodged in her throat.

Dr. Rivera’s voice was gentle but firm. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

141
Alma blinked. The room felt smaller, suffocating. The shadows in the

corners seemed to stretch and shift, whispering things she didn’t want to

hear.

Then, as if from far away, a soft creak echoed through the room.

Daniel stiffened. Dr. Rivera turned her head slightly, listening.

Alma’s face remained unchanged.

Daniel’s pulse pounded in his ears. He knew that sound. It came from

upstairs. From the bedroom at the end of the hall.

A room that should have been empty.

Dr. Rivera met Alma’s gaze, her expression unreadable. “Who else is

here, Alma?”

Alma didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Then, very softly, she whispered:

“He never left.”

142
 CHAPTER XXIII: THIN VEILS

Dr. Rivera sat across from Alma, watching her carefully. The dim glow

of the candle cast wavering shadows across the office walls, elongating

Alma’s already gaunt features. Her eyes, dark hollows rimmed with

exhaustion, remained fixated on the urn resting between them.

“You’ve been isolating yourself,” Dr. Rivera said, her voice gentle but

firm. “Neglecting food, sleep. You’ve cut off your friends, your family.”

Alma traced her fingers along the edge of the urn, her touch light yet

possessive. “None of that matters anymore.”

Daniel, seated beside her, shifted uncomfortably. His concern had grown

into something heavier, something closer to fear. “Alma, you don’t

mean that.”

She turned to him, her expression unreadable. For a moment, there was

only silence, stretched thin and fragile between them.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” she said softly.

143
Daniel hesitated. “Understand what?”

She exhaled, closing her eyes. And then—

A shift.

The air thickened, growing dense with an unseen weight. The

candlelight flickered violently, the flames stretching and snapping as if

caught in an unseen current. The temperature plummeted, and a shiver

crept up Daniel’s spine.

Dr. Rivera stiffened. “Alma—”

And then the whisper returned. But this time, it did not come from

within Alma’s mind.

It came from the air itself.

"He lied to you."

Daniel’s blood ran cold. The voice was neither male nor female, its tone

a distortion, stretched thin and wrong.

144
“What was that?” Daniel asked, barely able to keep the tremor from his

voice.

Alma opened her eyes.

“I told you,” she murmured.

The urn trembled beneath her fingers. A low hum vibrated through the

table, a resonance that crawled into their bones. Daniel reached out

instinctively, but before he could touch Alma, a new voice filled the

space.

Not a whisper.

Not an echo.

A voice.

"Alma."

Daniel shot to his feet. “Jesus Christ—”

Dr. Rivera grabbed Alma’s wrist, her grip firm but urgent. “This isn’t

Rafael,” she said, voice edged with something sharp. “It never was.”
145
Alma looked at her, unblinking.

And smiled.

“I know.”

Then— the candle went out.

For a moment, the room was swallowed by darkness. Daniel heard the

sharp intake of breath, the rustling of movement, the unmistakable

scrape of ceramic against wood. Then a click. Dr. Rivera’s lighter flared

to life, casting a small but steady glow. The flame flickered,

illuminating Alma’s face—and the urn cradled in her hands.

The lid had shifted. Slightly ajar.

“Alma, put it down,” Dr. Rivera said, her voice steady but commanding.

Alma’s gaze was locked onto the urn, transfixed, almost reverent. “He’s

here.”

Daniel felt his breath hitch. “No, Alma. Something’s here. But it isn’t

him.”

146
A low hum filled the room again, this time resonating from the urn

itself. The air around it shimmered, distorted like heat rising from

pavement. Dr. Rivera took a cautious step closer.

“Alma, you need to listen to me. This presence—whatever it is—has

been feeding off your grief. Twisting it. It isn’t Rafael.”

Alma’s expression softened, but not with comprehension—with

something eerily close to pity.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered. “It’s not an it.”

The words barely left her lips before the urn rattled violently. The lid

slid further open, and from within, a deep, guttural breath exhaled into

the room. Daniel stumbled back, the weight of the sound pressing

against his chest. The temperature continued to drop.

Dr. Rivera reached forward, intending to shut the urn, but Alma moved

first. Her fingers curled around the ceramic, cradling it as though

holding something precious.

“He’s here,” Alma repeated, her voice almost dreamlike.

147
“Alma, stop!” Daniel lunged forward, but an unseen force slammed into

him, knocking the air from his lungs. He collapsed against the chair,

gasping. Dr. Rivera cried out, grabbing onto the table for support as the

entire room trembled.

Then the whispering returned.

Countless voices, layered upon one another, filling every space, every

crevice. Words that had no shape, no language, and yet their meanings

slithered into Daniel’s mind, into his very marrow.

