Dadi's room was dark.
Not unlit—just heavy, as if the shadows had weight.
She moved straight to the old wooden dresser in the corner, the one no one ever touched. Her hands trembled as she knelt, joints protesting, breath uneven. She slid open the lowest drawer.
It creaked.
Dust rose like a sigh.
Beneath folded cloth that smelled of camphor and time, beneath papers written in ink that had faded to ghosts, there was a small glass bottle.
Ancient.
The glass was thick, uneven, hand-formed—not factory smooth. Dust clung to it so heavily it looked buried. The stopper was sealed with dark wax, cracked with age, etched faintly with symbols that no longer belonged to any language spoken aloud.
Dadi stared at it.
Her fingers hovered.
"I prayed I'd die before this day," she whispered.
She lifted it anyway.
The dust smeared under her shaking fingers, revealing something inside the glass—not liquid, not solid. It moved slowly, like smoke trapped in water, dark but not black, as if shadow itself had been dissolved.
It pulsed.
Once.
As if recognizing her.
Dadi swallowed hard and turned to the small table by the window. Moonlight caught the bottle, and for a moment the shadows inside twisted—forming shapes that vanished the instant she focused on them.
She opened a second drawer and took out a folded page.
The paper was brittle, edges burned unevenly, covered in writing that spiraled rather than lined. Some of it was ink. Some of it looked scratched in with something sharper.
This was not a recipe.
It was a binding.
A containment.
A theft.
Dadi laid the paper flat and whispered the first line—not aloud, not in her mind, but somewhere in between. The air reacted immediately, growing colder, tighter, as if listening.
She uncorked the bottle.
The wax cracked with a sound like bone snapping.
A smell filled the room—earth after rain, iron, old roots pulled violently from soil. The thing inside shifted faster now, agitated, brushing against the glass as if eager.
Dadi's hands shook harder.
"This was never meant for you," she murmured. "Never meant for blood."
She took a shallow breath and began to prepare it.
By remembering.
She traced symbols in the air with her finger, each motion deliberate, painful. With every mark, the room dimmed further, corners stretching, shadows thickening like wet ink.
The substance in the bottle responded.
It darkened.
Thickened.
A low vibration filled the space—not a sound, but a pressure, like something large turning over in its sleep.
"This is not healing," Dadi whispered, tears dripping onto the paper. "This is borrowing."
Borrowing strength that did not belong to the living.
Borrowing silence from something that should never be quiet.
Borrowing time—from a debt that always comes due.
The formula was simple in appearance.
A single drop.
Placed over the heart.
To anchor the soul when it slips too far, too fast.
But what it truly did—
Was invite something ancient to hold the door shut.
At a cost.
Dadi corked the bottle again, hands barely steady enough to seal it.
She pressed her forehead to the table and closed her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she whispered—not sure if she meant Ling, or herself, or the thing waiting patiently inside the glass.
Then she stood.
The bottle felt heavy in her palm.
Too heavy for something so small.
As she turned toward the door, the shadows in the room followed her movement.
And far away, somewhere deep and unseen—
Something answered.
Dadi entered Ling's room without a sound.
The air inside was wrong—too still, too tight, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Eliza sat on the bed, cradling Ling's unmoving body, her face streaked with tears she hadn't wiped away. Victor stood close, one hand braced against the headboard, eyes never leaving his daughter.
Rina had backed into the corner, arms wrapped around herself.
Dadi said nothing.
She moved to the bedside and held up the bottle.
Eliza's breath hitched. "Mother…"
Dadi met her eyes once. "This or nothing."
Eliza nodded, jaw trembling, and carefully eased Ling back against the pillows.
Ling lay there—eyes open, unfocused, tears still slipping silently down her temples. Her chest rose and fell, shallow but steady. She could hear them. She could feel the bed beneath her. But her body remained a prison.
Dadi uncorked the bottle.
The stopper came free with a soft crack.
The room darkened—not visibly, but felt. The shadows near the corners thickened, leaning inward.
Dadi dipped her finger inside.
Just a drop.
It clung to her skin unnaturally, heavy and slow, dark as spilled night. It pulsed faintly against her fingertip, warm—not with heat, but with intent.
Dadi's hand trembled.
"Easy," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
She reached for Ling.
With practiced care, she loosened the fabric at Ling's collar, fingers gentle, precise. Buttons remained fastened—nothing disturbed more than necessary. Dadi slipped her hand beneath the shirt, palm warm against Ling's cool skin.
No hesitation.
This was her child.
Her fingers found the center of Ling's chest—over the heart.
The moment the drop touched skin, it spread.
Not like liquid.
Like something waking.
The darkness seeped outward in thin, branching lines beneath Ling's skin, vanishing just as quickly as they appeared. The air shuddered, as if struck by a silent pulse.
Ling felt it.
A pressure bloomed in her chest—deep, anchoring, terrifying. Something closed around her heart, not squeezing, but holding, as if unseen hands had reached in and gripped her soul to keep it from slipping away.
