Alarm went off at five-thirty.
Beep-Beep-Beep
Yura's eyes opened before her hand moved. She stared at the cracked ceiling above her, where a thin line of water stain curved like a dried river. For a moment, she didn't know where she was.
Then the smell reached her.
Old rice. Damp wood. Something sour.
Reality settled back onto her chest, heavy and familiar.
She turned off the alarm quickly—too quickly—and sat up, careful not to make the bed creak. The thin mattress sagged under her weight. Her back ached, but she ignored it. Pain was background noise now. Like traffic. Like rain.
She swung her legs down and stood.
Room was small, barely enough space for a bed, a plastic drawer, and her backpack leaning against the wall. This wasn't her room. It had never been called that.
It was spare. The place where unused things went.
She washed her face in the shared bathroom sink, flinching when the cold water hit her skin.
Drip-drip
The mirror reflected a girl who looked older than her age and young than her exhaustion.
Her hair was tied back neatly. Her uniform—simple blouse and slacks—had been ironed the night before. She checked herself the way she always did: collar straight, buttons aligned, nothing wrinkled enough to be commented on.
She scrubbed her wrists twice. Then once more.
The scar on her palm caught her eye.
A perfect silver crescent, faint but unmistakable.
She pressed her thumb against it.
Nothing.
No pain. No warmth.
Just skin.
"Stupid," she murmured to herself.
She grabbed her bag and slipped out before anyone else woke up.
—
The bus ride to campus took forty minutes.
Yura stood the entire way, gripping the overhead strap while the city crawled past the windows. The bus smelled like perfume, sweat and damp clothes. Someone nearby laughed loudly, scrolling through their phone.
She stared at the reflection in the glass instead.
Her own face wavered with the movement of the bus, stretching and compressing. She looked...fine again. Plain. Invisible.
That was safer.
At the university gates, students streamed in clusters—laughing, chatting, complaining about quizzes and deadlines. Most of them were younger than her. Fresh faces, bright clothes, careless energy.
She adjusted the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder and walked through them like a ghost.
Someone bumped her elbows.
"Watch it."
"I—sorry," Yura said automatically, even through it wasn't her fault.
The girl didn't even look back.
—
The New History Faculty building loomed at the edge of campus, older than the rest. Its stone walls were darkened by age and rain, ivy crawling along the sides like veins.
Yura didn't know why she slowed when she passed it.
She never had classes there. Her major was practical—something that would lead to a job quickly. Something safe.
Still, as she walked by, her palm began to itch.
Not painfully.
Just... insistently.
She stopped.
Her fingers curled without her permission.
Air around the building felt different. Cooler. Quieter. The sounds of the campus faded, like someone had turned down the volume of the world.
It's nothing, she told herself again.
Probably stress. Or allergies. Or imagination.
She forced her feet to move.
The itching lingered until she was halfway across the quad.
By lunchtime, exhaustion had already settled into her bones.
She ate alone, as usual, at the corner table in the cafeteria. Her meal was simple—rice, vegetables, a piece of fried egg she'd cooked that morning.
She took small bites, chewing carefully.
A group of girls sat two tables away. They were laughing about something on one of their phones.
"...did you smell that earlier?"
"Yeah, like cheap soap or something."
"Probably her."
Yura didn't look up.
She never looked up.
She focused on the texture of the rice, the rhythm of eating. In. Chew. Swallow.
Her ears burned anyway.
Across the room, someone else laughed—louder this time.
Her eyes lifted without thinking.
He was there.
The senior.
He stood near the drink station, tall and relaxed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was damp with sweat, like he'd come from practice. When he smiled, it was easy and open, the kind of smile that made people feel noticed.
Yura looked away immediately.
Her chest tightened, that familiar ache blooming quietly behind her ribs.
She didn't want him to see her like this. Eating alone. Existing on the edges.
She gathered her tray and stood.
As she passed the trash bin, her palm burned.
Sharp. Sudden.
She gasper softly and clenched her hand, nearly dropping her tray.
What is wrong with me today?
She threw the trash away and hurried out, heart pounding.
—
The afternoon dragged.
Lecture. Notes. More notes.
Her professor's voice blurred into background sound as Yura stared at her notebook, pen hovering uselessly over the page.
The scar itched again.
She pressed her palm against her though, grounding herself.
Focus.
She needed good grades. She needed scholarships. She needed to graduate.
That was all that mattered.
When class finally ended, dusk had already settled over campus.
She stayed behind to clean classrooms—her part-time job—wiping boards, stacking chairs, emptying bins. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid.
Her arms ached by the time she finished.
Outside, the sky was a deep indigo. The air smelled like rain.
She took the long path home, the one that passed—again—by the New History Faculty building.
She told herself it was just a shortcut.
Halfway past it, the itching returned.
Stronger this time.
She stopped.
The building stood silent, it's windows dark.
Campus light flickered.
For a moment, she felt... watched.
Not in a frightening way.
In a focused way.
Like when someone was listening very carefully.
Her breath fogged in front of her.
"Hello?" She whispered, feeling ridiculous.
No answer.
Just the rustle of leaves.
She shook her head and turned away.
The moment she did, a warmth spread through her chest.
Low. Steady.
As if... something had approved of her leaving.
Her throat tightened for reasons she didn't understand.
—
That night, the argument started before she even put her bag down.
"You're late again."
"I had work."
"So what? You think excuses you from helping around here?"
Her aunt's voice was sharp, cutting. The man beside her watched silently, eyes dull.
Yura bowed her head. "I'll clean now."
A plate flew past her shoulder, shattering against the wall.
Crash
"Useless."
She flinched, but she didn't cry. She never did anymore.
Later, locked in her small room, she sat on the bed and finally let herself breathe.
Her hands shook.
She pressed her palm to her chest.
The scar was warm.
Not painful.
Warm.
A thought crossed her mind—soft, intrusive.
You did well today.
She froze.
Her heart began to race.
"...who's there?" She whispered.
Silence.
Then—
Thump
Not outside.
Inside.
A heartbeat that wasn't hers.
Strong. Steady.
Protective.
Tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them.
"I'm just tired," she whispered to the empty room. "That's all."
She Kay down and turned toward the wall, curling into herself.
As sleep pulled her under, the warmth lingered.
Watching.
Waiting.
And somewhere far beyond the Veil, something ancient tightened its grip on the thread that bound them together.
Not yet.
Soon.
~🫶