Lies.

Deception.

Betrayal.

Daniel clamped his hands over his ears, but it did nothing to silence

them.

Alma, untouched, continued staring into the urn. Her expression

remained serene as the voices swelled, rising to a crescendo.

148
And then—

Silence.

A vacuum of sound, an absence so absolute that Daniel’s ears rang with

the loss of it. He forced his gaze upward, his vision swimming. Alma

still held the urn. But now, something else lingered in the room.

A shape.

A shadow given form, stretching along the wall, shifting, twisting. It

loomed over Alma, its outline flickering, undefined, as though it had not

yet settled into what it wanted to be.

And then it spoke.

"Alma, my love."

Daniel’s stomach twisted. The voice was familiar, but wrong. Rafael’s

intonations, Rafael’s cadence—but hollowed, emptied of warmth.

Alma inhaled sharply. “Rafael?”

Dr. Rivera moved quickly, gripping Alma’s arm. “Don’t answer it.”
149
Alma wavered. For the first time, uncertainty cracked through her

resolve.

The shadow shifted, its form pressing closer. “You brought me back.

Just like you promised.”

Tears welled in Alma’s eyes. “I did.”

Daniel struggled to his feet, his voice ragged. “Alma, listen to me. If it

were really Rafael, he wouldn’t need you to prove it. He wouldn’t need

your grief to hold him here.”

The shadow recoiled. And for the first time, Daniel thought he saw

something within its depths—something desperate.

“Lies,” it hissed. The air quivered. The candle flickered wildly.

Alma hesitated.

Dr. Rivera pressed forward. “Let him go, Alma.”

150
The urn in Alma’s grasp trembled, the ceramic groaning under some

unseen force. Alma swallowed hard. Her fingers tightened around it.

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I love you, Rafael.”

The shadow surged forward, but Alma lifted the urn and slammed the

lid shut.

The force of it sent a shockwave through the room. The candle blew

out. The whispering ceased.

And then, silence.

When Dr. Rivera reignited the flame, Alma was trembling, the urn still

clutched in her arms.

But the presence was gone.

For now.

151
 CHAPTER XXIV: THE OTHER SIDE

Darkness swallowed the room.

Daniel stumbled backward, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his pulse

thudding like war drums in his ears.

“Alma, stop this!” he shouted.

But Alma was no longer listening.

She stood perfectly still, the shadows curling around her like they

belonged to her. No, not just belonged—they were drawn to her,

creeping up her arms like veins of ink spreading beneath her skin. Her

eyes, wide and unblinking, reflected something Daniel couldn’t

see—something lurking beyond the veil of the ordinary.

A deep, slow creak echoed through the house.

Daniel’s chest tightened. That sound did not come from Alma. Or from

him.

152
The whisper returned—closer this time.

"She opened the door."

The voice was neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It existed

outside the realm of the living, a spectral force that made the air itself

shudder.

Something brushed against Daniel’s arm. Cold. Clammy. A touch that

left no weight, only the suggestion of fingers dragging over his skin.

Nothing was there.

“Alma!” he tried again, his voice cracking with urgency.

Dr. Rivera, her expression grim, moved swiftly. She reached for Alma’s

shoulder, her grip firm despite the tremble in her fingers.

“Listen to me,” she said, voice edged with authority. “You have to let go

of him. Now.”

153
Alma blinked. For a fraction of a second, something human returned to

her eyes. A flicker of hesitation, of recognition, as though she were

surfacing from deep water and realizing how far she had sunk.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I—”

A sudden force slammed through the room, unseen but undeniable.

Daniel and Dr. Rivera were flung backward, their bodies hitting the cold

wooden floor with a jarring thud.

The urn—the fragile ceramic vessel holding the ashes—rattled

violently. A jagged fracture split its surface, thin as a hairline crack in

glass, but deep enough to release something more than dust.

Then—

The whisper became a scream.

"ALMA—"

It was deafening, a sound that clawed at their ears, at their very souls.

The walls trembled, the furniture rattled, and the air itself grew thick,

oppressive, charged with an energy that did not belong to the living.
154
Shadows surged outward from Alma like ink spilled in water,

swallowing every flicker of light in their path. The overhead bulb

shattered, plunging the room into a darkness that felt alive, writhing,

shifting, watching.

Daniel scrambled to his feet, his legs unsteady. “Alma! Fight it!”

Alma clutched her head, shaking, her breath ragged. Her body

convulsed as if something inside her was trying to tear its way free. The

crack in the urn deepened, spider-webbing across the surface. A low,

guttural sound seeped from within, something far worse than the scream

before it.