Her breath hitched.
Once.
Twice.
"Eliza," Victor whispered sharply.
Ling's fingers twitched.
Barely.
Dadi continued rubbing slow, deliberate circles, murmuring words too old to belong to any language spoken now. Each syllable sank into Ling's skin, into her bones.
The shadows pulled closer.
Ling's body jerked suddenly, a sharp inhale tearing into her lungs. Her back arched slightly, a hoarse sound scraping out of her throat.
Tears spilled faster now.
Hot.
Real.
"There," Dadi whispered. "Stay."
Ling's chest rose in a deeper breath.
Then another.
Her fingers curled weakly against the sheets.
The thing inside her—whatever had pierced, bound, hunted—retreated, not gone but held back, pressed behind a door slammed shut by force that did not belong to this world.
Dadi withdrew her hand slowly, carefully smoothing Ling's shirt back into place as if nothing unnatural had just happened.
She recorked the bottle at once.
The room exhaled.
Ling lay trembling, exhausted, still unable to speak—but no longer slipping. No longer falling.
Eliza collapsed forward, gripping Ling's hand, sobbing openly now. "She's here," she whispered. "She's still here."
Dadi stepped back, suddenly looking every year of her age.
Her voice was quiet. Grave.
"It will not last forever," she said. "We bought time. Nothing more."
Ling stared at the ceiling, tears still falling, chest aching where something unseen now sat—heavy, watchful.
She was alive.
Anchored.
And somewhere deep within her,
something ancient had taken notice
that she had been claimed—
and claimed back.
Ling's eyes closed slowly.
Her breathing evened out, deep and steady at last. Whatever had gripped her loosened its hold—not gone, but quieted. Sleep took her gently this time, merciful and heavy.
Dadi noticed first.
"She's asleep," she whispered.
Eliza immediately reached to shake her—then froze when Dadi caught her wrist.
"Don't wake her," Dadi said firmly. "Not yet. Let her rest."
Victor nodded once. Rina sank down onto the floor by the bed, back against the frame, exhaustion finally pulling at her shoulders.
So they stayed.
All night.
No one left the room.
No one slept properly.
They watched Ling's chest rise and fall, counting breaths like prayers.
Moonlight faded.
Dawn crept in.
Morning light brushed Ling's face softly.
She stirred.
Her brows knit faintly, then smoothed. Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the brightness. For a moment, she simply stared at the ceiling—calm, clear, unaware.
Then she turned her head.
And froze.
"Mom?" she said hoarsely.
Her gaze shifted. "Dad?"
Then—confused now—"Dadi? Rina?"
They were all there.
Too close.
Too quiet.
Too carefully composed.
Ling pushed herself up slightly. "Why are you all in my room?"
Eliza moved first, far too fast, her smile already in place. "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"
Ling frowned. "Yes. But—why are you here?"
Victor stepped in smoothly. "We thought we'd surprise you."
Ling blinked. "Surprise me?"
Rina nodded a little too eagerly. "Yeah. Family morning. You know."
Ling's eyes narrowed slightly. She scanned their faces—Eliza's too-bright smile, Victor's tight jaw, Rina's red-rimmed eyes.
"And why," Ling said slowly, "do you all look like you cried?"
The room stilled.
Just for a beat.
Eliza laughed softly. "Oh, that? I was watching something emotional last night."
Rina nodded. "Same. Stupid movie."
Victor smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
Ling studied them, unconvinced but not alarmed. There was no pain in her body. No echo of fear. No memory beyond a blank, quiet night.
"Hm," she murmured. "Strange."
She swung her legs off the bed, steady, composed—herself again.
Then her gaze landed on Dadi.
Dadi hadn't smiled.
Ling's expression softened. "Dadi."
"Yes, my tiger."
"You don't lie to me," Ling said simply. "Tell me what happened."
Dadi's chest tightened.
She walked closer and rested a hand on Ling's shoulder, warm and grounding.
"I will tell you," Dadi said quietly.
Ling searched her face. "Now?"
Dadi shook her head. "Not now."
A pause.
Then, gently, firmly: "I promise."
Ling held her gaze for a long moment.
Then she nodded once. "Alright."
She stood, stretching slightly. "I must be late."
Eliza exhaled in relief she tried to hide. "I'll make breakfast."
Ling turned toward the bathroom, already letting the moment pass.
As the door closed behind her, the smiles fell.
Victor lowered his head.
Rina wiped her eyes again.
Eliza pressed a hand to her mouth, breath shaking.
Dadi watched the closed door with a heavy, knowing gaze.
"She doesn't remember," Eliza whispered.
Dadi nodded. "The formula never allows it."
"And when will you tell her?" Victor asked quietly.
Dadi's voice was barely audible.
"When she's strong enough to hear
what almost took her."
Behind the bathroom door, Ling splashed water on her face, staring at her reflection.
For just a second—
she thought she felt something heavy in her chest.
Watching.