Later that night, sleep refused me. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw his face, his laughter, the way he had said prophecy as if it belonged to me. Shadows stretched unnaturally across my walls, curling, whispering his presence back into my ear. It wasn't memory anymore—it was weight, urging me toward something I didn't understand.
Finally, I slipped from bed. The air was colder than it should have been, silence heavy with expectancy. Bare feet carried me down the hallway, floorboards creaking, heart slamming.
I peeked into the living room. Moonlight draped over everything, deepening the shadows around Grandma's chair. She slept, head tilted, but the black book was open on her lap, catching the silver light.
I froze. For a long moment, I told myself to turn back. Pretend I never saw it. Pretend I could live untouched by its secrets. But something—the same spark that made me look into his eyes—pulled me closer.
I leaned over, careful not to wake her. The pages seemed alive, symbols crawling in the silver glow. Sketches filled the margins: figures cloaked in darkness, faces blurred, half-hidden, warnings etched in ink.
One drawing struck me in the chest. My pulse stuttered. My knees nearly buckled, and I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm it. The silence wasn't relief. It was waiting.
Even when I tore my gaze away, his face lingered—sharper than memory, more vivid than rain-soaked recollection. I knew I should slam the book shut, hide it, pretend it didn't exist. But the thought alone made my skin crawl.
The symbols. The whisper. The way the ink moved.
I sank to the edge of my bed, gripping the blanket until my knuckles ached. No matter how tightly I shut my eyes, I still heard the low hiss: You've seen me...
Had he meant it as warning? Claim?
The air felt charged, shadows grown teeth. My own breath sounded too loud, too obvious.
One truth burned through panic: this wasn't coincidence. Ethan's laughter, the prophecy, my birthday days away, the sketch—it all tangled.
The prophecy wasn't just a story.
And Eros wasn't just a boy in the rain.
He was already written into it.
A sharp gasp escaped. Hands trembling, I snapped the book shut. Grandma stirred but didn't wake, unaware of the storm clawing through me.
I stumbled back, heart racing violently. It couldn't be him. And yet—those eyes. Even sketched, they held the same piercing depth.
I fled.
By the time I collapsed into bed, sheets pulled to my chin, my mind spiraled. His face, the whisper, the sketch—it looped endlessly. Shadows pressed closer, curling like smoke, whispering half-formed words.
Sleep never came.
Morning arrived, but it felt wrong. Sunlight spilled through the windows, pale and sickly, as if it had been filtered through smoke. I moved through my routine in a fog, every sound exaggerated, sharp enough to make me flinch—the scrape of a chair against the floor, the rush of water from the faucet, the ticking of the clock by my bed. Even the birds outside sounded off, their chirps clipped and hollow.
At breakfast, Grandma hummed softly, spooning rice into bowls. Ordinary, comforting—but distant, like an echo from another life, a life I wasn't part of. My hands were icy, and my throat felt raw and dry, no matter how much water I drank.
It was him. The sketch.
And worse—why was he in Grandma's book?
The words I had tried to ignore clawed back at me:
When the blood-born child turns eighteen, the veil will thin, and the shadows will rise to claim what is theirs.
Eighteen. My birthday. Just days away.
The thought made my chest tighten, throat constrict. I forced myself to swallow, but it felt like trying to push down a stone. Grandma looked up, startled at the sudden catch in my breath. I managed a smile, muttering something about swallowing wrong. She let it slide—but her gaze lingered, heavy, probing, like she already knew the storm twisting inside me.
Paranoia stalked me all day. Every glance I caught in a shop window felt charged, every shadow stretched farther than it should, leaning, watching. A crow perched on a telephone wire overhead, its black eyes unblinking, following my every step. The air pressed down, heavy, expectant, as though the city itself held its breath.
Even familiar streets felt strange, every corner too quiet, every alleyway too dark. My own heartbeat sounded loud in my ears, echoing in a rhythm that matched the pulse I imagined in the shadows around me.
