ASHES BENEATH FLOWERS
Prolouge
Orchidfield – Where Petals Remember
Long before the asphalt and yellow curbs, Orchidfield was only hills and mist. A quiet basin cradled by forest, where the mornings rose with soft rain and silence. What first captured the settlers wasn’t the land—it was the wild orchids. They weren’t planted. They simply were. Spilling from the trunks of rimu trees, resting on rocks, trailing from branches like forgotten lace. No two were alike. Some clung to bark like secrets. Others bloomed in
midair.
Locals say orchids are the most stubborn of flowers. Epiphytes—born without soil, fed only by air, light, and time. Beautiful, yes, but patient and relentless too. A flower that survives by grace, not force.
Bella Low had once worked as a secretary at James Finance—a crisp office, bright monitors, pressed shirts, and city noise. She was sharp, organized, well-liked. But her heart was never in balance sheets or quarterly reports. Her soul lingered on softer things: petals, rainwater, handwritten .
It was her parents, Arnold and Diana Low, who called her back.
“Come home,” her mother had said. “We’re not getting younger, and the pigs won’t feed themselves.”
They weren’t joking. Her father had returned to the land he was born on—small livestock, one stubborn cow, and a dream of simple living. They weren’t poor, just peaceful. The old village of Orchidfield still held their hearts. And Bella, watching their joy and mud-splashed boots, began to remember why she loved quiet things. Why her fingers had always been better suited to stems than keyboards.
She left the job with no regret. She planted roots beside her parents, surrounded by animals, orchard fences, and the slow rhythm of village life. Soon after, she reopened the family florist stand—revived it under her own name: Bella’s Bloom.
To Bella, becoming a florist wasn’t career change—it was coming home.
She never dreamed of skyscrapers. She dreamed of petals, and every arrangement was a prayer. Each bouquet a message. A bridge between grief and beauty. Between memory and morning.
Orchidfield wasn’t just a name.
It was the quiet place where things could still grow.
Orchidfield got its name long before Bella Low was born.
Back when early settlers found wild orchids climbing the trunks of kahikatea and rimu trees, they said it was a sign of grace—fragile beauty growing in the rough. So they named the place Orchidfield. And somehow, the name stayed long after the orchids thinned out.
Bella always thought it was fitting. Orchids didn’t demand attention. They just bloomed, quietly, where the soil allowed.
Her love for flowers didn’t come from books or Pinterest boards—it came from home.
Her parents, Arnold and Diana Low, had moved to a nearby village after retirement. Tired of the city, they wanted a quieter life. They raised sheep, pigs, and a few stubborn cows on land dotted with foxgloves and dandelions.
They asked Bella to come with them, to trade the fast-paced office life for muddy boots and open skies. But she had other plans.
“I don’t belong behind a desk,” she’d told her father one evening. “But I don’t belong in a barn either.”
She smiled then. “I belong where the flowers are.”
And that’s how Bella’s Bloom was born.
She left her job as a secretary at James Finance, not with regret but with relief. Her parents supported her choice—after all, she’d inherited more than just her mother’s green thumb. She’d inherited her sense of grace, of care, of patience. And her father’s quiet practicality.
Marrying Alex Flowers—the cabman with strong shoulders and soft eyes—only strengthened her roots. She didn’t take his name officially, but Bella Low Flowers became a poetic way to sign off cards and notes. It reflected everything she cherished: her past, her love, and her work.
So while her parents lived in a small village nearby, feeding animals and watching sunsets over paddocks, Bella lived in the heart of Orchidfield, wrapping stories into stems, petals, and ribbons.
Every bouquet she made carried more than fragrance. It carried memory.
Chapter 1
The Smoke Before the Fire
Orchidfield didn’t speak in noise. It breathed in quiet.
Fog curled through its streets like memory, brushing against the bricks and iron rails like fingers over old photographs. Streetlamps buzzed faintly overhead, throwing halos through the mist that turned every silhouette into a ghost. Time in Orchidfield moved in half-steps, like it was always one beat behind the rest of the world.
On the edge of town, tucked between a flower shop with fading lettering and an abandoned chapel stained with ivy, a house waited. Its green paint flaked from the wood. The gutters sagged like tired shoulders. But the light was on in the kitchen. And upstairs, Alex Flower woke with a sharp breath and a heart that didn’t feel like his.
**4:03 AM.**
The nightmare hadn’t followed him into full wakefulness, but it hadn’t left either. He sat in bed, legs under twisted sheets, trying to breathe past something invisible in the air. Cold sweat clung to his back. His jaw ached from clenching in sleep.
He blinked at the shadows In the room. The ceiling fan hummed. Nothing moved. And yet, it felt like the house was holding its breath.
He stood.
Floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he moved through the hallway. Barefoot and quiet. The kind of quiet that you don’t control, the kind that settles over you like a weight. In the kitchen, he clicked the kettle on and stared at it like it might speak.
The window over the sink was fogged with the cold. Beyond it, the street was drowned in gray. He couldn’t see the sidewalk. Couldn’t see the trees. Couldn’t see the chapel across the street. Just a thick veil of fog that reminded him of the dream.
He didn’t want to remember.
He made coffee like he was performing a ritual. Grounds in the filter. Water just off boil. The smell was bitter and grounding. He breathed it in. Let it settle his hands.
Next came the eggs. Crack. Whisk. Salt. Butter in the pan. The sizzle gave him something to hold onto. He made toast. Sliced avocado. Squeezed lemon. He plated it all without thinking, every motion practiced, every detail correct. But this wasn’t routine. Not today.
Today, something felt wrong.
He set the plates on the counter and leaned against the frame of the bedroom door. The hallway light spilled behind him.
“Big Bell,” he said softly.
A low groan. Blankets shifted.
“It’s not six yet...”
“I know.” He stepped inside. “I couldn’t sleep. Breakfast’s ready.”
Isabella Low peeked out from under the covers, hair tangled and dark against the white pillow. She blinked slowly at him, frowning like she always did when pulled from deep sleep.
“You okay?”
He tried to smile. It didn’t stick. “Yeah.”
She sat up. The blanket fell away from her shoulders. In the soft light, she looked more like a painting than a person. Tired eyes. Strong jaw. Warmth that lived behind every part of her, even the guarded parts.
“Alex.”
“Come eat,” he said, already walking away.
She followed. The robe she threw on dragged slightly behind her. Her feet scuffed the old floor. The table was already set. Coffee steamed between the plates.
She sat. Closed her eyes.
“Thank You, Lord, for this food, this day, and the hands that made it. Watch over us. Amen.”
He watched her. Said nothing.
She looked up. “You’ve got that face.”
“What face?”
“The ‘something’s wrong’ face. It’s quieter than most people’s panic, but I know it.”
He swallowed. Took a sip of coffee.
“Had a dream.”
She nodded once. Waited.
“Cemetery. Gray sky. Cold. I was alone. Your name was on the stone.”
She didn’t react right away. She set her fork down slowly.
“I could smell the flowers,” he continued. “Old ones. I heard the wind through the trees. But there was nothing else. Just me. And your grave.”
She looked at him like she was seeing both him and something behind him.
“You know dreams lie, right?”
“Sometimes they don’t.”
“Alex.”
He looked down. “I couldn’t move. I wanted to. But my legs felt nailed to the ground. Like I was meant to be there. Like the only thing left was the stone.”