A growl.

A presence.

Dr. Rivera, panting, struggled to her knees. “The urn,” she rasped. “We

have to stop it before—”

The room lurched. A force yanked Daniel off his feet and sent him

crashing against the wall. His vision blurred, the breath stolen from his

155
lungs. He gasped, fighting to stay conscious, fighting against the weight

pressing down on his chest.

Alma turned, her movements no longer her own. The shadows around

her twisted, morphing into something with shape, with intent.

Eyes—too many eyes—blinked open in the darkness, gleaming like

embers.

The door to the room slammed shut on its own.

“We opened it,” Alma murmured, her voice distant, hollow. Her eyes

locked onto Daniel, but they were not truly seeing him. They were

looking beyond him.

Looking at something else.

Something that had stepped through.

Dr. Rivera lunged toward the urn, her fingers barely grazing it before an

unseen force threw her back once more. This time, she did not rise

immediately.

156
Daniel’s fingers dug into the floorboards as he pushed himself up,

ignoring the pain that pulsed through his limbs. He forced himself to

move, to think, to do something—anything.

The air around the urn wavered, distorting like heat rising from asphalt.

The crack widened further. Something within stirred.

And then—

Alma let out a choked sob. Her body jerked forward, as though pulled

by invisible strings. She reached out, her fingers trembling, her gaze

locked onto the fractured urn.

“No,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”

The shadows surged.

The urn split wide open.

A rush of air exploded outward, knocking Daniel back once more. A

figure—or something resembling a figure—began to rise from the

broken remains. It had no true form, no distinct features, only shifting

darkness, stretching and unfurling like a mass of smoke given life.

157
But its presence was undeniable.

Ancient.

Hollow.

Hungering.

The whisper returned, now an all-consuming hiss.

"She let me in."

Daniel’s blood turned to ice.

Alma collapsed to her knees, her shoulders shaking. “No,” she gasped.

“No, no, no—”

The entity loomed above her, its form distorting, shifting. It reached for

her—long, skeletal fingers forming from the swirling dark. The room

twisted around it, warping as though reality itself could not contain its

presence.

Daniel’s breath hitched. They had to stop this. Now.

158
Dr. Rivera coughed, forcing herself to sit up, her eyes blazing with

determination. “The ashes,” she said hoarsely. “They’re the key. We

have to seal it before it takes full form.”

Daniel’s gaze darted to the shattered urn, the ashes spilling across the

wooden floor like spilled sand.

The entity turned.

And for the first time—

It saw him.

Daniel froze, his heart slamming against his ribs.

Alma let out a strangled cry. “Run!”

But it was too late.

The shadows reached for him.

159
 CHAPTER XXV: WHAT LIES BEYOND

​ Light.

Blinding, searing light.

Alma gasped as she was yanked somewhere else. The sensation was

unlike anything she had ever known—like being pulled apart and

reassembled, her body twisting in ways that defied reason. The very

fabric of her existence trembled, frayed at the edges, until she stumbled

forward onto something solid.

She stood in a space that was not a room, not the world she knew—not

anywhere. The ground beneath her feet wasn’t earth, nor stone, nor

anything tangible. It was a shifting, rippling surface, like the surface of

water frozen in time, neither liquid nor solid. The air hummed with

energy, an eerie resonance that set her teeth on edge.

Rafael was there.

But he was not Rafael.

160
Not anymore.

His face flickered—human, then wrong, then something she could not

comprehend. His features twisted and morphed, shifting between

familiarity and something utterly alien. His eyes were the worst,

glowing with a light that did not belong in this world.

"You shouldn't have done this," he said, his voice layered, as if more

than one being spoke through him.

Alma’s throat tightened. “I had to.”

His expression softened. The way it always did when he was about to

say something she wouldn’t like. The way it always had before

everything fell apart.

“You don’t understand what you’ve let in,” he murmured.

Alma’s hands trembled. “Then tell me.”

Rafael hesitated. The flickering of his form slowed, as though some part

of him was fighting to stay. Fighting to remain something she could still

recognize. Then—
161
“It was never about bringing me back.”

The breath left her lungs.

“What?”

His form wavered violently. His hands clenched into fists at his sides,

his body twisting in agony. Shadows coiled around him, whispering in

voices she could almost understand, but not quite. Something was

speaking through them, something vast and hungry.

“They lied to you,” he rasped.

Alma shook her head. “No. No, that’s not possible. The ritual was

supposed to—”

“Not bring me back,” he cut in. “Not the way you thought. Not for you.”

A shadow loomed behind him, shifting, growing. It pulsed with

something dark, something ancient, something that had been waiting.

