The Blood We Inherit

Orson's eyes locked on Aurora's face with a curious stillness. There was a quiet in the room, thick enough to choke on, as he stepped toward her. His gaze softened, the weight of decades behind it, and his hand slowly rose to touch her cheek.

"You look so much like Hilda," he murmured, almost to himself.

Aurora didn't move. She held her breath instead, heart beating too loud in her chest, watching this stranger who wasn't a stranger at all.

"Grandpa," she whispered.

The word tasted strange on her tongue. She wasn't sure she was ready to say it, but it slipped out like a forgotten memory.

Orson smiled faintly, stepping back to take in the sight of her again, like she was some miracle he never expected to see.

"I have so many things to teach you," he said brightly, too brightly, before suddenly grabbing her hand. "Come. Let me show you something."

"Wait—" Aurora barely got a word out before he led her upstairs like an eager child showing off his toy.

Mateo, who had been standing in the shadows watching everything unfold, tensed immediately.

"Orson!" he barked, but the older man didn't stop. In seconds, the heavy door upstairs slammed shut.

Mateo cursed under his breath and started knocking sharply. "You better open that door—"

Inside, Aurora stood frozen as Orson finally let go of her hand and turned to face her.

"He'll break that door," he said casually.

"Then let him in," Aurora said quickly, nervous at the sudden isolation.

But Orson only chuckled and walked closer, his eyes scanning her like he could see through bone.

"You're not a vampire," he said slowly. "Not human either. You're... complicated."

Aurora's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he asked something else entirely.

"Where's your mother?"

Aurora blinked. The question came so fast, so direct.

"In Gret," she replied softly, unsure if she should say more.

Orson tilted his head. "And your father?"

She hesitated. "Dead," she said.

Something flickered behind Orson's eyes, but he didn't ask anything else. He simply gave a breathy, almost tired sigh and said, "Might as well make a quick trip then."

Before Aurora could ask what that meant, the entire room shifted.

The air turned colder. The bookshelves, the carpet beneath her feet, the walls...gone. In the blink of an eye, she stood in a familiar town library with Orson beside her.

"How—?" she gasped.

Orson smiled faintly. "Time folds when you know how to ask it to."

Inside the small library in Gret, Mia sat at a wooden desk reading quietly. Her short black hair framed her tired face, and a pair of glasses clung loosely to her nose. She looked up at the sudden gust of cold air brushing past her cheek.

And then she saw them.

She froze.

Her daughter.

And Orson.

Mia's expression hardened in an instant.

"Rora?" she whispered, rising from her seat.

Aurora took a tentative step forward. "Mum—"

But Mia's eyes had already shifted to Orson.

Her lips tightened. "You."

"Mia," Orson said gently. "My star."

Aurora blinked. She'd never heard anyone call her mother that.

Mia moved quickly, brushing past the counter and opening a door hidden behind a row of old encyclopedias. She gestured silently for both of them to follow her.

Inside the small room behind the library, the silence was heavy.

Aurora sat on the armrest of a small leather couch, watching as her mother closed the door and faced the man she had never seen and only in her memories.

"You shouldn't be here," Mia said.

"It's a bit late for that," Orson replied.

"Why now?"

"She was ready," Orson said, motioning toward Aurora.

Mia looked at her daughter. "No, she's not."

Aurora looked between them. "Can someone explain what's going on?"

But no one answered. Not yet.

Mia walked to the corner of the room and poured herself a glass of water, her hand trembling slightly. "You should have stayed dead."

Orson leaned on a bookshelf like he wasn't just called a corpse.

"But I'm not," he said. "And neither are the things coming."