She reached out. Took his hand.
“You’re not alone,” she said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
He gripped her fingers a little tighter. Her skin was warm. Steady.
“Promise me something?”
She tilted her head.
“If I start seeing things again. Shadows. Hearing things that aren’t there. If I slip back... pull me out. Don’t let me sink.”
“You really think I’d let you sink?”
“Just promise.”
“Alright.” Her hand squeezed his. “But you better keep making breakfast.”
He smiled. This time, it held.
Outside, a cab engine rumbled at the curb, headlights cutting through the fog.
Inside, the nightmare hadn’t vanished.
But it didn’t own him anymore.
Not yet.
Chapter 2
Whisper on Dawson Street
The sun had barely started to rise over Orchidfield, its soft golden light spilling over the rooftops and narrow streets, casting everything in a sleepy golden haze. It was the kind of morning where even the birds took their time, and the fog didn’t feel like it was retreating—it felt like it was waiting. A veil hanging low, clinging to the old bones of the town like it remembered things the people didn’t dare speak.
Alex Flower stepped outside his front door, exhaling into the cold. His breath hung in the air like smoke. He took a slow, steady breath through his nose. The scent of wet asphalt mixed with a faint hint of lavender and gardenia—leftovers from Isabella Low’s flower shop next door. That smell always lingered, even when the wind tried to carry it away.
He glanced down the street. Everything looked the same—houses leaning slightly toward the road, wires crisscrossing the sky, a cat lounging on a porch rail. But everything felt different. He rubbed his eyes, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped toward the cab parked in the driveway.
Routine. That’s what this was supposed to be. Start the car. Turn on the head unit display. Pick up clients. Go through the day like everything was normal. But it wasn’t. His mind still echoed with last night’s dream. A cemetery cloaked in fog. Isabella’s name etched into cold stone. The kind of dream that stayed in your bones.
He paused with his hand on the car door. The cold metal made him flinch. For a moment, he just stood there, listening. No birdsong. No traffic. Just the whispering silence of Orchidfield before dawn. He climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the engine rumbled awake.
He didn’t reach for the head unit display. Didn’t scroll through his phone. Instead, he sat for a minute, eyes closed, trying to clear his head. The hum of the engine was the only sound in the world.
Then his phone buzzed.
First Call: Dawson Street. Client: Mr. Villas.
Alex opened one eye. The name was familiar. Mr. Villas was one of those clients who didn’t talk unless he had to. Always dressed like he stepped out of a time capsule. Always on time. Always calm. The kind of man who made other people feel like they were in the wrong timeline.
Alex tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and shifted into gear. The cab rolled down the driveway and into the waking world. Fog slipped past the windows. Trees reached like shadows through the mist. Orchidfield felt half-formed in the morning light.
By the time he reached Dawson Street, the fog had lifted just enough to reveal the shape of Mr. Villas—tall, lean, dressed in a sharp gray suit with a black fedora. He looked like a photograph come to life. As Alex pulled up, Villas stepped off the curb and into the backseat with the kind of quiet efficiency that only came with age or secrets.
“Morning, Mr. Villas,” Alex said, trying to sound normal.
“Morning, Alex.” Villas’ voice was low, even, and just the slightest bit tired.
Alex glanced in the rearview mirror. The old man’s eyes were on the street, not him. They drove in silence for several minutes, the cab weaving through streets still half-asleep. Morning commuters emerged like ghosts from fogged-up doorways. Shops flicked their lights on.
“You look tired,” Villas said finally. “Bad dream?”
Alex hesitated. The image of the gravestone burned behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Real bad.”
Villas leaned his head against the seat, looking out the window. “Dreams don’t go away, you know. Not the ones that mean something. They follow you. You breathe them in. They live in your shadow.”
Alex didn’t know what to say. He kept his eyes on the road. His fingers tightened on the wheel.
“Most people think dreams lie,” Villas continued. “But not all of them. Some of them speak truth too loud for us to hear when we’re awake.”
The silence returned, stretching between them like a third passenger. They passed the bookstore, the old train depot, the rusted skeleton of a playground.
“I’m going to the cemetery today,” Villas said suddenly.
Alex glanced back again. “Paying respects?”
“In a way.” Villas folded his hands in his lap. “To the dead. And the living who think they’re not.”
Alex felt a chill crawl up his neck. “That sounds... heavy.”
“All truths are,” Villas replied. “You’ll see soon enough.”
They turned onto the long road that led toward the cemetery, the trees leaning in close. The cab slowed as they approached the iron gates, old and ornate, laced with rust and vines.
“Your next client,” Villas said, voice like gravel underfoot. “He’s the man cheating with your wife.”
The words hit like a brick.
Alex slammed the brakes. The cab jerked to a stop.
“What the hell did you say?”
Villas didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look at Alex.
“You’ll see,” he said. “The truth always shows up. Even when you’d rather it didn’t.”
Alex stared at him in the mirror. The man’s expression hadn’t changed. Calm. Cold. Certain.
The engine idled.
Alex opened his door and stepped out. The morning had grown colder. He leaned against the cab, trying to breathe. The cemetery loomed behind him. The gate creaked in the wind.
He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, took a drag. The smoke didn’t help. His stomach twisted. His thoughts tangled. The name on the gravestone, the fog, Villas’ voice—all of it felt too connected.
He cracked open a soda, sipped, and watched the mist drift between the headstones. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in his teeth.
His phone buzzed.
No Caller ID. Pickup: Griffin Street.
He stared at the screen. His thumb hovered. Then he tapped.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end was low. Distorted. “Come pick me up. Griffin Street. I’ll be waiting.”
The line went dead.
Alex stood frozen. Heart thumping.
He got back in the cab. Slammed the door. Put the car in gear. Griffin Street was on the edge of town—just beyond the cemetery, past the railroad tracks.
As he drove, the fog seemed to thicken. The trees leaned closer. And the words echoed in his mind:
“He’s the man cheating with your wife.”
Every turn of the wheel felt heavier. Every mile stretched too long. Something was coming. Something he hadn’t prepared for. Something waiting for him on Griffin Street.
And he wasn’t sure if he was driving toward the truth—or if the truth was already waiting for him.
Chapter 3
The Stranger from Griffin
Griffin Street sat on the edge of Orchidfield, an area that had once seen prosperity but now carried the weight of neglect. The old warehouses that lined the street, most of them abandoned and peeling, gave way to rows of tired apartments—dilapidated buildings that hadn’t seen a renovation in over forty years. The paint on the shutters had long since flaked away, and the brickwork seemed to crumble with every passing year. The road itself was narrow, cracked with time and flanked by wild weeds that had grown up through the cement, like nature itself was fighting back against the urban decay. Leaning fences sagged and bent, a silent testimony to how little attention had been paid to this corner of Orchidfield.
The deeper Alex drove into this part of town, the quieter it became—eerily so. The usual sound of birds or distant chatter from the streets felt muted, as though the very air was holding its breath. The fog that still clung to the town in the early hours settled thicker here, as though it was hiding secrets that no one was supposed to see. The silence crept up on him, wrapping around the car like a shroud. It made his heart beat faster, not from fear, but from an overwhelming sense of something just out of reach—something hidden in plain sight.
He pulled the cab Into a narrow side street just off Griffin and parked next to a run-down building. The porch light above flickered intermittently, its weak glow casting long, distorted shadows on the cracked pavement. The whole area felt abandoned, even though people lived here. He checked his phone again. There was nothing new—no name, no history. Just a location. Just Griffin Street.
