Chapter 8: Beneath the Bruised Sky

Rachael hadn't slept the entire night. Morning came wrapped in pouring rain, The house was dim, the storm clouds casting shadows through the windows. Curled under the white bedsheets, dressed in white. Her eyes were wide, unblinking. Her body trembled lightly. The lights had been left on all night.

She hadn't eaten. Hadn't moved. Her thoughts were tangled in the memory of the forest, the glowing blue eyes, and the chilling truth she'd tried to ignore. What if that deer came back? What if it appeared in her room?

The door opened wide.

"Are you okay, my sweetheart? You haven't eaten anything since yesterday," her mother asked gently, pulling the curtains aside to let in grey daylight.

Rachael turned her head slowly. "I'm fine, Mother," she whispered.

Her mother walked over, sat at the edge of the bed, and placed a hand on Rachael's forehead. "You have a fever."

"Yeah... just caught the flu yesterday," Rachael said, avoiding her gaze.

"Let me bring your breakfast to your room," her mother said, rising.

Alone again, Rachael pulled the blanket closer. Her thoughts spiraled. That deer. Those eyes. Could it really show up again? The idea sent a wave of fear down her spine. She covered her face with a trembling hand.

Moments later, her mother returned with a tray: eggs bacon and cheese sandwich, and a glass of orange juice. She helped Rachael sit up, fluffing the pillows behind her.

But then her mother paused.

Her gaze landed on the bruise on Rachael's forehead.

"How did you get that?" she asked, reaching to touch it.

"Nothing. I just fell in the park," Rachael answered quickly.

"Dear, you shouldn't be going to the park in this weather," her mother scolded gently.

"I'm fine, Mother. It'll disappear in a few days."

"Just be careful," her mother said with concern. "You can hurt yourself easily when it's wet out."

Rachael nodded. Her mother smiled, brushed her forehead softly, and stood.

"Get some rest today. You don't look well. And finish your breakfast—especially the orange juice.

Rachael gave a faint smile in return.

She ate only half the sandwich and took a few sips of juice. