The morning sun spilled through the curtains, golden and merciless, as though it meant to chase away the shadows of the night. I had slept little.
The villain's latest letter still trembled in my desk drawer, whispering its accusations each time I dared draw breath.Iam trying to ignore it , ignore it like almighty sometime ignore his people and children in suffering and left for survival
I told myself it was folly. Madness. A trick of some cruel hand,perhaps an admirer, perhaps an enemy. The world was not so porous that a figment could speak back. I refused to believe it.
And yet, disbelief did not silence my trembling.
By noon, the house was quiet. My pupils had gone, my aunt resting in her chamber, the servants lingering in the kitchens.
Alone at last, I drew the letter from the drawer, its ink seeming darker in daylight.
His words, their beast, their nightmare, their curse, swore into me like a blade.
"No more," I whispered to the empty room. "No more of this madness."
I struck a match.
The flame caught quickly, devouring the paper with a hiss, curling black edges into nothing. I watched it burn upon the hearth, watched my guilt rise in smoke and vanish into air. My breath came shallow, as though the fire consumed not paper but pieces of me.
When all that remained was ash, I turned away, hands trembling. It was over. A fancy, nothing more. I would not let shadows rule me.
For three days I lived in pretended peace. I taught my lessons, smiled at my aunt's companions, even accompanied her to a soirée where music and laughter pressed close like perfume. I convinced myself it had ended, that I had imagined his voice. I tried to write another novel that's in my head Yet I could have the guts or courage, I don't know how can something manipulate me , is it my imagination or something more, I don't know I'm live as well , I don't wanna think any of that, I'll live in peace...
Until the fourth night.
A storm broke once more over Whitford Manor, rattling the windows with wind. I lay awake in bed when I heard it, the faintest sound. A rustle upon my writing desk. My heart froze.
I told myself it was the curtains. The wind. The tricks of nerves.
But when at last courage drove me from my bed, candle in hand, I saw it there upon the desk, another letter. Unmarked, unsealed, as though it had grown from the wood itself.
"Did you think fire would silence me?"
"Do you think ash is stronger than ink? Foolish mother. Every word you wrote is carved into me, deeper than the bones you never gave me. Burn me a thousand times
I shall return, for I am not so easily destroyed."
"And you, did you not smile as they condemned me?
Did you not turn away while I burned, just as you now turn away from your own sin?
Do not hide in silk and smiles.
You made me. And until you face me, I shall haunt every corner of your days."
The candle guttered in my hand.
I nearly dropped it.
The first letter I had tried to forget.
The second, I had burned.
But now a third lay heavy in my palm, colder than ice.
I could not deny it any longer.
If this was madness, then it was a madness written not in my mind but in ink
ink that refused to fade, ink that refused to die.
And somewhere in the silence of the storm, I thought I heard it,
laughter. Low, bitter, and not entirely human.
I throw the candle , I throw the books in my desk I don't know...