Before I could even get a word out, an old woman stepped lightly between us. She had that kind of presence that didn't need permission; it simply filled the space. With a laugh so soft it sounded like the chuckle of a grandmother trying to calm a child, she brushed the younger attendant aside with a gentle sweep of her hand.
"Let me handle this," she said, her voice low and reassuring, almost conspiratorial, as if we were in on a small secret together.
When she turned to me, her face was transformed. The wrinkles around her eyes deepened, not with age alone but with warmth. She offered me a smile that felt like a quilt draped over cold shoulders. Slowly, carefully, she reached out and took my hand. Her fingers were rough from years of use but warm with an honesty that didn't demand anything in return.
"Come," she whispered, her tone gentle but insistent. "I know just what you need."
She guided me across the store, away from the blinding lights and the glossy displays meant to dazzle customers into forgetting their own lives. She took me toward a quieter corner, tucked away where no one seemed to look. The racks here were humbler, the shirts simple in cut and color, cooler to the eye, cheaper to the hand. Yet each carried something different, a personality, a silent kind of dignity. These weren't clothes meant to shout; they were meant to belong.
The woman's chest lifted with a pride that couldn't be faked. She spread her hand across the shirts as if she were unveiling treasure.
"See?" she said with a smile so bright it almost undid me. "I have the best taste." Her words were light, playful, but her eyes said something else; that she had chosen this corner for people like me, as though she had been waiting for me to arrive all along.
I sighed, unable to pretend, and the truth slipped out before I could stop it.
"I don't have any money with me," I admitted, shame heavy in my voice. "My grandma's the one paying, but she's not here close by."
The old woman waved her hand in the air like she was shooing away a fly.
"It's okay," she said softly, a smile tugging her lips as if money had never been a real barrier to kindness. "Just choose what you want and leave them at the counter. Your grandma can pay later."
For a heartbeat, the noise of the mall faded. The corners of my mouth tilted upward, the faintest smile betraying me. She was the first person in this city who made me feel like it was okay to simply exist, like being myself wasn't a crime. She didn't prod me with questions, didn't eye me with suspicion. Somehow, she already knew who I was and chose to see me anyway.
Then the air shifted. Voices slipped in from the hallway just beyond, harsh and unpolished against the steady hum of the mall. Two men speaking, their words cutting sharper than the clothes racks around me.
"Wait… isn't he the kid?" one muttered, low but not low enough.
Then a pause heavy enough to bruise.
"What's he doing in the city? I thought he was ousted."
My hands froze mid-motion, fingers hovering over the fabric.
Then a third voice, quieter, but sharpened to a blade.
"This is going to be another catastrophe. Wasn't he satisfied with what he did already?"
The words cracked something in me.
One of them stepped forward, and I felt the movement before I saw it. But his friend seized his arm, pulling him back.
"Don't," the friend hissed. "You don't want him to destroy this mall, do you?"
For a moment, time bent. The mall's walls seemed to lean in. Whispers climbed the shelves, slithered along polished mirrors. My name was no longer mine, it was something chewed and passed around, swallowed and spat back out. I could feel it, the way the building itself seemed to breathe with unease.
I turned back to the old woman, her eyes still kind, her hand still resting on the rack as though she hadn't heard a thing. My throat tightened.
"I forgot something important I needed to do," I said quietly, forcing steadiness into my voice. "I'll come back… with my grandma."
Her smile softened, but she didn't argue.
I walked out.
Three years, and nothing had changed. The stares hadn't dulled. The whispers hadn't faded. They still carved me open, the same way they always had.
---
I drifted back toward the ice cream shop, feet dragging more than walking, the air outside cooling against my sweat. My gaze flicked across the road. To my surprise, he was still there, the strange figure, the one I had noticed earlier. He hadn't moved an inch. He hadn't even blinked. He just stood, golden hair gleaming faintly in the city light, as if the world had turned and he had refused to.
I thought maybe I was wrong. That maybe he wasn't watching. But slowly, deliberately, he shook his head.
His eyes caught mine again, eyes hollow, drained, like empty wells that swallowed anything that dared to look in. Staring at him was like staring into a mirror that gave back no reflection, just emptiness.
Heat rose in my chest, and I turned away quickly, almost stumbling in my hurry. I forced myself back to the bench outside the ice cream shop, the one Grandma had left me at. The window nearby leaked the sweet scent of cream and sugar, warm and comforting, mocking me with what I couldn't buy.
Time crawled. Two hours slipped past. The shadows stretched. Yet across the road, he remained; still there, still rooted like a shadow that didn't belong to this world, waiting with the patience of stone.
