The Flower That Didn’t Dance

POV: Lucien

Lucien returned to the old man on the edge of town—the one who ran the junk shop that never sold anything, with clocks that ticked too slow and a cat that never blinked.

He'd been there once, weeks ago, asking about old houses and legends. The man hadn't spoken much then. Just stared at him, long and hard, and said:

"Some places are hidden for a reason. You start poking around, they poke back."

This time, Lucien didn't ask for permission.

He dropped the tattered paper on the counter—the one he'd found in the library, the one with the red ink and the faded lines about vanishing houses and names forgotten.

The old man paled.

"You keep chasing ghosts, you'll become one," he muttered, reaching under the counter. He pulled out something that looked like a map, drawn in charcoal and soft lines. It smelled of lavender and damp earth.

Lucien frowned. "What's this?"

The man didn't look at him.

"The field," he said. "West of the woods. Hill full of flowers that don't move. That's where you'll see what ain't meant to be seen."

Lucien's heart tripped. "Why tell me now?"

The man's eyes finally met his.

"Because you've got the look of someone who won't stop. And someone should warn you.""It's not about what you see out there—it's about what sees you back."

The Field

The map led him true.

And just as the old man warned, the flowers didn't move.

Not even when the wind pushed through like breath over glass.

Except one.

A single white bloom, trembling like it was alive.

Lucien bent and plucked it.

Nothing happened—until nightfall. Then came the shimmer. A flicker of something not-there on the hill. He ran to it, heart thudding, but it vanished the moment he drew close.

The next day, the white flower was gone.

In its place: red.

Then yellow.

Each time he plucked a new one. Each time the shimmer grew stronger.

Until the third.

When he picked the yellow, the air went wrong. Sharp. Metallic.

The shimmer didn't come.

Just silence—and a prickling behind his eyes like something watching him from the dark.

He returned the next day, heart pounding. This time, the wind howled over the field.

And not a single flower moved.

Except one.

A soft blue forget-me-not, swaying gently.

Lucien almost reached for it.

But something held him back.

Then he noticed it—in the far shadow of the hill, one flower that stood still. A pale purple bloom, dry but proud. It didn't sway. Didn't bend.

It waited.

He knelt, plucked it with care—

And the world breathed in.

The shimmer became clarity.

The Glass Tomb stood before him.

And in the highest window—a girl, bruised and bleeding, her eyes wide with need.

Then it was gone.

But this time, Lucien knew: he was close.

Closer than anyone in a hundred years.

Meanwhile, in the Glass TombPOV: Seraphine

She'd tried to open the window again.

Just a crack.

Just enough to let him see her.

The moment her fingers touched the latch, the house struck.

It wasn't violent—not at first. It whispered. Slithered inside her lungs like smoke.

Then came the pressure.

A force that pushed her back, spine slamming into the wall, knees folding beneath her. Her throat clenched shut.

You do not summon.You are seen when allowed.

Tears slipped down her face silently. Her chest burned.

But still, she reached for the glass again.

Because he had looked up. He had seen her.

And even if it cost her another breath—another piece of herself—

She would not go unseen again.