162
Alma took a step back. Her heart pounded, her breath came in short,

sharp bursts. This couldn’t be happening. She had done everything

right. Every incantation, every offering, every drop of blood—

“Rafael—?”

His eyes darkened, the last vestiges of warmth in them flickering out

like a candle snuffed by the wind.

“RUN.”

A force slammed into her, yanking her backward—

Back through the veil—

Back into her own body—

Back into a world that would never be the same again.

She awoke with a scream.

The candlelight in the circle around her flickered wildly, the symbols

she had drawn with such precision now smeared and broken. The air in

the room felt heavy, oppressive, as if something unseen still lingered.

163
She scrambled back, heart hammering, her fingers digging into the

rough wooden floor. Her chest ached, her lungs burning from the breath

she had lost.

Something was wrong.

The silence around her was too deep, too absolute.

And then—

The whispering began.

Low at first, just a breath against the edge of her hearing. Then rising,

twisting, a chorus of voices speaking in words she could not understand.

They echoed from the walls, from the floor, from the very air around

her.

Alma clenched her hands over her ears. “Stop it,” she gasped. “Stop!”

But they didn’t stop.

Something brushed against her arm, something cold and clammy and

not there.

164
She lurched to her feet, stumbling toward the door. The air thickened,

pressing against her like invisible hands trying to hold her in place.

Shadows curled at the edges of her vision, shifting, writhing, watching.

She had to get out.

She flung herself at the door, wrenching it open, stumbling into the

hallway beyond. The house was dark, the air inside thick with the scent

of wax and burned herbs. The flickering light of the candles behind her

cast monstrous shadows on the walls.

Her hands trembled as she grabbed the banister, dragging herself down

the stairs. Each step felt wrong, as though the world had tilted just

slightly, as though reality itself had shifted and had not yet settled back

into place.

The whispers followed her.

Shapes moved in the corners of her vision, too quick to see, too real to

ignore.

165
She reached the front door and wrenched it open, gasping as the cool

night air rushed over her. The stars above her head seemed too bright,

too sharp, as if the sky itself had been peeled back to reveal something

deeper beneath.

She staggered forward, her legs weak, her mind reeling.

Then the whispers stopped.

The night fell into silence once more.

Alma turned, her breath hitching.

The house loomed behind her, its windows dark, its doorway gaping

like a mouth left open mid-scream. The symbols she had carved into the

wood of the doorframe still glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

And then—

From the second-floor window—

A shadow moved.

Not hers.
166
Not Rafael’s.

Something else.

Something that had come through.

167
 CHAPTER XXVI: BREAK

Chapter 26: The Breaking Point

Alma jolted awake, her body slamming against the wooden floor. A

searing pain shot through her skull, and for a moment, the world tilted,

refusing to settle. The air was thick with dust, clogging her lungs as she

gasped for breath. Her fingers clawed at the ground, seeking stability,

but the boards beneath her trembled as if something stirred beneath

them.

She was back.

But something was wrong.

The house was silent—too silent. The absence of noise pressed against

her ears like cotton, muting even the faintest rustle of wind. No creaking

wood. No distant hum of electricity. Just the sound of her own

heartbeat, slow and deliberate, as if something else was controlling it.

Then she saw the urn.

168
It lay shattered across the floor, the ceramic shards catching the dim

light like broken teeth. Its contents, the ashes, had spilled out, forming a

dark, swirling pattern against the wooden planks. A cold dread settled in

her stomach. The sight was unnatural. Wrong. And when she tried to

move, tried to crawl away from the spreading darkness, she realized—

The ashes were shifting.

Moving.

Forming words.

Alma's breath hitched. She watched, horrified, as the fine particles

dragged themselves across the floor, their movements slow but

deliberate. Each delicate wisp of gray wove itself into meaning, spelling

out something she didn’t want to read.

From the other side of the room, Daniel groaned, his voice thick with

pain as he struggled to push himself up. He blinked rapidly, confusion

clouding his eyes until they landed on the writing. His breath caught in

his throat.

169
"You let it in."

His voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a

blade.

Alma shook her head. "No. I didn’t—"

Her words died as the ashes twitched again, rearranging themselves

with eerie precision. A new message formed, this time more urgent.

RUN.

Dr. Rivera's voice was tight, edged with fear. "We need to leave. Now."

Alma barely heard her. The world around her shrank, narrowing until all

that remained was the floor beneath her and the words shifting like

living shadows. Her stomach churned. She didn't want to look up. She

didn’t want to see what was coming.

The floorboards beneath them groaned, low and agonized, like the wood

itself was alive. The entire house seemed to inhale, sucking the air from

the room. The temperature plummeted. Frost crept along the edges of

the broken glass near the window.