By the time I reached the bar, the familiar neon glow and clatter of glasses did little to anchor me. I wasn't sure if I was losing my mind—or if Ethan had been right. If he had been serious about the prophecy, about the sketch, then nothing about today—or the days to come—would be ordinary.
And somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, a whispered thought crawled forward, icy and insistent: whatever was coming, it was already here.
---
The sunlight streaming through my curtains should have been comforting, but it wasn't. My eyes fluttered open, and the sight before me made my blood run cold.
Grandma stood beside my bed. Perfectly still. Her gaze fixed on me with a gravity I had never seen before. It wasn't warmth, it wasn't affection—something sharper lived in her eyes. Calculating. Knowing. As though she had been watching me all night.
I froze, heart hammering against my ribs. "Grandma...?" My voice came out small, unsteady.
She didn't move. Didn't blink. Only her dark, unyielding eyes followed me as I pushed myself upright, the blankets twisting around me. For a heartbeat, I swore she could see everything—every thought, every fear I tried to bury even from myself.
Finally, she spoke. Low, deliberate. "You didn't sleep well, did you?"
I swallowed hard, throat dry. "I... I didn't."
Her gaze softened, just barely, but the intensity never wavered. "You're being pulled. I can see it. And so can... others."
My stomach knotted. "Others?"
She inclined her head, fingers brushing the edge of the black book resting on my dresser. "Some things are stirring awake. Things you don't yet understand. You felt it last night, didn't you? The pull. The eyes that watched you, even when you thought you were alone."
I wanted to deny it, to tell myself it had been shadows and imagination. But the rooftop. The message. Him. The way the darkness had seemed to breathe with me. The memory was too vivid to dismiss.
"I... I think I did."
Grandma crouched, leaning closer until her face was level with mine. Her eyes held a strange mixture of warning and something I couldn't name. "Be careful. Curiosity can lead you to danger, yes. But sometimes... it leads you to what is meant for you."
A shiver ran through me. The pull in my chest—the fascination, the fear, the strange thrill—rose up like a tide. With Grandma watching me, as though she had seen every second of it, I knew there was no turning back.
She straightened slowly, gaze never leaving mine. Her words came like iron, deliberate and sharp.
"He is not like anyone you have ever met," she said. "He walks between shadow and light, between this world and the other. What you feel—the pull, the fascination—that is no accident. You were meant to notice him."
My throat tightened. "Meant to notice him? But he's... dangerous. I can feel it."
Her lips curved in the faintest, saddest smile. "Yes. Dangerous. But there are dangers that cannot be ignored. Some forces reveal themselves only to the ones they choose. And they always demand something in return."
Her hand hovered over the black book, fingers trembling close to its cover but never touching. "This book holds knowledge of what hunts in the night, what stirs in the shadows. And he... he is tied to it. Whether you understand how or not."
Fear and anticipation twisted inside me. "Tied to it... how?"
Grandma's eyes hardened, cutting, unreadable. "Some truths you are not ready for. But mark my words, Amara—curiosity has a price. And those who awaken it... are never left untouched."
The silence pressed heavy. Then, without another word, she turned. The door clicked softly shut behind her, echoing like a pulse in the stillness.
I sat trembling, staring at the black book. Staring, but seeing only him—the shadowed figure, the piercing eyes, the pull that had already wound itself around my chest.
Whatever this was, Grandma was right. It had already chosen me.
Even as I dressed, brushing my hair with trembling hands, the memory of those shifting symbols clung to me like a stain. Grandma's words circled endlessly, louder than the tick of the clock:
"The prophecy always finds the blood it belongs to."
Every sound in the house—the creak of floorboards, the kettle's low whistle—seemed louder, stranger, as though carrying secret meanings. I avoided the mirror, afraid my reflection might betray me. Still, in the corner of my eye, I swore my eyes were just a fraction too wide.