MEMORIES
Sophia staggered as the world around her spun uncontrollably. The pain that surged within her was almost unbearable, causing her to collapse to the ground. But as quickly as it came, it vanished, leaving her standing in a vast, breathtaking garden. The vibrant colors of the flowers, the hum of distant creatures, and the warmth of the sun did little to ease the unease settling in her chest. Something wasn't right, but she couldn't place her finger on it.
As she wandered deeper into the garden, she heard the unmistakable sound of a child crying. Following the noise, she came upon a young boy kneeling over the lifeless body of a woman. The boy's face, though childlike, was disturbing. His head twisted unnaturally, like an owl, revealing an array of eyes across his face. It was no doubt that this was Abaddon, a twisted version of the being she had come to know as a harbinger of destruction. Without a word, he took flight, soaring deeper into the garden, leaving her stunned and confused.
The headache that had initially subsided flared up again, and before she could process what she had seen, the world shifted once more. She found herself in a new part of the garden, where a little girl was carefully picking flowers near a tree. Abaddon stood nearby, his childlike form trembling, his eyes wide and fearful.
The little girl stepped closer, her voice gentle.
"Come out. I won't hurt you."
Abaddon hesitated before stepping forward cautiously. His voice was soft, almost fragile.
"Luciel," he whispered, his eyes a reflection of something much darker hidden within.
The girl smiled warmly and offered him a flower.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Luciel," he repeated, still unsure but beginning to trust her.
Sophia watched as the little girl patiently taught Luciel things—simple songs, melodies that echoed through the garden as the bond between them grew stronger. She showed him how to sing, how to enjoy the simplest of pleasures in life, and over time, he grew to rely on her presence. As they spent more time together, Abaddon, in his twisted form, found solace in the child's innocence, his heart slowly growing fond of her.
As years passed, Sophia witnessed the girl growing older, maturing into a beautiful young woman, while Luciel, still the same in essence, was forever a child in mind and spirit. It was clear to Sophia that Abaddon had fallen in love with her, though his love had become twisted and dark.
Just as this revelation struck Sophia, her vision began to distort again. She saw bodies—human bodies—scattered across the garden, their limbs severed in grotesque disarray. Standing amidst the carnage, Abaddon held the head of the woman—the one he had loved, the one who had been his true love. The pain and torment that emanated from his face was all-consuming.
The garden began to collapse, spinning out of control as a massive cube of water encapsulated the entire space. It was a prison, a shimmering, cold prison trapping Abaddon within. The rest of the world, humanity, continued on, oblivious to the chaos and destruction that had taken place in the garden.
Sophia's mind was a blur as she tried to comprehend what she had seen, but one thing was clear—the memories spoke of Abaddon's tragic transformation. The love he once knew had been tainted, leading to the monster he had become.
The last image that lingered in Sophia's mind was of Abaddon, trapped in his watery prison, his heart forever broken, and the garden lost to time. She couldn't piece it all together, but she understood one thing: this was the root of his pain, the reason for his darkness, and why he had become the harbinger of death he was today.
Sophia's eyes tried to focus on the girl's face, but it remained out of reach, like a hazy dream that slipped through her fingers. The more she tried to make out the features, the blurrier the image became, and she could feel her frustration growing. It was as if the very essence of the girl was being obscured from her, a veil of uncertainty clouding her memory.
She could see the little girl picking flowers, her movements graceful, but her face—nothing about it was clear. The girl's presence seemed so familiar, yet completely foreign, as if she existed in a space just beyond Sophia's understanding. Her name was lost to Sophia too. The girl had called out to Luciel, speaking to him in such an innocent way, but Sophia couldn't even recall what she had looked like in the first place.
It was as though this girl's existence had been deliberately erased from the memories that clung to the garden, like a piece of the puzzle that had been torn away before Sophia could fully understand it. The confusion lingered as she watched Abaddon and the girl interact, their bond growing stronger over time, yet the girl remained an enigma—her name, her face, everything about her wrapped in a mystery Sophia couldn't solve.
Sophia's thoughts spiraled. Who was this girl?
Why was she so significant to Abaddon's tragic story?
But the answers remained just beyond reach, leaving Sophia with more questions than she could ever hope to answer.
Sophia jolted back to reality, her vision blurry as she slowly regained her bearings. The pain in her head was relentless, lingering even as she tried to gather herself.
"How long was I out?" she asked, her voice shaky.
Tony, standing nearby, replied,
"Just some seconds."
But to Sophia, it felt like she'd been gone for years. The memories she had experienced in the garden still clung to her, hazy but undeniable. She shook her head, trying to clear the disorienting fog. Her eyes then darted to the book on the table, the very one that had started this whole mess.
She scrambled toward it, her hands trembling as she tried to pry it open, desperate for answers.
But the book wouldn't budge. She tried again, her frustration mounting, until in a moment of desperation, she bit down on her own wrist. Blood dripped from the wound, falling onto the book's cover. She winced at the pain, but when the blood touched the pages, nothing changed. The book remained sealed, as if mocking her efforts.
Gritting her teeth, she flipped the book over, her gaze falling on the back. There, carved deeply into the spine of the book, was a name:
Dracula.
Her heart skipped a beat. The name was like a key, unlocking a new level of urgency within her. Finding Dracula wasn't just a possibility now—it was a must. Whatever had been hidden, whatever secrets were buried in the pages, she now knew that he held the key.
And she would stop at nothing to find him.