Wilted One

Time itself had shuddered, the world grinding to a halt. The crackling fire at the hearth froze mid-flicker, its light trapped in a ghostly glow. Reed's breath hitched as the air around him grew still, heavy, and cold. The warmth of the room was replaced by a damp chill that crawled over his skin.

A humid breeze brushed against the back of his neck, carrying the faint, metallic scent of something otherworldly. The hair on his arms stood on end. Slowly, as if compelled by forces beyond his control, he turned.

And then he saw it.

Hovering just beyond the edge of the firelight was the creature. Its enormous, unblinking eye—the size of a wrecking ball—stared down at him with a gaze that seemed to pierce through his very soul.

Its scrawny, elongated arms ended in three spindly fingers, each flexing with a deliberate, unnatural grace. When it smiled, its uneven, jagged teeth glinted like shards of broken glass.

"Speak," a voice sounded in Reed's head, dry and rasping like leaves in a tomb.

Reed's heart pounded. He expected this—but he was not ready for it. How could any sane person be ready for such a horrifying scene?

Speak...

The one word lingered in Reed's head. He was too afraid to speak and too afraid not to. He opened his mouth over and over, but no air escaped from his lungs.

Then, a soft, lady-like voice echoed in his mind. It was almost playful—yet laced with something unspeakably cruel.

"The Wilted One requests a trade. What offering lies in thy grasp?"

Reed's panic swelled. "Where! Who is here?" he screamed internally, eyes still locked to the creature's enormous eye. Fear rooted his gaze in place.

"You do not have to fear me or look for me," the woman's voice cooed. "I am only here to witness the trade. The Wilted Ones are not known for their patience. I suggest you make haste."

"How did she—did I speak aloud?" Before Reed could complete the thought, the rusty voice returned.

SPEAK.

The pressure in that word crushed him. It was no longer just a sound—it was a command. A weight.

"Trade? My family is poor," Reed thought desperately. "We can't afford artifacts. I refuse to trade. I have nothing to offer. I refuse to burden my family—even if it costs my life."

A chilling pause. Then, the woman's voice returned. Calm. Final.

"Very well. The Wilted One shall take whatever it pleases from you."

The creature's smile widened into a twisted mockery of joy. It opened its gaping mouth—large enough to swallow Reed whole.

With its right hand, it reached into its maw and pulled out something small and round—the size of an eyeball. Live roots dangled from it, twitching gently as if sensing the air.

The Wraith approached, slow and deliberate.

Reed tried to move, to scream, to escape—but he couldn't. Some invisible force held him in place. Unyielding.

The creature raised its left hand and gently touched Reed's lips. Three strands of soft light—thin, delicate, and radiant—rose from Reed's mouth. They floated upward, trembling.

The Wraith seized them with its spindly fingers and tugged.

Then, without ceremony, it stabbed the round, root-bound object into Reed's chest.

Pain exploded—white-hot and all-consuming.

Reed collapsed to his knees, every nerve in his body screaming. He tried to shout but no sound came out. Tears and snot streaked his face. His bloodshot eyes bulged in agony.

Then it began.

His skin shifted and pulsed unnaturally. His dark blue hair drained of color, fading into a stark, ghostly white. Blood welled from his eyes, his nails, even his pores.

It was as if his body was being hollowed out, squeezed dry by an invisible hand.

Through the haze, he caught sight of his reflection—distorted in a pool of his own blood.

His once-strong frame withered before his eyes. Muscles shrank. Cheeks hollowed.

In the background, his family remained frozen in time. His mother mid-reach, Jade mid-smile.

They knew nothing. Could do nothing.

A choked sob escaped him, merging with the blood on his cheeks.

Then, at last, the pain ebbed.

Silence returned. Cold and infinite.

He lay there, barely breathing, his body foreign and frail. Time felt broken—minutes stretched into eternity.

Then, through the void, came the whisper.

"The trade has been witnessed. Thy roots now drink deep of the Sink."

***

Reed gasped as his eyes fluttered open. He was alive—but not the same. His body was frail, his strength nearly gone. He saw the blood he had vomited slowly seeping into the ground, disappearing as if nothing had ever happened.

The world around him had resumed, yet time flowed as if in slow motion. The fire crackled once more, and voices from the other room were faintly audible.

He felt so weak that he could barely stand. He tried calling out for his parents, but they did not respond—as if he were invisible.

A disembodied, lady-like voice echoed in Reed's head: "Give up, child. The world no longer remembers you."

The sudden words shocked him, but he remained silent.

Before he could muster a reply, the voice continued, "You no longer carry their blood. You no longer exist in their memories. And you are no longer you." The statement sank into his heart.

He was now a shell, filled with nothing but his own thoughts. He tried again to call out—he even approached Jade and shook her gently, crying out—but received no response.

"It is useless. Say your goodbyes and leave."

Even as life resumed its gentle hum around him, Reed understood that he must surrender.

Stumbling to his feet with legs that trembled with each monumental step, he forced himself toward the door. He could not stay.

Outside, the winter night was merciless. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he stepped into the biting cold, each gust slicing through his weakened frame. The moment the door closed behind him, his legs buckled.

Reed collapsed into the snow, leaning heavily against the door. His breath came in shallow, labored gasps as he clawed at the frozen ground, desperate to rise. His trembling fingers betrayed his struggle.

He clenched his fists and tried repeatedly to stand, but his body refused to obey. The snow soaked his clothes, its chill numbing his skin, yet he pressed on.

Through the doorway, voices from inside—warm and familiar—floated to him.

"Honey, did you make extras tonight?" his father's voice called, comforting and gentle.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," his mother replied with a light laugh. "Something must've come over me."

Jade's voice, light and cheerful yet tinged with confusion, joined in as if nothing were amiss.

Reed gritted his teeth and, with trembling arms, finally forced himself up. The pain was overwhelming—not just physical, but an ache that gripped his very soul.

He tried to open the door, but it felt immovable—a barrier separating him from the warmth he once knew. In desperation, he banged on it, screaming for his parents and for Jade. Regret and panic mingled in his tears as he realized how much he hated leaving.

Inside, his father's voice floated through the night: "I don't remember the last time my belly's been this full."

"I feel more energized now after this meal. Hehe. Mother, you should make extras more often!" Jade chimed in happily.

Oh. This is just too cruel isn't it?

Reed stopped his baning and stood motionless. He slowly walked up to a window. He starred at the warm glow of the home he had just abandoned. Slowly, he pressed his forehead against the frost-covered window. He watched his father lean back, patting his stomach with a satisfied smile.

For one long moment, he wished he could be part of that warmth. But at the same time he felt guilt, sadness and a faint anger.

This smile. Is it not cruel? I know. I am the reason why none of you get to enjoy full meal every night.

He paused, his heart heavy with longing—just for a brief beat—to hope someone might turn and see him. But no one did. They were warm, whole, and unaware.

But who am I to complain? Did I not receive love? Did they ever complain.

He turned away, limping into the endless white of winter, his figure soon swallowed by the cold, unyielding night.

A faint smile tugged at Reed's lips.

Maybe this is better.

***

After the laughter and chatter of dinner faded, the house fell silent.

Jade stretched her arms with a yawn, her bare feet padding across the creaky wooden floor as she prepared for bed. The fire had dimmed to embers, casting long, flickering shadows that danced along the walls.

Then she paused.

Something tugged at her—a quiet, insistent pull toward the far corner of the room, where a pile of hay served as their makeshift bed. It wasn't usual for anyone to sleep there, but tonight, the space felt… different. Like the air itself held its breath.

Curious, she drifted closer. The haystack looked the same as always, yet an inexplicable warmth settled in her chest as she knelt beside it. Her fingers brushed the dry strands, and for a fleeting moment, she swore she smelled the faint scent of ink—something foreign in their home, where no one read or wrote.

Then her hand hit something solid.

Beneath the hay lay a wooden sword, half-buried as if hidden in haste. Jade frowned, lifting it into the dim light. The carvings were hers—she knew they were hers—the grooves of the blade smoothed by her own hands, the hilt shaped for someone's grip. But why couldn't she remember making it?

A cold unease prickled down her spine.

Her fingers trembled as she dug deeper, and this time, they met something softer. Paper.

Jade froze.

No one in their family could read. Paper was a rarity, reserved for merchants and town notices. Yet here it was, tucked away like a secret. She pulled the sheets free, her pulse quickening as she stared at the symbols scrawled across them. The ink was faded in places, the handwriting uneven—yet something about the curves of the letters made her throat tighten.

I know this.

The thought came unbidden, crashing over her with the force of a wave. She traced a finger over the words, though they meant nothing to her. The way the lines looped and slanted… it was familiar. Like a voice just beyond hearing, a name on the tip of her tongue.

Then, without warning, her vision blurred.

A tear splashed onto the paper, smudging the ink. Jade gasped, pressing a hand to her cheek—why was she crying?

A crushing weight settled in her chest, grief raw and sudden, as if she'd lost something irreplaceable. But when she tried to grasp why, her mind came up empty.

The sword. The paper. The corner of the room that suddenly felt too hollow, too wrong.