I listened as Mina read aloud, her voice slicing through the quiet hum of the field.
"The night always seemed to hum with secrets, and somewhere in its shadowed corners, creatures older than memory stirred. Vampires—beings of myth and terror—walked the fine line between legend and reality..."
Her voice was steady, but it carried a rhythm that felt more than performance—it was incantation. Each word seemed to soak into the soil, into the air itself, until even the grass seemed to lean closer. Her tone wasn't just dramatic; it was indulgent, as if she delighted in tasting the edges of fear and wonder.
Her words painted pictures so vivid I could almost feel the chill of those shadowed corners, the press of unseen eyes across centuries, the stillness of something holding its breath. The kind of silence that came before the strike of lightning—or something worse.
Each shadow felt like it mirrored a doubt I hadn't dared name yet, something older than memory whispering I wasn't ready for it.
When she finished, the silence that followed was not empty. It was thick, charged, as though the night itself lingered on her last syllable. The crickets had quieted; even the faint wind seemed to hesitate. I swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud my own heartbeat was.
Mina turned to me then, eyes glinting with mischief that only half-masked something deeper.
"Do you believe in vampires?"
The question didn't feel like teasing. It felt like a hand placed on the edge of a door, waiting to see if I'd let it open. Maybe belief wasn't the point. Maybe it was the acknowledgment that the world could be larger, darker, more complicated than the neat paths I walked every day.
I hesitated, glancing toward the treeline. The shadows there seemed to ripple, too deep, too patient. My skin prickled with the sense that if I stared long enough, something would step out to prove her point.
"I... I don't know," I admitted, forcing my voice into something light, almost dismissive. It didn't work. My throat was too dry. "Do you?"
Mina only tilted her head, her gaze narrowing. "Surely, you've heard the stories. People whisper about them for a reason."
Her fingers traced lazy circles into the dirt, but her eyes stayed locked on mine. It was a strange contradiction—her casual movements, her unblinking stare. She carried both fascination and caution in the same breath, like someone balancing on a blade's edge.
I forced a laugh, sharp and hollow. "Stories are just stories. Myths. They're not real, right?"
For the briefest moment, something shifted in her expression. Mischief dimmed, replaced by a flicker of seriousness that sent a ripple of unease through me.
"That's what everyone thinks," she murmured, her voice dropping into something softer, darker. "Until they realize maybe... some stories hold more truth than myth."
A shiver crawled up my spine, unbidden. The field, once comforting in its openness, suddenly felt too wide, too exposed.
The wind stirred again, whispering through the grass with a hiss that reminded me of breath. It carried with it a faint, metallic tang—like rust. Like blood. The tang clung to my tongue, reminding me that the world wasn't just quiet—it was waiting, tasting me as much as I was tasting the fear.
I glanced once more at the trees, my heart tightening. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. And yet, the longer I looked, the harder it became to believe the shadows weren't aware of me. Watching. Waiting.
Every rustle of leaves became a signal, every shifting shadow a question I didn't want to answer yet. My pulse beat in time with the invisible things around me. Mina only smiled, as if she'd seen my unease and found it amusing. Or satisfying.
I glanced at my watch. "We should probably get going... last class starts soon."
Mina rolled her eyes but didn't argue. "Fine, fine," she said, snapping the notebook shut. "But you're thinking about it, aren't you? That whole vampire thing."
I didn't answer. My mind lingered on the metallic tang, on the shadows stretching just a little too long. We walked side by side across the field, each rustle of leaves making me jump. I couldn't shake the feeling we weren't entirely alone.
By the edge of campus, the sun had dipped lower, streaking buildings with amber and violet. The halls buzzed with students, but I felt disconnected, like the whispers of the field had followed me, threading themselves into the very air around me.
As we climbed the stairs, Mina leaned closer. "If vampires were real, I hope we'd never meet one like in the stories—too scary. But maybe..." Her grin was mischievous, almost knowing. "...they're closer than you think."
I shivered—not from cold, but unease. Her words slithered under my skin, too casual to be a joke, too sharp to ignore.
The normal chatter of the classroom made me almost relax, though the lingering silence between classes, the way light pooled on the floor, made it feel as though the world was holding its breath.
I slid into my seat, careful not to make a sound, as if even the scrape of my chair might draw something out from the shadows. My fingers tightened around my pen until the plastic creaked.