170
And then, the whisper returned.

No longer distant. No longer hidden.

It was everywhere.

"She is mine."

The voice crawled beneath her skin, wrapping around her bones. It

carried weight, an unseen force that pressed against her chest, making it

impossible to breathe. The walls trembled, their paint cracking like dry

skin. Shadows slithered up from the corners of the room, stretching,

reaching.

A gust of wind exploded through the house, snuffing out the lone candle

that had been flickering in the corner. Darkness swallowed them whole.

Daniel grabbed Alma’s arm, yanking her to her feet. "Move!"

She stumbled, her legs numb, but she forced herself forward. Dr. Rivera

was already at the door, her hands fumbling with the lock, but the knob

refused to turn. A deep, guttural laugh echoed through the house,

vibrating through the walls, the floor, their very bones.

171
"There is no escape."

The shadows surged.

A scream tore from Alma’s throat as something cold brushed against her

skin—fingers, unseen, pressing into her flesh. Her vision blurred, the

world tilting as nausea rolled through her. She barely registered Daniel’s

arms wrapping around her, pulling her forward as the door finally gave

way.

Light burst through the opening, a stark contrast to the suffocating

blackness inside. They tumbled onto the porch, the fresh air hitting

Alma like a slap. The second her foot crossed the threshold, the house

behind them exhaled one final, shuddering breath.

And then—

Silence.

Alma turned, her heart pounding against her ribs. The house stood still,

unchanged, as if none of it had happened. The windows reflected only

172
the moonlight, their glass intact, unbroken. The ashes inside were

nowhere to be seen.

But the whisper lingered, curling around her like smoke.

"This is only the beginning."

173
 CHAPTER XXVII: ENTITY

A violent wind tore through the house, extinguishing the last flickering

candle.

Daniel grabbed Alma’s arm. “We’re leaving. Right now.”

Alma didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

Her body was no longer her own.

A force surged through her veins, rooting her to the spot. It was cold,

suffocating, and aware.

A shape emerged from the shadows.

It was tall—inhumanly so. Its form flickered, shifting between the

familiar and the utterly alien.

For a split second, Alma thought she saw Rafael’s face.

174
But then it changed.

Morphed into something twisted.

Something wrong.

Daniel tightened his grip. “Alma, look at me.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

She knew what this was now.

It had never been Rafael.

It had always been it.

The entity took another step forward, its presence warping the air

around it.

"You called me," it whispered.

Alma’s fingers twitched. She tried to resist, tried to think, but its voice

wrapped around her mind like a vice.

"You brought me here. And now you will finish what you started."

175
Dr. Rivera stepped in front of Alma, her voice shaking but firm. “You

don’t belong here.”

A deep, guttural laugh echoed through the room.

"And yet, here I am."

Then—

The walls breathed.

And the house came alive.

The wooden panels shuddered, groaning as though something immense

stirred within them. The shadows deepened, stretching unnaturally,

crawling like living things toward Alma, Daniel, and Dr. Rivera. The air

thickened, pressing against their chests, making it harder to breathe.

Alma felt it seep into her skin, tendrils of something ancient and

insidious worming their way into her mind. Memories she didn’t

recognize flooded her thoughts—flashes of darkened halls, whispered

incantations, hands stained with something darker than blood. She

gasped, clutching her temples.

176
Daniel pulled at her. “Alma, we have to move!”

But the entity loomed closer, its form flickering between solid and

spectral. When it spoke again, its voice came from everywhere at once,

a chorus of distorted echoes.

"You are mine now."

A sudden force sent Daniel crashing into the far wall. He hit it hard,

slumping to the floor, dazed but conscious. Dr. Rivera tried to rush to

his side, but the shadows coiled around her ankles, dragging her back.

Alma fought against the invisible grip locking her in place. The entity

was inside her head now, whispering in a language she didn’t

understand but somehow knew.

"You have always been part of me," it crooned. "And I have always

been part of you."

“No,” she forced out through gritted teeth. “You’re lying.”

The thing laughed, low and knowing. “Am I?”

177
It reached out, its elongated fingers grazing her cheek, and in that

instant, she saw everything.

A ritual performed long before she was born.

A bargain made in desperation.

A bloodline tainted, cursed to carry its mark through generations.

Alma’s knees buckled. It wasn’t just inside her mind—it was inside her,

in her very existence. She had never summoned it. She had simply

called it home.

Dr. Rivera’s voice snapped her back. “Alma, listen to me!”

She turned, vision swimming. The doctor struggled against the creeping

shadows, her free hand gripping something small, something metallic. A

lighter. She flicked it open, the tiny flame a beacon in the suffocating

darkness.