Alex had always known that Orchidfield had its share of secrets. But this? This felt different.
He didn’t have time to wonder more about it. A moment later, the man appeared.
He stepped out from between two crumbling buildings, the kind of slow, deliberate movement of someone who had nowhere to be but wasn’t in a rush to get there. Short and stocky, maybe in his forties, with a balding head and a thick frame—Alex guessed around 100 kilograms. His faded leather jacket clung tightly to his chest, the fabric stretched across his bulging belly, and his boots scraped the pavement with every step, the sound cutting through the quiet like nails on a chalkboard.
Without a word, the man opened the back door and climbed in, his large frame squeezing into the seat. The smell of cheap cigarettes and stale cologne flooded the car as he settled in. The lingering scent clung to the interior like a weight that Alex couldn’t shake off.
“Where to?” Alex asked, glancing in the rearview mirror as he shifted in his seat. His voice came out a little more clipped than usual. He couldn’t help it. Something about the man made his skin crawl.
“Griffin and Fifth,” the man muttered, his voice low and flat, devoid of any emotion or inflection.
Alex didn’t say anything in response. He nodded, shifted the gearstick into drive, and pulled out onto the road. The silence in the car was stifling—heavy, dense, and somehow expectant.
Alex wanted to ask the man about the strange call he’d received earlier, but he didn’t. Something told him that asking wouldn’t make anything better.
Instead, he kept his focus on the road, the soft hum of the car engine filling the air, and tried not to glance back too often. The man in the backseat didn’t look around. He didn’t scroll through his phone or adjust his jacket. He didn’t even tap his fingers against the armrest. He simply stared ahead, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. It was like he was watching a movie that had been playing for years and had long since lost any sense of newness.
The stillness was palpable. The moments seemed to stretch on forever, as if time had slowed. Alex found himself checking the clock more often than usual, as if he could control the passage of time with a glance.
“So... uh... early day for you?” Alex said, his voice breaking the silence, trying to fill the void, even if only for a moment.
The man didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t even move. His eyes flicked toward Alex briefly, like he was acknowledging the question, but there was no change in his expression. No shift in the air. It was as if Alex didn’t exist to him at all.
Finally, after a long beat, the man spoke, his voice low and distant. “Doesn’t matter. Day’s the same as any other.”
Alex wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It felt like an invitation to go deeper into a conversation that neither of them really wanted to have. He didn’t speak again. The ride continued, dragging on like a thread slowly being pulled across a dull, lifeless canvas.
The city slowly passed by them—old convenience stores with their metal grates still down, pawn shops displaying broken televisions and vintage radios, boarded-up buildings with faded signs from long-gone businesses. The scenery was as faded as the man’s presence in the backseat. It wasn’t that the man was physically unpleasant to be around, but there was something about the way he existed in space that made Alex uneasy. Like his very presence was absorbing all the energy in the car and leaving nothing behind.
It was a strange, uncomfortable feeling, and Alex couldn’t shake it.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they reached the corner of Griffin and Fifth. Alex pulled the cab to a stop at the light, the tires crunching softly on the gravel beneath them.
The man in the back leaned forward slightly, his large hand pulling a wad of crumpled bills from his coat pocket. He handed over the exact amount, no more, no less. His fingers lingered for a moment too long before pulling back.
No eye contact. No thank you. No acknowledgment of the ride. Just cold, silent transactions.
Then, the man opened the door. Without a word, he stepped out, his boots scraping against the pavement as he walked away, disappearing into the misty morning without even a glance back.
Alex watched the figure disappear into the fog, feeling a strange chill that seemed to settle into his bones. It wasn’t just the man’s departure that left him cold. It was the way everything around him seemed to absorb his presence, the way the world felt a little less real when he was there. Like something had passed through his life that wasn’t meant to stay but had left a mark, nonetheless.
He looked down at his phone again, hoping for some distraction, but there was nothing new. The number he had saved as “Griffin Street” had vanished, leaving nothing behind but a blank screen. No name, no contact history, no trace of who had called him.
The man was gone.
Alex’s pulse quickened as a strange sense of unease crept over him. He didn’t know what had just happened, but he felt more lost than ever. Something about the situation, the call, the strange encounter with the man—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit together. Every answer he thought he had led to more questions. The feeling of being tangled in a mystery, surrounded by shadows that refused to reveal themselves.
His breath came out shaky as he leaned back in the seat. He stared at the fog rolling in, the way it seemed to curl around the streetlights and settle in the cracks of the buildings. He wasn’t sure where to go next. But he knew one thing for sure.
He wasn’t getting out of Orchidfield any time soon.
With a deep breath, Alex started the engine again, letting the soft hum fill the silence. He looked ahead, unsure of where the road would lead. But something told him that the answers he was looking for—if they even existed—weren’t going to be easy to find.
Chapter 4
Shadows Between the Cracks
Alex drove in silence, his hands tight on the wheel, his thoughts trailing behind like ghosts in the rearview mirror. The stranger from Griffin had hardly spoken, but something about him lingered—like the scent of iron in the air after a lightning strike. It wasn’t fear exactly. More like a warning he couldn’t hear but could still feel.
He parked his cab back near the Orchidfield cemetery—the same spot with free parking where he had waited earlier that morning. The sky had shifted from grey to pale gold, the sun forcing its way through mist like it was reluctant to show itself today.
Alex turned off the engine, pulled the handbrake, and leaned back in his seat. His body ached, not from driving but from something deeper—tension that had settled in his spine like rust.
He reached into the dashboard compartment, pulled out a warm can of soda, and cracked it open. The hiss was oddly satisfying. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and stared out at the cemetery gates in the distance.
“A man who’s cheating with your wife.”
Those words from Mr. Villas echoed again in his mind. Even though the Griffin Street man said nothing about it, the warning refused to leave him alone. It felt ridiculous—absurd, even. Bella loved him. She’d never given him a reason to doubt her.
And yet... why did his chest feel this tight?
His phone buzzed on the passenger seat, pulling him from the spiral. It was a message—anonymous again. Just an address. No name. No message. Just a pin. He stared at it for a long moment, heart sinking.
Again?
He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Then, he opened his contacts, saved the number under a new label: Unmarked 2 – Caution.
Alex didn’t believe in omens or fate, but something inside him had shifted this morning. Something deep and cold.
Still holding the cigarette between his fingers, he leaned out the window and tapped the ash onto the pavement. “Okay,” he muttered to himself. “One more ride.”
But before he started the engine, he pulled out his notebook from the glove box and scribbled something on the back page:
› “Stranger. Griffin. No return contact. Quiet. Felt like watching me.” “Mr. Villas... prediction?” “Bella – trust?”
He underlined the last part, then closed the notebook and put it away.
The engine rumbled back to life.
As he pulled onto the road, the sun caught the edge of his windshield, casting a blinding white reflection. Alex narrowed his eyes. For a second, he thought he saw someone standing by the cemetery gate in the mirror.
But when he looked again, there was no one there.
The streets of Orchidfield seemed emptier than usual, like the town had decided to hold its breath. Every stop sign and faded crosswalk looked like it had been placed for ghosts, not people. Alex’s phone sat in the cupholder, dark and silent now, but the pin still burned in his memory. A location with no name—like a question scrawled without punctuation.
