Faces Woven in the Mist

The village trembled, its shadows weeping through the mist, their whispers a chorus threading through the silence. I stood before the shattered mirror—or its unbroken gleam—Raisa's reflection fading, her younger self screaming, then still, her eyes piercing me from the glass. The necklace hung heavy in my hand, its heart pendant dripping with rain—or tears—its weight a tether to the 13 years I'd buried, now rising like the tide. "Raisa," I whispered, my voice raw, a stone breaking the stillness, "who are they—these ghosts?"

Her form flickered beside me—or behind me—her hand brushing my arm, warm, then cold, then warm again. "Ghosts?" she murmured, her voice soft, steady, laced with memory. "Not ghosts, Lukas—faces you forgot, lives you left." I turned, her green-hazel eyes glinting in the dim light, her scar a faint thread weaving through time, her presence trembling between shadow and flesh. I tightened my grip, her touch slipping—or holding—and said, "Left? I locked you away—not them—"

Her laughter rose, faint and broken, cutting through the hum of whispers. "Not them?" she said, her tone sharp, alive, a blade through the mist. "Look closer, Lukas—look at what you ran from." I stepped back, the room shifting, the lantern swaying—or steadying—its light spilling across the walls, revealing shapes in the dark—forms, faces, etched into the wood, or alive, moving slow and mournful through the haze.

A woman stood—or drifted—her hair long and wet, her hands raised, pounding silently—or screaming—her face blurred, then clear: Mara, her eyes wide, her voice a whisper, "You promised us." My chest caved, a memory surging—rain lashing the village, Mara at the shed, pleading, "Don't leave her—don't leave us—" as I turned away, the key heavy in my hand. "Mara," I choked, my voice trembling, tears falling into the dust, "I didn't—I ran—"

Raisa's hand gripped mine—or the air—and she murmured, "You ran, and the river took her—took them all." Another face emerged, stern and faded: Toren, his beard gray, his eyes hard, his voice a low hum, "You brought the flood." I staggered, the storm flashing—Toren at the riverbank, shouting, "Hold the gate!" as I fled, the water rising, the village drowning in my wake. "Toren," I whispered, my voice breaking, "I didn't mean—"

A child's laugh—or cry—cut through, small and fleeting: Lira, her hair tangled, her hands clutching air—or stone—her voice a sigh, "You forgot me." I fell to my knees, the necklace slipping, the memory sharp—Lira by the river, skipping stones, her laughter fading as the rain came, the shed locking, the flood swallowing her song. "Lira," I sobbed, my hands clawing the floor, "I didn't—I didn't know—"

Raisa knelt beside me—or her shadow did—her voice steady, a root in the dark. "You didn't know?" she said, her tone softening, pained. "You locked me away, Lukas—and the village paid. Mara waited—13 days. Toren fought—13 hours. Lira sang—13 breaths. And then the water came." My breath hitched, the 13 echoing—13 years, 13 steps, 13 lives—and I choked, "The water—I didn't—I left you, not them—"

Her eyes darkened, a storm brewing, and she whispered, "You left us all—the shed, the village, the promise—when you turned the key." I shook my head, fierce, tears washing the dust, and said, "I was scared—I panicked—I thought I'd save you later—" Her hand pressed my cheek—or the air—her touch warm, then cold, and she murmured, "Later? The river doesn't wait, Lukas—it took us while you ran."

The whispers swelled, a tide of voices—Mara's plea, Toren's shout, Lira's sigh—crashing over me, the lantern flickering, the faces sharpening—or fading—in the wood, in the mist. "I'm here now," I said, my voice rising, steadying, "I'll carry you—all of you—I'll make it right." Raisa's smile flickered, tender, broken, and she whispered, "Right? You can't dry the flood, Lukas—but you can face it."

"Face it?" I said, my voice trembling, searching her gaze. "With you?" She stood—or drifted—her shadow stretching, thin and wavering, and murmured, "If I'm here—if I'm still me—then yes. But them—they're waiting too." I glanced back, the faces watching, alive—or still—their whispers a chorus, "Don't forget us." My heart sank, the necklace glinting in my hand, and I said, "I won't—I'll carry you—I'll—"

The room trembled, the mist thickening, and a voice—not hers—crackled through, sharp and rusted: "Carry them? You can't carry the dead, Lukas." I froze, the speaker's hum swelling—or the village's—a tide pulling me under, Raisa's form wavering, her eyes wide, her voice echoing, "Face us," as the shadows surged, the lantern dimmed, leaving me trembling, alone—or not—in the weeping dark.