The entity hissed, recoiling slightly, its form rippling like disturbed

water.

178
“Fire,” Dr. Rivera gasped. “It doesn’t like fire!”

Daniel groaned from the corner. “We need more than that.”

Alma’s gaze darted to the overturned table, the remnants of their earlier

ritual scattered across the floor. Candles, salt, the dagger still slick with

crimson. The answer was there, buried within the chaos.

She forced her body to move, each step like wading through thick,

freezing tar. Her fingers fumbled over the floor until they found the

dagger’s hilt. The metal was warm to the touch, almost pulsing, as

though it recognized its purpose.

The entity loomed above her, its voice a caress of static and despair.

"You cannot kill what was never alive."

“No,” she whispered. “But I can send you back.”

With all the strength she had left, she plunged the dagger into the

ground at her feet, carving a jagged line through the symbols drawn in

chalk. The effect was immediate.

179
The house shrieked.

Not the entity—

The house itself.

The walls convulsed, cracks splintering outward like veins of lightning.

The floor quaked beneath them, the shadows thrashing in agony. The

entity howled, its form unraveling, torn apart by the force Alma had

unleashed.

Wind roared through the space, a vortex forming at the room’s center.

The pressure built, pulling everything toward it. Alma felt herself

slipping, the force dragging her closer to the void. Daniel lunged,

wrapping his arms around her waist, anchoring her.

Dr. Rivera’s voice cut through the chaos. “Hold on!”

The wind grew deafening. The entity’s screams merged with the house’s

wails, the sound reverberating through Alma’s skull. Light exploded

from the carved symbols, blinding, searing.

Then—
180
Silence.

Alma gasped, her body collapsing against Daniel’s. The room was still.

The air, though heavy with dust and the scent of burnt wood, was no

longer suffocating.

Dr. Rivera coughed, pushing herself up. “Is it… gone?”

Alma looked at the space where the entity had stood. Nothing remained

except a dark stain on the floor, smoldering at the edges.

She exhaled shakily. “For now.”

Daniel helped her to her feet. “We need to get out of here before

anything else happens.”

Dr. Rivera nodded. “Agreed.”

They moved quickly, stepping over debris, past walls still humming

with residual energy. The moment they crossed the threshold, the house

shuddered one last time, then fell deathly silent.

181
Alma turned back, staring at the decayed structure, at the place where

everything had begun.

The entity was gone.

But deep down, she knew the truth.

It would never truly leave.

And one day, it would call her back.

182
 CHAPTER XXVIII: IT REMEMBERS

The house remembers.

The floor lurched beneath them.

Daniel grabbed onto the nearest piece of furniture, his mind racing. The

house wasn’t just moving—it was changing.

The doorway they had come through was gone.

The windows had vanished.

Dr. Rivera pressed a hand to her temple. “It’s manipulating reality.”

Alma swayed on her feet. The whispers were inside her head now,

curling around her thoughts, twisting them into something

unrecognizable.

"Don’t fight it," the voice crooned.

The shadows pulsed.

183
The walls wept.

Daniel gritted his teeth. “Alma, you have to snap out of this.”

Alma’s vision blurred. The entity was growing stronger, feeding off her,

pulling her further into its grasp.

She closed her eyes.

Tried to remember Rafael’s face.

Tried to remember love.

But the entity was inside her now, rewriting everything.

She heard herself whisper:

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Daniel’s heart nearly stopped.

“No,” he said sharply. “That’s not you talking.”

But Alma didn’t answer.

184
The entity’s voice filled the room, triumphant.

"She is almost mine."

And then—

The floor split open.

The house groaned, its ancient bones cracking as the wooden planks

beneath them separated, revealing an abyss of writhing darkness. The

air pulsed with an unnatural heat, thick with the scent of decay and

something else—something old, something hungry.

Daniel lunged forward, grabbing Alma’s arm just as her footing gave

way. She teetered at the edge, her eyes vacant, her lips moving in silent

submission to the entity’s will.

“Alma, listen to me!” Daniel shook her. “You can’t give in!”

Dr. Rivera was already digging through her satchel, her fingers

fumbling as she pulled out a bundle of dried sage and a small vial of

liquid. “Keep her conscious,” she ordered, her voice taut with urgency.

“I need to break the entity’s hold.”

185
Alma let out a breath, almost a sigh, and Daniel felt her body slacken.

Her weight pressed against him, but she wasn’t trying to pull away—she

wasn’t trying to fight at all.

The darkness below churned, tendrils of inky blackness reaching up like

skeletal fingers. A whisper slithered through the air, and suddenly,

Alma’s eyes snapped open—completely black.