At a red light, he rested his head briefly against the steering wheel. He wasn’t tired. He was... stretched. Pulled between what he knew and what he feared.
Isabella’s smile came to mind—how it curled before her jokes landed, how it lingered when she said goodnight. He clung to that memory, but a shadow pressed against it: doubt. Not born from her, but from the words of others, from dreams, from strangers.
He forced the car into motion.
The route to the new location wound through parts of Orchidfield he hadn’t visited in years—industrial lanes and crumbling storefronts with windows painted black. The deeper he went, the more time seemed to lose meaning.
He passed a billboard, rusted and blank. Another block, then a mural peeling from a wall—an old image of children holding balloons that looked like eyes.
Finally, he pulled into the edge of a long alley behind what looked like a shuttered bakery. The pin landed here. Nothing else. No movement. No figure waiting.
Alex cut the engine.
The silence was absolute.
He opened the door slowly, stepping out into the filtered light. It smelled like metal and mildew. He scanned the alley. Nothing. No footsteps. No sound.
Just a trash bin. A cracked mirror leaning against a wall. And a sticker on the alley pole that read in crooked handwriting:
› “They already know.”
He took a step back.
His phone buzzed again. This time, a voice message. One second long. No words. Just static and something underneath it—something almost like breathing.
Alex exhaled through his nose and rubbed his temple. The cigarette had burned itself out on the ground.
He got back into the cab, locked the doors, and checked his mirrors twice before pulling out of the alley.
The streets were still empty. But for the first time that day, he felt like something—or someone—was watching him.
Chapter 5
The Flower Keeper
The morning light spilled into the windows of Bella’s flower shop like honey poured slow and golden through glass. It stretched long fingers across the wood-paneled floor and danced in the glass vases lined neatly along the shelves. Orchidfield, in its sleepy charm, had only just begun to stir. The streets hummed with the occasional delivery truck and the soft clink of a coffee shop sign swinging in the breeze. Inside Bella’s Bloom, though, it was already a world unto itself—a greenhouse of stories, perfume, and patient rituals.
Bella Low moved through the space like a conductor through a symphony, her hands sure, her eyes calm. By 9 a.m., her apron was already marked with signs of the morning’s labor: streaks of green from leaves, dots of pollen dusting the fabric like freckles. The shop was fragrant with her signature arrangement of roses, lilies, peonies, wild orchids, and sprigs of mint and eucalyptus. It smelled like comfort and memory, the kind of place that held your breath when you stepped inside.
She was adjusting the angle of a new display—a low ceramic bowl filled with rich red carnations, trailing ivy, and dried lavender—when her phone buzzed. The device sat on the counter beside a pair of silver shears. She wiped her hands on her apron and checked the screen: no message, just a short video reel from an old university friend. A wedding. Laughing faces. A seaside view. The bride threw a bouquet in slow motion. Bella watched with a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
The bell above the door jingled, a subtle, gentle chime.
Bella glanced up and instinctively smoothed her hair. A man had stepped into the shop, wearing a tailored grey suit that spoke of effort rather than extravagance. His eyes were restless, scanning everything and nothing at once. His tie was slightly askew, and there was a tightness in his posture, like he was ready to bolt.
“Hi,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost apologetic. “I, uh... need flowers.”
Bella offered her usual calm smile, warm but not intrusive. “Then you’re in luck.”
He approached the counter slowly, his gaze catching briefly on a display of dried bouquets hung in the back, swaying slightly in the morning draft.
“Something for my fiancée,” he said. “We’re going to the beach today.”
Bella leaned her elbows on the counter, studying him gently. “That sounds lovely. Any special occasion?”
He shrugged, a hand running through his dark hair. “I proposed last month. She said yes. This is kind of... our celebration.”
Bella nodded slowly. “Do you know what she likes? Favorite color? Favorite flower?”
“Yellow, I think,” he said. “Or white. Maybe both. She’s not picky. I mean, she’s kind, you know?”
Bella chuckled, already moving to her worktable. “That narrows it down a little.”
As she selected flowers—yellow roses, white lilies, gypsophila for softness—she spoke over her shoulder. “First bouquet you’ve ever bought for her?”
“First one ever, really. At least, not for funerals or apologies.”
“Well,” Bella said, arranging the bouquet with deft fingers, “this is a much better reason.”
He laughed nervously. “Yeah, that’s the idea.”
She wrapped the bouquet in soft paper, tied with pale green twine. When she handed it over, his hands trembled slightly as he took it.
“This okay?” he asked.
Bella tilted her head, then nodded. “It says you care. And that you tried. That’s romance.”
He looked at the bouquet as if it might whisper a secret. “Thank you. Really.”
“Bella,” she said, offering her hand.
He took it. “Jack. Jack Laszlo.”
“Good luck, Jack,” she said. “And tell her she’s lucky.”
“She tells me that sometimes,” he said, smiling. “I never believe her.”
The door closed with another soft chime.
Bella stood still a moment longer. Her eyes followed him through the front window as he crossed the quiet street. He opened his car door, placed the bouquet carefully on the passenger seat, then checked his phone. He lingered there, scrolling through something she couldn’t see. Then he started the car.
The street outside remained calm, painted with the soft colors of mid-morning sun. But something buzzed in Bella’s chest—a dissonance she couldn’t place. Like a memory she didn’t have yet. She looked back at the now-empty shop, at the flowers she had touched, and felt... unsteady.
She shook it off and returned to the counter. There were petals to trim, invoices to check, and a wedding order due tomorrow morning.
But in the back of her mind, the chime of the door echoed longer than usual.
And somewhere far from the quiet of Orchidfield, where the ocean stretched into an endless whisper, the wind picked up as if stirred by something watching, something waking.
Chapter 6
A Gift from the Sea
The late morning sun spilled across the horizon, casting golden streaks that filtered through the trees lining the narrow road leading to Dylan’s coastal home. The light bathed everything in a warm, honeyed glow, as if the world was holding its breath before the day fully woke. Jack stood at the doorstep, his palms damp around the bouquet of flowers he had carefully chosen: sun-kissed lilies, soft pink roses, and a scattering of delicate baby’s breath, all wrapped in a simple, brown paper package. His fingers trembled slightly, nerves setting in as he prepared for this small, intimate gesture.
He took a deep breath and knocked lightly.
The door opened with a gentle creak. There stood Dylan, barefoot in loose-fitting shorts and a breezy linen blouse, her hair tied up in a messy knot, strands of it escaping to frame her face. She looked effortlessly beautiful, her eyes lighting up when they landed on the flowers he held out to her.
“For me?” she asked with a half-teasing, half-surprised smile, one eyebrow arching slightly as she took in the bouquet.
“I thought you’d say that,” Jack said, his voice light but laced with nerves. “First morning of our weekend together, and I wanted it to start beautifully.”
“You already managed that,” Dylan replied, her smile widening. She leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, her lips soft and warm, before gently accepting the bouquet. She turned, carrying the flowers into the house and setting them on the windowsill in a tall glass vessel that caught the sunlight in a way that made the petals seem to glow.
“They smell like sunshine,” Dylan murmured, her fingers delicately touching the blooms. “Thank you, Jack.”
Jack felt the weight of his breath leave him as he smiled, watching her for a moment. There was something about the way she took care with the smallest of things that made his heart feel lighter. He could watch her all day and still find something new to appreciate.
