Tea for Two

(Pride - Kendrick Lamar, song suggestion for this chapter. )

I woke up in an old cabin.

I seemed to lie on a bed, which for today's prices is almost impossible to acquire, my head was on a white pillow made of feathers, it was soft, softer than any pillow I had ever slept on.

The door of the room I was in opened to an old woman with excitement drawn on her face, her face was wrinkled, her eye bags heavy, and she dressed like a rich woman from the fifteen-hundreds.

"It has been a while since we got a visitor, hasn't it, Victor", she was talking to the wall, the wall was plain white with nothing on it.

"Who are you" I asked,

"now now is that any way to talk to the people who saved your life?" she responded

"th-thank you" I responded" I replied "who are you"

"Well, I am Emma and this is Victor" she said as she pointed to the wall, "say hi honey. I'm sorry he's a little shy".

What is this woman talking about, she must be crazy, I have to act normal until I get out of here.

"Hi Victor" I said, "how are you doing… good, good".

"Well if you want" she said "I already made breakfast, come eat with me in the garden"

GARDEN???? She must be insanely rich!

"Yeah, sure that'd be great" I said as I stood up only to fall on the floor.

"Let me help you up, son".

"Thanks"

She helped me out into the garden and put an omelette on the table with a side of cucumbers and tomatoes, at this point I'm not even surprised.

"Wait a second here" she said, "I need to go to the bathroom, you just continue eating because you need it to recover."

The garden was beautiful, Vibrant flowers bloomed in every direction—roses, tulips, violets, all in full bloom as if untouched by the decay of the world. Dozens of tiny ceramic gnomes were scattered among the greenery, their painted faces frozen in playful expressions. And in the center stood a single fig tree, its leaves lush and well cared for.

In front of the tree sat a stone, a gravestone with the following written on it

 Victor the Dog.

 (2056)–(2067)

The woman came back, this time holding a leash in her hand, walking the air to the table.

I stared at the gravestone again, reading the name over and over. Victor the Dog. (2056–2067).

Eleven years. He had only lived eleven years.

I looked back at Emma, her frail hands gently gripping the leash, her fingers absently running along its length as if stroking an invisible presence. Her smile was warm, but there was something behind it—something fragile, like an old photograph just waiting to crumble.

She wasn't crazy. Not in the way I first thought.

She was just… alone.

I glanced at the plate across from me, where she had neatly arranged pieces of omelet for Victor. The untouched food sat there, waiting for someone who would never eat it. The tea she had poured for him still rested in its cup, cooling, ignored.

And yet, she still held the leash. She still spoke to him.

She still saw him.

My throat tightened.

She had been doing this for years, hadn't she? Making two plates, pouring two cups, talking to someone who wasn't there. Pretending that she wasn't sitting in this beautiful garden completely alone.

The air felt heavier now. The warmth of the sun, the scent of flowers, the gentle rustling of the fig tree—they should have made this place feel alive. But all I could feel was a quiet, aching sadness.

I looked at her again—really looked at her. The fine silk dress, the pearls around her neck, the way she carried herself with a quiet dignity. Once, she must have been someone important. Someone wealthy, maybe. Someone surrounded by people who loved her.

But now, the only thing she had left was a leash with nothing at the other end.

I swallowed hard.

"Victor seems like he was a good dog," I said softly.

Emma's smile widened, but her eyes… her eyes looked far away.

"Oh, he still is," she whispered. "Aren't you, sweetheart?"

She reached out, stroking the air. Her hand trembled.

I didn't know what to say.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of birds chirping in the distance.

I could tell her the truth. I could remind her that Victor was gone. That he had been gone for a long time. That no amount of pretending would bring him back.

But looking at her now, the way she clung to that leash as if letting go would shatter her completely… I couldn't do it.

I forced a smile. "Right," I said quietly. "Of course."

She exhaled, her shoulders relaxing, as if relieved.

I picked up my fork again, forcing myself to take another bite of the omelet. And across the table, Emma beamed, cutting tiny pieces of egg and placing them on an empty plate.

For a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe.

Because maybe that was the kindest thing I could do.

"I need to leave" I said "thank you for everything you did for me"

I put on my shoes and left the house as a tear pierced through my face.

The village the house was in stood in stark contrast to its well-kept interior—outside, everything had rotted away, consumed by time and neglect. Crumbling buildings lined the cracked, overgrown streets, their skeletal remains barely holding together. Wooden beams, once sturdy, sagged under years of decay, while rusted lanterns dangled from broken posts, their glass long shattered. The air carried the stench of damp wood and something foul, something dead. No birds sang, no insects buzzed—just silence, thick and unnatural. Then, a rustle. A disturbance in the tall, brittle grass about nine meters away. I knew what it was.

A Cheva.

My pulse surged. Without hesitation, I pivoted and sprinted north, pushing my body to its absolute limit. My muscles screamed in protest, my breath came in ragged gasps, but I couldn't stop—not now. I had no real sense of direction, only the desperate pull of my instincts, a primal force urging me forward. My home, my family, my rice pillow—they were waiting for me. And I had to survive to see them again.

As I ran, the wind whipped against my face, carrying the stale scent of decay. The village blurred past me—abandoned stalls with rotting fruit, skeletal remains of carts half-swallowed by the earth, houses stripped down to their bones. The silence was overwhelming, broken only by the pounding of my footsteps and the distant rustling behind me. The Cheva was moving. Stalking. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

I didn't dare look back.

My lungs burned, and my legs ached with every step, but I pushed forward, leaping over broken fences and dodging crumbling debris. Every shadow felt like a set of claws reaching for me, every darkened alley a maw waiting to swallow me whole.

Then, the sound I had been dreading—an inhuman screech, sharp and guttural, echoing through the empty streets. My heart lurched. The Cheva had given up its game of patience. It was coming.

I forced myself to run faster, my breath ragged, my vision blurring. My mind screamed at me to turn, to fight—but my body knew better. I was exhausted, drained. If I stopped now, I was dead.

The village thinned out ahead, leading into a twisted, gnarled forest. The trees loomed like twisted fingers grasping at the sky, their bark peeling like diseased flesh. I didn't have a choice. I plunged into the woods, weaving through the dense undergrowth. The shadows felt alive, shifting, closing in around me.

Then—silence.

I skidded to a halt, chest heaving. No footsteps. No rustling. Just eerie stillness.

The Cheva wasn't chasing me anymore.

It was already here.

A whisper of breath against my neck.

I turned.