Daniel recoiled, his breath catching in his throat. “No. No, no, no.”

She tilted her head, the corner of her mouth curling into something that

might have been a smile—if it wasn’t so wrong.

“You can’t save her,” the voice that came from Alma’s lips wasn’t hers.

It was layered, reverberating as if spoken by a thousand voices at once.

“She belongs to the house now.”

Daniel’s grip tightened. “Like hell she does.”

Dr. Rivera knelt beside them, striking a match and lighting the sage. The

smell of burning herbs filled the air, warring against the stench of

186
corruption. She uncorked the vial, sprinkling its contents over Alma’s

forehead.

Alma let out a guttural scream.

The shadows recoiled, writhing violently, the entity shrieking in agony.

Alma convulsed, her body bucking against Daniel’s hold.

“Stay with me, Alma!” he pleaded. “Fight it!”

Her breath hitched. For a moment, the darkness in her eyes flickered.

The house roared, its very foundation shaking. The walls trembled,

portraits crashing to the floor as deep cracks spread like veins through

the wooden panels.

“No!” The entity’s fury was deafening, a banshee’s wail reverberating

through the very structure of the house. “She is mine!”

Dr. Rivera didn’t hesitate. She reached into her bag, pulling out a jagged

shard of obsidian, its surface etched with ancient runes. She pressed it

into Alma’s hand.

187
Alma gasped.

For a split second, everything froze.

Then, with an ear-splitting shriek, the darkness was ripped away.

Alma’s body convulsed one final time before she collapsed against

Daniel, her chest heaving. The blackness seeped from her mouth like

smoke, rising into the air before dissipating into nothingness.

The house screamed.

The walls shook violently, and Daniel barely had time to react before

the floor beneath them gave way completely. He threw his arms around

Alma as they plummeted into the abyss.

Darkness swallowed them whole.

Daniel landed hard, the impact jarring his bones. Dust and splinters

filled the air, choking his breath. His head pounded, but he forced

himself up, ignoring the ache in his ribs.

188
“Alma?” he called, panic lacing his voice.

A soft groan answered him.

Relief flooded through him as he crawled toward her. She was on her

side, breathing heavily, her body trembling.

Dr. Rivera landed a few feet away, coughing as she pushed herself up.

“Is she—”

“She’s breathing,” Daniel confirmed. “But we need to get out of here.”

The space they had fallen into was vast, stretching into shadowed

infinity. The walls, if there were any, pulsed with an eerie glow, veins of

crimson light threading through the darkness like molten lava.

And then—the whispering returned.

It slithered through the air, weaving into their bones, burrowing into the

spaces between thoughts.

You are still inside me.

189
Daniel gritted his teeth, scanning their surroundings. There had to be a

way out.

Dr. Rivera staggered to her feet, eyes darting around. “We’re in the

foundation,” she realized. “The heart of the house.”

Alma let out a shuddering breath, her fingers clutching the obsidian

shard. “It’s still here,” she murmured. “Watching. Waiting.”

Daniel moved closer to her. “Can you fight it?”

Alma swallowed hard, her eyes haunted. “I don’t know.”

The ground trembled beneath them.

And then, rising from the darkness, something moved.

The entity had taken shape.

It loomed before them, shifting and writhing, a mass of shadow and

bone. Its face—if it had one—was a grotesque mimicry of human

features, shifting endlessly, never settling into one form.

Leave, it hissed. Or stay, and become part of me.

190
Dr. Rivera stepped forward, determination hardening her features. “We

destroy it.”

Daniel nodded. “Agreed.”

Alma gripped the obsidian, her knuckles white. She met Daniel’s gaze,

her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. “Then let’s end this.”

The house shuddered one final time.

And the battle began.

191
 CHAPTER XXIX: DESTINED

Darkness surged from the cracks in the floor, swallowing everything in

its path.

Dr. Rivera grabbed Daniel, dragging him backward as the ground

collapsed.

But Alma—

Alma fell.

Daniel lunged forward, his fingers barely grazing hers before she

disappeared into the void.

“ALMA!”

The scream tore from his throat, raw and desperate.

But she was gone.

The entity’s laughter echoed through the ruined house.

192
Dr. Rivera pulled Daniel back, her voice urgent. “We have to go after

her.”

He turned to her, his expression wild. “How?!”

Dr. Rivera took a deep breath. “There’s only one way.”

She reached into her bag, pulling out a small vial filled with something

dark and shimmering.

Daniel frowned. “What is that?”

“A tether,” she said. “It might be the only way to bring her back.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Then let’s go.”

And with that—

They stepped into the darkness.