By the time the clock hit 10 a.m., the two of them were cruising down the coastal road toward the beach. The air in the car was warm, with the faintest scent of sea salt drifting through the open windows. Jack drove with one hand, the other resting comfortably over Dylan’s fingers as they rested on the center console. His mind was calm, settled in the peaceful rhythm of the drive. The coastline ahead of them was an unbroken stretch of beauty—waves gleaming in the sunlight, the occasional gull calling out overhead, and the earth smelling of fresh seaweed and salt.
When they arrived at their spot on the beach, they found a quiet stretch of sand away from the crowds. Dylan quickly spread out a large, striped blanket, the fabric swishing against the ground.
She stretched out on her back, digging her toes into the warm sand, letting the sun sink into her skin. Jack lay beside her, propping himself up on one arm, gazing out at the endless stretch of water.
“I’m grabbing ice cream,” Dylan announced suddenly, sitting up and dusting sand from her hands. “You want the usual?”
“Surprise me,” Jack said, offering her a playful grin as she stood to make her way toward the ice cream stand nestled at the top of the hill.
Left alone for a moment, Jack turned his gaze back to the horizon. The waves lapped gently at the shore, a rhythm he could lose himself in. The water seemed endless, stretching out far beyond where his eyes could see, dark and deep with secrets that lay just beneath the surface. There was a tug, a pull in his chest, a strange call that urged him closer. Without thinking, he stood up and walked toward the edge of the water.
The coldness of the sea kissed his ankles, and he shivered slightly, feeling the cool rush of saltwater before diving in. His body cut through the waves effortlessly as he swam farther out, feeling the water engulf him, the pressure rising as he descended deeper. The world below the surface was a quiet one, peaceful and surreal. Sunlight sliced through the water in long, golden ribbons, creating shimmering patterns on the sand below.
It was then that his eyes caught something—an unnatural glint beneath the surface. His heart skipped a beat. He dove deeper, pushing through the water with determination. A layer of silt and shell fragments covered something—a necklace, silver and delicate, with a jade teardrop pendant hanging from it. The jade shimmered faintly, glowing with a soft, eerie light. Jack hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing the chain before gripping it tightly and pulling it free from the sea’s grasp.
The instant his fingers closed around It, a shiver ran through him, a sudden jolt that made his entire body tense. It was as if he’d touched something forgotten, something that had been waiting for him. The pendant pulsed faintly, sending a dull vibration up his arm, a subtle sensation that seemed to come from deep within the necklace itself. It felt alive in a way that unsettled him.
He broke the surface of the water with a sharp intake of breath, looking down at the necklace in his palm, still dripping with seawater. His heart raced in his chest, and for a moment, the weight of the necklace felt heavy, like a secret too big to hold. He glanced back at the shore, where Dylan stood, waving at him, two ice cream cones in hand.
Jack quickly stuffed the necklace into the side pocket of his swim shorts and made his way back to the beach. Dylan was waiting for him with a bright smile, holding out one of the cones.
“Strawberry mango. Just how you like it,” she said, handing him the cone. The cold, sweet ice cream melted on his tongue, but the taste didn’t distract him from the strange weight in his chest.
“You remembered,” Jack murmured, his eyes drifting back to the ocean for a moment, where the waves seemed to shift subtly, as if responding to something he couldn’t quite understand.
“I always do,” Dylan said, taking a playful bite of her cone. “So, what were you doing out there? Find any treasures?”
Jack hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of the pendant in his pocket. “Maybe,” he said quietly, a shadow crossing his features for a moment.
Dylan didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in the sweetness of the ice cream. She leaned her head against his shoulder, content, and they spent the next few minutes in a comfortable silence, letting the sun warm their skin. Jack kept the necklace hidden in his pocket, feeling its weight like a secret pressing into him.
As Dylan finished the last bite of her cone, she turned toward him, her eyes bright with curiosity. “What’s on your mind, Jack?”
He hesitated, then turned toward her. “I found something,” he said softly.
Her gaze softened, her brow furrowing with gentle concern.
“What kind of something?”
“Close your eyes,” he whispered, his voice almost lost in the wind.
Dylan raised an eyebrow. “What is this?”
“Trust me,” he said, his tone earnest.
With a small smile, she complied, her lashes brushing her cheeks as she closed her eyes. Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out the necklace, its jade pendant cold against his fingers. He fastened it gently around her neck, the platinum chain resting against her skin like it had always belonged there.
Dylan’s eyes fluttered open. She gasped softly, her fingers tracing the edges of the jade. “It’s... cold,” she whispered, her voice a little shaky.
“Too cold?” Jack asked, his eyes narrowing in concern.
“No—it’s just... strange,” she replied, her voice distant. “It feels like it knows me.”
Jack’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”
Dylan’s fingers brushed the jade again, her touch delicate. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her eyes wide with wonder. “But... it gave me a shiver.”
The two of them sat there in silence, the sound of the waves crashing rhythmically against the shore. Far out, beyond the horizon, the ocean stirred darkly, as if aware of something long buried beneath its depths. Neither Jack nor Dylan noticed the faint flicker within the jade pendant, nor the way the wind seemed to shift, as though the very air had just remembered something it had forgotten long ago.
Chapter 7
Heavy Silence
Evening slowly descended on Orchidfield, the quiet town swallowed in the fading light of day, the sky a soft, bruised shade of violet as the sun sunk low behind the hills. A golden hue lingered just long enough to paint the street in muted tones before the town was wrapped in darkness. The streetlights blinked on one by one, flickering to life like silent sentinels guarding the old roads. Alex parked his cab at its usual spot beside the small house, just a few doors down from where the old oak tree stood as a shadowy figure in the corner of his vision. He had been driving for hours, but somehow the day felt long—too long.
He turned the key, killing the engine, but made no immediate move to get out of the car. Instead, his fingers moved mechanically, reaching for the glove box. With a sigh, he pulled out the half-empty can of soda he’d left there earlier that morning, popping it open with a soft hiss. The sharp, sour taste of carbonation hit his tongue, but it did nothing to quell the unease curling in his stomach. He leaned back in the seat, the cigarette between his fingers, eyes glazed as they scanned the dimming street. He watched the pale yellow light flicker in the distance, feeling a distant pull as if something was beckoning him to pay attention.
But all he could hear in his mind, louder than any street noise, were the words Mr. Villas had said to him earlier:
“Your next client... is the man who’s cheating with your wife.”
The words played on repeat, a broken record spinning in his head, each turn digging deeper into his chest. He let out a slow exhale of smoke, watching it drift through the car’s cracked window, the grey wisps dissipating into the cool evening air. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at the familiar house in front of him—the place that was supposed to be his sanctuary. His home.
He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. Bella—his Bella—was the one constant thing in his life. The only thing that had ever truly felt right. But why did those words cling to him so relentlessly? Why did they settle so deep, tugging at something in the pit of his stomach, something primal that wouldn’t let him rest? He didn’t know. But it made his chest tight, his heart beating faster as if something dangerous was lurking just beyond his reach.
Reluctantly, he flicked the cigarette out the window into the gutter, watching the embers fade into the dark. He grabbed his bag, the familiar weight in his hand like a tether back to normalcy. But as he stepped out of the car and walked to the front door, the quiet night seemed to grow louder around him, the soft rustling of leaves in the trees, the distant hum of crickets, the faint whispers of things unseen. He opened the door, and the scent of garlic and basil immediately hit him, warm and comforting, the familiar smells of home.
