The rolling of the plane doesn't help the headache.
Alyra searches for a comfortable position, pushing the mask further down over her eyes. It's not the light that bothers her: it's the tangle of thoughts swirling in her head.
Delia put her on the charter without too much ceremony. Destination: Bute—the island. A name that smells of wind, salt, old summers. She grew up here, here Lisbet, her grandmother, had taught her the secrets of fabrics, the perfect cut. From those memories, her hand was born, her profession. Stylist, creator, queen of her own image.
Returning is a promise of peace. Of home. Of healing memories.
When the door opens, the air envelops her: salt, sun, the smell of burnt grass and the sea. She puts on her glasses and heads to retrieve her suitcase. Outside, a friendly face awaits her: Alasdair, his red quiff forward, a smile she can't contain.
Frame 1: the red tuft.
Frame 2: that smile she'd been missing without her knowing it.
Frame 3: the touch—hug, home.
"Princess—" he says, with that impossible look. "You seem really happy to see me."
She hugs him, spontaneously. It's instinct: this is what home means too.
"Between you and Delia, I don't know who to give the Talking Cricket's scepter to," she teases.
He laughs, his cold fingers tucking the suitcase into the trunk.
"Grandma's worried. She says she found you... strange. As if you were normal, and then not."
Alyra looks at him, half-hearted. For a moment the sentence bounces back inside her, alone and free. Then he pushes it away. "Idiot. If I'm your friend, I couldn't be normal."
They drive away. The road is one of memories: rugged coastline, green hills, wind blowing the blades of grass. Windy Hill approaches. The scent of salt water calms her. She actually smiles, this time, as images of her childhood surface: woods, running, falling, laughter. She misses it. It feels good.
But something's wrong.
A dark halo envelops the hill. The edges become flat, outlined, like a watercolor that's leaking ink. Alyra straightens, straining her neck. Even Alasdair seems... different. For a second, he's as if trapped in a hasty pen stroke.
Frame 1: the hill like a watercolor.
Frame 2: Alasdair like a drawn figure.
Frame 3: her hand reaching for the doorknob, trembling.
A moan escapes her. She closes her eyes, breathing rapidly. "I'm just tired," she says, trying to smile.
When they arrive, her grandmother holds her close. Lisbet is petite but warm; her face is hollow, her eyes smell of stories. "My daughter," she murmurs, and the scent of chamomile brings her back to childhood.
The room that was hers is the same: rustic, the kitchen smelling of freshly baked bread, a picture hanging with tartan stripes. She lets herself fall onto the bed, the pillow welcoming her. For a moment, everything is solid. Warm. Real.
But the shadows give no respite.
Thin filaments run along the walls. The walls breathe, slowly, as if they were fabric stretched on a loom. Figures at the edge of her vision reach out, outlining reality. Thin cracks open and seem to reveal a fissure.
She turns, sweating. Fear envelops her like a torn blanket. She wants to chase away those flashes, but curiosity draws her. She reaches toward a crack: beyond, a vision.
Streets lit by metallic streaks. Towers that shine like steel. People moving at exaggerated speed, as if they were accelerated animations. Everything is bright and cold, like painted metal.
Her head begins to throb. A voice creeps in, thin and familiar, and then closer.
"I found you."
"Come home."
A chill envelops her. The voice isn't a word in her sleep: it's a pressure pressing on her chest. She tosses, tries to get up, but the blankets squeeze her like restraining hands. She wants to scream, to call someone, but her voice steals the air.
Then—silence. She wakes suddenly, her breath shallow. Sweat soaks her back. She's awake. It's her bed. The little window outside reveals the island afternoon, as real as ever. Yet the feeling remains: something has scratched her skin.
She gets up, washes her face. The mirror shows her the profile she knows. But for a moment, in the mirror, a thin balloon forms above her head, empty and cracked like wet paper. It disappears when she blinks.
Breakfast. Tea. Silences that weigh. Her grandmother watches her like someone waiting for confirmation of a fear. "Did you sleep badly?" Lisbet asks, but avoids details. She's practical: she protects. She doesn't explain.
At the yard, the cafeteria in the back, Alasdair appears as usual. He squints as if to read something behind her. "Have you had strange dreams?" he asks. He's not curious: he's apprehensive.
She shrugs. "Just travel nightmares. Nothing."
But the sentence sounds thin, deceptive like a taut silk thread.
In the afternoon, as she strolls toward Windy Hill, the edges of the world begin to tremble again. A boat on the horizon seems to be drawn in a thick stroke, the waves like overlapping lines. A seagull, just for a moment, loses its three-dimensionality and becomes a black silhouette against a white background.
Frame 1: the seagull as a silhouette.
Frame 2: the boat as an ink drawing.
Frame 3: Alyra covering her face.
Her heart in her throat. Fear grows, but she fights the urge to flee. Not yet. There are things to do: sort out some sketches, choose fabrics, talk to local suppliers. It's real life. Her life.
Evening falls gently, and with it, tiredness. She sits on the edge of the bed and draws up her knees. The walls are still breathing. The lines, the fleeting ones, return and disappear, as if animated by an invisible director.
Then the voice. Closer this time. Not just sound, but sensation: a tightening trigger. The words come clean, both a promise and a threat.
"Come home."
"If you don't come back, your world will fall apart."
The air freezes. Alyra feels something inside shatter: not a memory, but a widening shadow. She rejects it, as always: she doesn't want what she's built to vanish. Her life, her choices, the work, the sweat behind every collection. Her hands created it all. She's not ready to be used as a pawn in a world she doesn't want.
She gets up. She walks to the window. Outside, Windy Hill is quiet. But the sky has a shadow that shouldn't be there, like a pane of glass stained from the inside. And on the glass—for just a blink—a red balloon appears, pulsating, with writing that seems made of molten metal.
"I'll wait for you."
Alyra clenches her hands into fists until her knuckles hurt. She won't tell her grandmother anything. Not yet. She lies back down, trying to control her breathing. Her mind races to the collections to finish, to the fabric scraps, to the models to take notes from. Stay. Work. Defending his kingdom.
But beneath the skin of the world, something has begun to move. And it won't settle for a dream.
That voice, whispered between dream and waking, continues to echo: come home.