---
Grandma eventually finished her errands. The furniture was delivered, heavy boxes and thick wooden frames carried in by tired workers. She directed them with a sharpness that cut through the air like a whip.
"Put that there. No, the left. The other left. Careful, don't scratch it."
Her voice didn't waver until it was done. Then, when the house was finally full of the scent of wood and new fabric, she collapsed onto the couch. The weight fell off her shoulders like armor after battle. She slept instantly, her breaths evening into the hush of exhaustion. Clara curled up against her elbow, shrinking into the shape of a cat, her purr melting into sleep as well.
In the other room, Van had already dozed off, sprawled across the bed as if it belonged to him, uncaring of the photo frames or the faint perfume on the sheets. He never paid attention to such things. For him, beds were beds, walls were walls.
Five hours passed. The day dimmed, the city's skin shifting to night. I glanced across the alley once more. The golden-haired figure was gone.
---
The last light of the sun bled gold through the windowpanes when Grandma stirred again. She stretched, bones cracking softly in the quiet house. With a low yawn, she rubbed her eyes and shuffled down the hall toward the restroom. But when she turned the corner into her room, she froze.
Her brow twitched. Her lips curved into a sharp frown. On her bed lay a figure.
Hands on her hips, she marched closer. Her voice cut like a blade.
"Now… what the heck is this?"
Van's eyes snapped open. The silence between them thickened, heavy as a stone wall. He stared at her like a boy caught in mischief, shoulders stiff, mouth wordless. He knew, he knew trouble had arrived.
"What do you think you're doing in my bed, kid?" Grandma demanded, though she already knew who he was. She wanted him to say it himself.
Van sat up slowly, words stumbling in his throat. He hadn't known, he really hadn't. How could he guess it was her room? He had followed the scent that comforted him, and it had led him here.
Grandma's lips pressed tight. Her eyes narrowed, but then a spark of realization passed through her expression. She remembered. Her hand rose to her mouth.
"Oh… no…"
She had left me in the city.
Her chest seized, but she brushed it down.
"We'll talk about this once I'm back," she muttered, sharp and quick, trying to mask the panic that rose in her throat. "Don't move an inch."
She spun on her heel, coats brushing the floor, and bolted out the door, her heart tightening with every step. Clara followed, her paws silent but swift.
Just as Grandma reached the edge of the street, two men appeared.
They didn't walk, they drifted.
Their shapes shimmered, not bound by muscle or stride, and then like mist pulling itself together they phased straight through the walls of the house.
---
Van sat upright on the bed, unmoving. He had promised not to move. But the moment they entered, his eyes narrowed.
These weren't hunters.
They weren't exorcists.
And worst of all, he hadn't sensed them at all.
The first one raised a hand, fingers bending as if tugging at invisible strings. The ground answered; gleaming dark ropes burst forth, coiling fast and tight around Van's wrists. His arms jerked to his sides, bound in an instant.
He struggled, muscles coiling, but these weren't ropes. They pulsed, almost alive, tightening with each resistance. He tried to phase through them but couldn't.
The second figure stepped closer, shadows bending against him as if reluctant. In his grip was an object strange and metallic, caught between the shape of a kettle and a tin. It hummed faintly, vibrating with intent.
He lifted two fingers to his chin and began to chant.
---
"Vorrenak sil'tuum… entari el'shaar…
Vel'tar ish nuun, enkari fel'kaar.
From silence born, to silence bound,
Let not his echo touch the ground.
Thread of flame, fold of night,
I call thee home, away from light.
Vel'shar denathuul, kasrek ien vorak,
Bound be the soul, sealed be the mark."
---
The words rolled like thunder softened into smoke. They carried weight, age, a language that felt like the earth itself was remembering. The metallic vessel began to glow, pulsing in rhythm with the chant.
Van felt it immediately. A pull deep inside, like a hook had been lodged in his chest and now yanked. His limbs stiffened, his breath shattered. He resisted with everything in him. Muscles strained, veins burned, his jaw locked with fury.
But the pull grew stronger.
His vision blurred at the edges. The ropes tightened, and his body betrayed him, trembling as though bowing against his will.
"No…" he hissed.
Then the pull tore through him.
Van screamed, but the sound was swallowed before it could escape. His body burst into light, shattered into shards, and was drawn into the vessel, sealed with the last hum of its glow.
The men did not linger. They faded like smoke unspooled, the air sealing behind them as if they had never come. And with them, Van was gone.