Inside, the house was quiet and cozy, filled with the soft hum of the kitchen. Bella was standing at the stove, wearing her favorite soft grey shirt and pajama pants, her dark hair tied up loosely. She moved gracefully, stirring a pot of spaghetti, her presence a constant source of peace in his chaotic
world. A pan of homemade tomato sauce bubbled softly beside it, filling the air with its rich, earthy aroma. The light in the kitchen was warm, casting long shadows across the room as she grated cheese into a bowl, humming a song that Alex couldn’t place but had heard a hundred times before.
He watched her for a moment, feeling a knot in his stomach loosen.
When she heard the door open, she turned, her face lighting up with that same soft smile that never failed to make his heart beat a little faster. “Perfect timing, cabman. Dinner’s almost ready,” she said, her voice light with a touch of playfulness.
Alex dropped his bag by the door and offered a tired smile in return. “Smells amazing.”
“Your favorite,” she said, her eyes bright with a quiet warmth that melted the last of his tension. “I figured you’d need a good meal. You’ve had a long day.”
She plated the pasta carefully, the red sauce contrasting against the soft, golden strands of noodles. As she finished, she set both plates on the small dining table, each portion perfect, and poured them each a glass of water. The sound of the glass being set down on the table was a simple comfort, the little ritual of their evening routine grounding him in the here and now.
“Sit,” she said, pulling out a chair for him, “We’ll pray first.”
Alex followed her lead, sitting down and feeling the familiar weight of the day slip away just a little. Bella reached across the table, offering her hands, and he took them without thinking, the touch a reminder of everything he held dear.
Her eyes closed gently. “Thank you, Lord, for this meal, for bringing us back to each other tonight, and for every little mercy You give. Help us to be honest. Help us to stay close.”
“Amen,” Alex mumbled, the word feeling like a prayer for something he wasn’t sure he understood yet.
They began to eat, the taste of the pasta still perfect, the comforting warmth of it spreading through him. But despite the richness of the meal, Alex found it hard to swallow. The pasta sat uneasily in his stomach, and the words of Mr. Villas seemed to hover in the air, thick and suffocating. He was sure Bella could sense the tension in him, even though he kept his face neutral.
She glanced at him between bites, concern creeping into her voice. “You’ve been quiet,” she observed.
“I’m just tired,” he replied quickly, not wanting to admit that it wasn’t just physical exhaustion wearing him down.
Bella tilted her head, her expression softening. “No... it’s more than that.” Her voice was gentle, as if she were trying to understand something deeper that he wasn’t saying.
Alex stared at his plate, the noodles growing cold, the silence between them stretching too long. He took a deep breath and, without looking up, spoke the words that had been gnawing at him.
“I had a dream last night,” he said quietly. “A bad one.”
Bella didn’t interrupt. She just waited.
“I was in a cemetery. There was fog everywhere... and I saw a grave. Your name was on it. I was crying, and I couldn’t find you.”
Her fork paused midair. She placed it slowly down, her eyes soft with concern.
“Alex... that’s awful. But it was just a dream.”
“I know.” His hand rubbed the back of his neck as he leaned forward, as if the weight of the memory was pressing down on him. “It just felt... different. Like it meant something.”
Bella reached across the table, her hand gently resting over his, grounding him in the present. “Dreams are strange things. But I’m here. Alive. And with you.”
He looked up at her—his Bella. The woman who had always been his anchor. Her eyes, so kind and full of understanding. Her voice, always soft and steady. Her steady hands that had once helped him through his darkest moments.
“Yeah,” he said, but even as the words left his mouth, the pit in his stomach remained, deepening with every passing moment.
They finished dinner in silence, the clinking of silverware against plates the only sound filling the room. Bella stood to clear the plates, humming softly as she rinsed them in the sink, the sound oddly soothing in the otherwise quiet room. Alex wandered into the bedroom, his mind still spinning, rubbing his tired eyes as he sat down on the edge of the bed.
When she joined him a few minutes later, she crawled beneath the covers and reached for him, the familiar touch comforting but also bittersweet in its normalcy.
“You worry too much,” she whispered, her head resting on his shoulder as she nestled against him.
“I know,” he murmured in return, but the worry wouldn’t leave. It couldn’t.
He pulled the blanket up and kissed the top of her head, the familiar scent of her shampoo enveloping him. But even as he held her, the words of Mr. Villas echoed in his mind, each repetition like a warning bell that refused to fade. In the dark, in the stillness of the night, that warning grew louder, more insistent.
Outside, the town of Orchidfield settled into night, the streets bathed in the soft glow of streetlamps, the sounds of crickets and distant wind filling the air.
But inside Alex’s mind, the words of Mr. Villas rang like a warning bell—a whisper that wouldn’t fade, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.
Chapter 8
The Father and the Memory
The skies over Orchidfield Cemetery were painted in solemn shades of ash and gold, the horizon a watercolor of loss and reverence. The evening sun, half-sunk behind the weeping willows that bordered the cemetery’s edge, cast long shadows that danced across weathered headstones like ghosts of memory. A hush lay heavy in the air, the kind of silence that presses against the ribs, demanding attention.
Gideon James stood still among the graves. His figure cut a striking silhouette—tall, broad-shouldered, silver hair combed back with exacting care, his dark coat barely shifting in the slow autumn breeze. His eyes, often called sharp and calculating in boardrooms, were now clouded with something far older and more tender than business: grief.
He looked down at the grave that had drawn him here for the hundredth time. Beneath the stone lay not just his daughter, but a decade of questions, guilt, and unrelenting sorrow.
Carra Evelyn James
1994 – 2015
“The sea took you, but not your light.”
The words etched into marble had been carefully chosen. Gideon remembered arguing with the mason, his voice breaking as he tried to explain what it meant for someone’s light to remain even after breath had vanished. How do you write permanence into stone? How do you translate the feeling of losing a daughter into a line short enough for a tomb?
He knelt slowly, his knees stiff from age and ache, and laid a bouquet of white lilies across the stone—fresh, fragrant, trembling slightly in the wind. His hand lingered on the polished surface, fingertips tracing the indent of her name like it might respond.
Ten years. Ten years and still, the memory clung to him like a second skin.
He remembered everything about that day—the brightness of the sky, the smell of sunscreen and salt, the thump of bass echoing across the marina. It had been a Saturday. A perfect day. Silverbay Marina was alive with families and boats and laughter, and Carra had fit into it like sunlight into glass.
She was radiant. Twenty-one, fiercely independent, passionate, clever. She had inherited her mother’s sharp wit and Gideon’s relentless drive. She had dreams of film and travel, of stories told in ink and seafoam.
The yacht had been modest by Gideon’s standards, but for Carra and her friends, it was a floating palace. Docked just off the main bay, its white hull gleamed under the sun. Music poured from hidden speakers, pulsing with the rhythm of youth.
He had driven out just to see her off, to bring her that iced vanilla latte she always teased him about. “Corporate fuel,” she called it.
“Dad! You brought coffee?” she said as she ran barefoot down the deck.
Gideon had smiled. “Your favorite.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “You spoil me.”
He remembered how her laughter made the world pause. How she sipped the drink with delight, hair whipping in the wind, sunglasses perched lazily on her head.
And the necklace. The jade teardrop that had belonged to her mother. Carra had worn it daily for ten years. A talisman. A link.
