Chapter Eleven: The First Scar

The house settled into an unnatural stillness.

The whisper was gone.

The creaking had stopped.

But the air felt thicker—as if the very walls were waiting.

Elena clenched her fists, forcing herself to breathe. She looked at Leon, expecting some kind of explanation. Some kind of reaction. But he was calm. Too calm.

Like he had heard voices before.

"Leon," she said, her voice unsteady. "That voice—"

"I know."

That was all he said. I know.

And instead of dwelling on it, instead of questioning the impossible, he reached into the hollow once more.

Elena barely stopped herself from grabbing his wrist. She didn't want him to touch whatever else was buried here.

But she wanted to know.

Needed to know.

The air grew colder as his fingers brushed against something new. Something softer than the rusted nameplate.

And then—he pulled it out.

Elena's breath hitched.

It was fabric.

Old, tattered, stained.

At first, she thought it was just dirt. But as Leon unfolded it—revealing jagged tears and faded smears—she knew better.

It was blood.

Dried, dark, ancient.

A piece of someone's clothing.

Leon exhaled slowly, running his fingers over the fabric as if searching for something. And then—he stopped.

His expression darkened.

"Elena," he murmured. "Look."

She stepped closer. And that's when she saw it.

There was a tear in the fabric—long and uneven, like it had been sliced open.

And beneath the tear…

A scar.

A long, thin scar beneath the bloodstained cloth.

But not on Leon's skin.

On the fabric itself.

As if it had been wounded.

Elena shuddered. "What does this mean?"

Leon was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, he spoke.

"It means," he said, turning the fabric over in his hands, "this was mine."

The lantern flickered.

Elena stared.

"…What?"

Leon's fingers traced the torn edge. His face was unreadable, but his grip on the fabric was tight.

"I wore this once," he murmured. "A long time ago."

The words sent a chill racing through Elena's bones.

A long time ago.

But the grave—**his grave—**was ancient. The fabric was crumbling. The blood had long since dried.

She swallowed hard. "Leon… how long ago?"

He didn't answer.

But the way he looked at the fabric—the way his jaw tightened and his fingers curled over the wound in the cloth—made her wonder if she really wanted to know.