193
 CHAPTER XXX: THE END …. OR IS IT?
The void was endless.

Alma drifted in it, weightless, her mind slipping further from reality.

Time had lost meaning; there was no beginning, no end—only the vast,

infinite blackness that surrounded her. It should have frightened her, but

she felt nothing. She was numb. Her thoughts unraveled like loose

thread, slipping from her grasp, one by one.

Then she heard it.

A voice—soft, familiar, tender.

Rafael.

"Alma," he whispered, and for a moment, warmth touched the edges of

her consciousness. She turned toward the sound, her heart aching.

194
But it wasn’t him.

Not really.

The entity circled her, its form shifting, changing. One moment, it bore

the outline of Rafael’s face—the deep brown eyes, the gentle curve of

his lips—then, in the next, it was something else. A shifting mass of

shadows and echoes, mimicking him with cruel precision.

"You wanted him back," it whispered.

Alma’s breath shuddered. “I—”

"Say the word, and I will complete what you started."

Her heart clenched painfully. She had come so far, done so much, just

for the chance to see him again. And now, he was here. Or at least, a

version of him. If she said yes, if she surrendered, she could be with him

again. It would be so easy.

195
For a moment, she almost did.

But then—

A sound.

Distant at first.

A voice calling her name.

Urgent. Desperate. Real.

“Alma! Don’t listen to it!”

The void trembled. The illusion flickered. Alma’s eyes widened. The

darkness pulsed, thick and suffocating, but she strained to hear the voice

cutting through it like a beacon.

Daniel.

Her eyes snapped open.

196
The entity shrieked, recoiling. Its form twisted in agony as

something—someone—pierced through the void. Light bloomed, fragile

but growing, until two figures emerged from the nothingness.

Daniel and Dr. Rivera.

Dr. Rivera clutched a vial in his hands, its contents pulsing with an

ethereal glow. The entity hissed, its form flickering as if in pain. It

turned its gaze on Daniel, seething.

“You should not be here,” it snarled, its voice layered with a hundred

echoes.

Daniel ignored it, his focus solely on Alma. He reached for her, his

expression raw with urgency. “Come back to us.”

Tears burned in Alma’s eyes. “I—I don’t know if I can.”

The entity surged between them, its presence pressing against her like a

crushing weight. It whispered in her ear, its words dripping with

197
honeyed temptation. “You belong here. Stay, and you will never be

alone again.”

Alma trembled. The pull of the void was strong. It called to her,

promising relief, promising Rafael.

But Daniel’s voice cut through it all. “You can,” he said fiercely. “But

you have to choose.”

The entity roared. The void trembled. Shadows slithered toward them,

wrapping around Alma’s limbs, trying to pull her deeper. She gasped,

struggling against the cold tendrils tightening around her. Fear surged in

her chest, but then—

Dr. Rivera moved.

He lifted the vial high, and in one swift motion, hurled it toward the

entity.

Light exploded.
198
It was blinding, searing through the darkness, tearing apart the void

itself. The entity let out a deafening scream, its form unraveling, its

shadows dissipating like smoke in the wind. The pressure around Alma

vanished, and suddenly, she was falling—

But this time, she was falling home.

Alma gasped as she jolted awake, air rushing into her lungs. The sterile

scent of antiseptic filled her nose, and the beeping of machines

surrounded her. She blinked rapidly, her vision adjusting to the harsh

fluorescent lights above.

She was in a hospital.

Her body ached, every muscle sore as if she had been fighting for days.

Her fingers curled into the sheets beneath her, grounding her in reality.

Slowly, she turned her head—and there they were.

199
Daniel sat beside her, exhaustion and relief warring on his face. Dr.

Rivera stood near the monitors, checking her vitals, but when he saw

her awake, a small smile of satisfaction crossed his lips.

“Welcome back,” Daniel said, his voice rough.

Alma swallowed, her throat dry. “I—” She hesitated, searching for the

right words. The weight of everything she had just experienced pressed

heavily on her chest. “It was real.”

Daniel nodded. “Yeah.”

A lump formed in her throat. “Rafael…”

Daniel looked away for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “He’s

gone, Alma.”

She closed her eyes, pain lancing through her. She had known the truth,

deep down, but hearing it aloud made it final. Her choice had been

made. There was no going back.

200
And yet…

She was here. Alive.

She took a shaky breath and nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Whether she was thanking him for saving her or for reminding her of

what was real, she wasn’t sure.

Daniel’s hand covered hers, warm and steady. “You don’t have to go

through this alone.”

Alma exhaled slowly, letting the truth of his words settle deep within

her.

She had made her choice.

And she had chosen to live.

To be continued..

201
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