“You remind me more of your mother every day,” he had said.
Carra’s smile softened into something reverent. “Good. The world needs more of her.”
They stood together, not long, but long enough. The tide rolled in slowly, the waves kissing the dock like a promise.
“Luke’s expecting me back,” Gideon said finally.
Carra grinned. “I’ll swing by next week. Maybe bring some wine.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” he replied, and hugged her.
Tighter. Longer. Like part of him already knew.
“Love you, sunshine.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
He had walked away, keys jangling, heart light.
By mid-afternoon, the call came.
The voice on the other end of the line was shaking. Her friend, Camilla. “Mr. James... something happened. It’s Carra. She went swimming and... she didn’t come back up.”
The next few hours blurred into panic.
The paramedics. The drive. The marina cordoned off. Her friends sobbing on the pier. A white sheet. The coroner. The unspoken truth in everyone’s eyes.
She had gone into the water laughing. She never came back out breathing.
Some said it was cramps. Others claimed she hit her head diving in. The autopsy was inconclusive, drowning marked as cause of death. No drugs. No alcohol. Just silence where her heartbeat had been.
Her body had been recovered after seventeen minutes. Gideon had replayed that number over and over. Seventeen. If someone had noticed sooner... if the music had been quieter... if someone had stayed sober enough to count heads...
He didn’t blame them. And yet...
Inside the yacht, her room had been untouched. Except for one thing.
The necklace was missing.
She had placed it on the vanity before swimming—he knew her. She always took it off before diving. It was too precious. She never risked it.
But when they searched... nothing. No pendant. No chain. No clasp on the carpet.
Some said it had never been there. Others swore they saw it.
It was gone. Like her.
Back in the cemetery, the wind grew cooler.
Gideon stood slowly, his knees protesting. He took a deep breath, but it caught halfway. His hand rested on the tombstone again.
“I should’ve stayed,” he whispered. “Should’ve watched you swim.”
A squirrel darted across the path behind him. Somewhere in the trees, a bird called out. The sky shifted toward twilight.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small photo, the corners creased with time. Carra and him at the marina, arms around each other, both mid-laugh. He tucked it beside the lilies.
“They say time heals,” he murmured, “but they don’t say what it turns the pain into.”
He looked around, at the rows of graves, each a story, a heartbreak, a legacy.
The sea had taken her, yes. But something in him still waited for a sign.
Still listened.
Still hoped.
And as he walked away, cane tapping softly against the path, he thought he heard her voice in the wind.
Just a whisper. Just a breath.
“Love you too, Dad.”
And for a moment, the world felt whole again.
Chapter 9
The Beast in the Court
The sun was soft in Orchidfield’s late afternoon sky, casting streaks of burnished gold across the cracked pavement of the public basketball court tucked behind Dawson Street. The air shimmered with warmth, humming with the chaotic symphony of bouncing balls, rubber soles screeching on concrete, and voices that rose and fell like waves against a weathered shore. It was the kind of place where reputations were born and buried under the watchful gaze of chain-link fences and neighborhood gossip.
Luke James leaned against the fence, phone in hand, his gaze fixed on the court. He’d come to record some streetball content—nothing serious, just a few flashy crossovers and maybe a dunk if someone got lucky. But what he was capturing now felt different. Unreal, even.
Because at the center of the court, a man who looked like he should’ve been parked at a bar, not breaking ankles, was dismantling every young buck who dared to challenge him.
The man was thick around the middle, easily a hundred kilos, with the broad back of a former fighter and the kind of beard that spoke of age and experience. His movements shouldn’t have been fast. But they were. Each step was heavy, yet deceptive—controlled power coiled beneath tired knees and old scars. His dribbling was effortless, as though the ball obeyed him not through force but familiarity. He made no sound when he pivoted, no wasted motion when he feinted or drove.
Luke caught himself whispering, “No way... no freaking way,” barely able to hold the camera steady as the stranger released another no-look three that hit nothing but net.
The crowd was in a trance. Conversations fell to murmurs, laughter faded, and even the trash talk—the soul of any streetball game—went quiet. The younger players tried their best, but they were chasing shadows. Even when they thought they had him cornered, he’d pivot or pass with a level of awareness that made everyone else look like they were learning the rules for the first time.
And then, in the final play, he did something that made Luke’s breath hitch.
A fake pass to the left drew two defenders. A behind-the-back dribble cleared space. And then, with a thunderous two steps, the man took off—body rising with impossible force, slamming the ball into the hoop with such violent grace the backboard rattled like a thunderclap. The court went silent.
Someone dropped their drink. A kid’s bike clattered to the pavement. Even the breeze seemed to pause.
The man landed, calm, collected, barely breathing hard. He offered a small nod to no one in particular and walked off the court as though he’d just finished tying his shoes.
Luke stopped recording, mouth agape.
All around him, people were reacting—some shouting, some shaking their heads, others looking around as if to confirm that, yes, they’d seen what they thought they’d seen. A teenager in a hoodie whispered, “Was that even real?” while another just stood with his hands on his head.
Luke pushed through the gathering crowd, heart pounding. He caught up to the man just as he was toweling off at the bench.
“Hey—hey, dude!” Luke said, his grin wide and adrenaline-fueled. “That was insane. Are you like... an ex-NBA player or something? ‘Cause that wasn’t streetball. That was art.”
The man laughed, low and rumbling, eyes crinkling with a smile that carried more story than words ever could.
“Nah,” he said. “Not a pro. Not anymore.”
Luke hesitated. Something about the way he said it made the words feel heavier than they looked.
“I gotta share this,” Luke said, lifting his phone. “People need to see this. You’re gonna blow up.”
The man tilted his head, amused.
“How about this,” he said, holding out a hand. “You give me that phone, I’ll give you the secret.”
Luke blinked. “The secret?”
“Call it a trade. I promise it’ll be worth it.”
Luke chuckled nervously. “I mean, I don’t know... There’s baby photos on here. Weird screenshots. Private stuff.”
“Reset it,” the man said easily. “I’m not after your data. I’m after your curiosity.”
Luke hesitated for a long beat. Then, his hands moved. He wiped the phone clean, watching it restart with a fresh slate. Then he handed it over.
The man pocketed it without ceremony and gestured toward the bar across the street—a faded red-brick place with a flickering sign and soul music leaking out of its weathered doors.
“Let’s grab a drink.”
They crossed together, the court still buzzing behind them like a shaken hive. Inside the bar, the air was cool and quiet. The lights were dim. Dust swirled in shafts of late sun cutting through blinds. A jukebox in the corner played an Otis Redding track, all gravel and ache.
They sat in a booth by the window. The man ordered two beers. Luke was still riding the high, his fingers twitching with the impulse to retell the story already.
“So,” he said after a moment. “What’s the catch?”
The man sipped his beer. “No catch. Just the truth.”
Luke narrowed his eyes. “And the truth is?”
The man looked at him, dead-on. “My name is Proteus.”
“Like... the myth guy?” Luke asked. “Prometheus?”
“Not quite,” Proteus said with a knowing grin. “Prometheus stole fire. Proteus served the sea. He didn’t fight the gods—he flowed with time, changed form, vanished when cornered. He saw everything. Past, present, future. But he didn’t just give answers. You had to earn them.”
Luke raised his eyebrows. “Okay... so you’re telling me you’re a shape-shifter?”