Glancing sideways, I found Mina perfectly at ease, twirling her hair and scribbling notes as if nothing had happened. But her smile—still faintly curled at the corner of her lips—made me wonder if she knew more than she let on.
A trick of sunlight glinted across the windowpane, momentarily blinding me. When my vision cleared, Mina's reflection lingered in the glass longer than it should have, her outline sharp even as the room moved around her.
My pulse stumbled. Her reflection lingered longer than it should, as if she—or something that wore her face—was waiting for me to notice.
I blinked once, twice—and the reflection matched her again. Normal. Ordinary. But I couldn't shake the feeling that the night—and its secrets—was already waiting for me.
Shadows pooled in the corners of the classroom, stretching unnaturally across the floor, and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights sounded almost like whispers.
My fingers traced the edge of my notebook, restless. Every tick of the clock felt amplified, each second dragging me closer to something I wasn't sure I wanted to see.
Mina's pen moved furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration, and I envied the way she could anchor herself in the ordinary. My mind, on the other hand, kept drifting to the lingering chill outside the window, to the way the wind had seemed to carry faint, almost melodic sighs through the trees.
By the time the final bell rang, I was restless, nerves tight. Mina waved from across the hall, swept away by her friends, leaving me to navigate the bustle alone.
The walk home felt longer than usual. Shadows of trees and lampposts stretched like dark fingers across the pavement, swaying slightly as though breathing with some secret rhythm.
Each step echoed in time with my thoughts, pulling me back to Mina's words about vampires, their stories laced with beauty and danger.
A gust of wind carried that faint metallic scent again, like iron in the air—or perhaps blood—and I paused, heart tightening.
Glancing around, the street seemed empty, yet the shadows clung a little too close, moving just beyond the reach of the lamplight.
I hurried on, jacket pulled tighter, trying to convince myself that the night had only grown sharper in my imagination. But the chill lingered, curling around my spine, and I realized with a sinking certainty that I was being pulled toward something I wasn't ready to face—yet could not look away from.
By the time I reached home, the sky had darkened into indigo. Grandma sat on the veranda, tears streaking her face, wearing the white gown—the ghost of a wedding day ruined by absence, by rain. Pain seemed her constant companion.
"I'll sing for you," I promised.
Later, when her sobs eased, I covered her gently with a blanket.
The storm raged outside, drumming against the roof and windows like a thousand restless hands. The wind howled through the eaves, rattling the shutters, but inside, the air was thick with quiet and the faint, lingering scent of her tears.
I pressed the blanket tighter around her, willing my own heartbeat to steady hers. Each crack of thunder became a drumbeat in the fragile rhythm we shared, as if the storm outside could reach us only if we let it.
I sat beside her for a while, letting my hand rest lightly on her shoulder, as if my presence alone could anchor her to the moment. Every crack of thunder made her flinch, and I instinctively pressed the blanket tighter around her small frame.
"I'm here," I whispered, not needing her to reply. My voice was soft, but steady, a fragile shield against the storm's rage. Her breaths gradually slowed, uneven sobs giving way to quiet sniffles.
Outside, rain lashed against the veranda, streaming down in silver rivulets. Inside, warmth pooled around us—not from the room, but from the fragile, shared space we created amidst the chaos.
I traced the curve of her hair with my fingers, careful not to disturb her, and felt a pang of something I couldn't name—responsibility, love, fear—all tangled together.
Eventually, the storm's fury became background noise, a rhythm to which the quiet in the room now moved. I stayed there, watching her drift toward sleep, the weight of the world pressing just a little less heavily on her shoulders.
By eight, the house felt quieter, the usual hum of appliances muffled beneath the rain's steady drum.
I stepped onto the veranda, letting the cold droplets sting my hand, the smell of wet earth and ozone filling the air. That's when I saw him—hands in pockets, walking through the downpour, untouched by chaos.
Each droplet that splashed around him seemed to avoid his form, dripping harmlessly to the ground. Strange, impossible—yet I couldn't look away. The impossible logic of it made my stomach twist.
My breath hitched, a shiver crawling up my spine. Part of me wanted to call out, to understand, but another part knew some doors weren't meant to be opened yet.
Before I could gather my thoughts, a knock at the door startled me—my parents. Relief surged, sharp and sudden, as if the world had snapped back to normal.
Dinner followed: the clink of silverware, soft laughter, roasted chicken filling the air. But my gaze kept drifting toward the veranda.
When I finally looked again, the street was empty. Or maybe I only wanted to believe it was.