Proteus didn’t answer. He just stood. “Back in a moment,” he said, and headed toward the hallway by the bathrooms.
Luke sat with his beer, watching the bubbles rise. Minutes passed.
Then a different man walked out.
He was taller. Leaner. His posture was straighter, sharper. His hoodie looked fresh. His skin was smooth, his eyes clearer. But the look... the vibe... the calm center? Unmistakable.
He slid into the booth like he belonged there.
Luke stared. “Yo. Are you...?”
The man smiled. “Didn’t recognize me?”
“You look ten years younger.”
“Depends on the lighting.”
“This some kind of prank?” Luke asked.
“Nope.”
“Then what the hell was that on the court?”
Proteus raised his glass. “That? That was just the warm-up.”
Luke laughed, slightly nervous. “You got more secrets?”
Proteus leaned in slightly. “Enough to keep you wondering.”
Outside, the sun dipped below the skyline, casting Orchidfield in shadow. But inside that booth, in a dusty bar with fading jukebox blues and half-empty beer glasses, Luke James felt like he’d brushed up against something the world had nearly forgotten—something ancient and alive.
And it wasn’t done with him yet.
Chapter 10
The Shape Behind the Shadow
The bar was a small, dimly lit place nestled on the corner of Griffin Street. The scent of aged wood and stale beer hung thick in the air, and the only light came from a flickering neon sign outside that cast muted shadows through dusty blinds. The jukebox in the corner crooned softly, a mixture of old soul and blues that seemed to match the faded charm of the place. The music was slow, deliberate, and melancholic, just like the conversation Luke was now part of. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the wooden surface of the bar as he scrolled through his another phone (he uploaded from a previous phone that had been given to Proteus)replaying the video again and again. Each time he watched it, the excitement in him grew. The footage wasn’t perfect—shaky at times, poorly lit, and at certain angles, it was almost unrecognizable—but the play? It was something else entirely.
“Fat guy Streetballer action,” Luke muttered with a grin. “That’s going viral.”
The ball moves, the unexpected slams, the effortless grace of it all. He couldn’t believe what he’d captured. This wasn’t just any streetball game. This was a man who could’ve been a legend if he’d wanted to be. The way the crowd had reacted, the way the players had looked stunned and helpless—it was something special.
Beside him, the man, whose name was still an enigma, sipped his beer slowly, his gaze steady. There was a coolness in his demeanor, a calmness that stood in stark contrast to the excitement Luke was feeling. He didn’t look like the type of person who would be watching his own game footage on repeat. In fact, the man barely seemed impressed with himself, if he even cared about the attention his performance had garnered. He was heavy-set, his frame not exactly built for grace on a court, but every move he made—every dribble, every step, every shot—had an uncanny fluidity to it.
Luke couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something about this man that didn’t add up. His raw physicality had been on full display, but there was an air of mystery about him that was even more intriguing.
“Bro, you were incredible out there,” Luke finally said, unable to hold back his curiosity. “Seriously, that was insane. Are you, like, a pro or something? Because the way you played, it was like... everyone else was just background noise. You were on a whole different level.”
The man’s response was a low laugh, a gravelly sound that hinted at years of experience and possibly hardship. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect from someone who had just been celebrated for their talent. It was a laugh that felt as if it carried with it a thousand untold stories.
“I used to be something like that,” he said simply, his voice a mixture of humility and something else Luke couldn’t quite place.
“Used to be?” Luke raised an eyebrow, feeling the question bubble up before he could stop it. “So, you’re telling me you’ve played professionally before?”
The man took another sip of his beer, his eyes scanning the room as though his surroundings no longer held much significance to him. He gave a slight nod. “Yeah. I’ve been all over. Europe, Asia, places that don’t even exist anymore on modern maps.”
Luke’s mind raced with possibilities. He was trying to piece together the fragmented hints the man had just given him. “What do you mean by that? Like... you’ve been everywhere? Are you some kind of legend or something?”
The man, still leaning back in his chair with a sense of ease, shrugged. “I don’t care if you believe me or not. I’ve seen things—played in places where basketball was more than just a game. Where it meant something deeper. But, like I said, I’m not that guy anymore.”
Luke found himself leaning in, drawn in by the mystery and the unspoken weight in the man’s words. “Okay, but what happened? You just... stopped? You’re telling me you’ve got skills like that, and you just walk away?”
The man looked at him then, his eyes steady and almost amused. He didn’t seem like he was offended by the question—more like he had heard it before, a question he didn’t mind answering. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I did. Thought I didn’t need it anymore. I had it all. Or at least, that’s what I thought.”
Luke could see the flicker of something in his eyes—a shadow, maybe, or a crack in the walls this man had built around himself. “What happened?” Luke asked again, this time softer, not wanting to push too hard but feeling a need to understand the story behind the silence.
The man’s eyes darkened for a moment. “Injuries. Bad timing. Bad choices. Ego. You name it. I was doing everything the wrong way—pushing people away, chasing the wrong things. Parties, women, fame. I thought it was all part of the game, but eventually, the game stops playing you back.”
Luke took in the weight of those words, sensing that there was so much more behind them. The regrets, the pain, the losses. The man’s voice had shifted, lost its casual tone, and for a brief moment, he wasn’t just a former athlete or a stranger in a bar. He was a person, vulnerable in a way that made Luke pause.
“So you just... walked away?”
The man chuckled softly, but it wasn’t a cheerful laugh. It was tired, worn down by time. “I had to. I was no good to anyone. Not the game, not myself.”
Luke sat quietly, reflecting on the man’s words. He’d heard similar things before. Athletes who had lost it all, who had burned out too quickly. But the way this man said it, the way he looked at Luke—it felt different. It was as if he had accepted the loss, like the fire in him had been extinguished and he was just carrying on, not sure where the next step would lead.
“I don’t know if I get it,” Luke admitted after a while. “I mean, you have all that skill, that talent... and you just stop?”
The man smiled, this time with a touch of mystery. “Sometimes you don’t get a choice, kid. Sometimes, the choice gets made for you. And sometimes, you realize you don’t want to go back to the person you were.”
Luke sat still for a while, the light of the evening sun casting long shadows across the floorboards. Outside, the air was turning cooler, the golds and purples of twilight settling in. He hadn’t thought about Carra in a long time, but something about the quiet of the moment stirred the memory.
“My sister drowned when I was fourteen,” he said quietly. “Her name was Carra. She was twenty-one. My mom died when she was just eleven, and after that, it was mostly the two of us.”
The man remained still, listening but saying nothing.
“They found her body,” Luke continued, his voice calm, distant. “But they never found her necklace. It was platinum, with a jade pendant. She wore it all the time. We always thought it would show up. It didn’t.”
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the low hum of the jukebox.
Luke sighed. “I don’t know why I’m telling you that.”
The man didn’t respond. He offered no sympathy, no words of wisdom. Just silence.
After a moment, he stood up, his chair scraping softly against the floor. “Name’s Proteus,” he said.
Luke looked up at him. “Like the shape-shifter?”
The man nodded once. “Something like that.”
And with that, Proteus turned and walked toward the door, the light of the evening framing him in silhouette. He paused only briefly, casting a glance back—not at Luke, but at something distant, something only he could see. Then he stepped out into the fading day, leaving Luke alone with his thoughts, the weight of memory, and the quiet echo of a name that didn’t quite fit into any world Luke knew.
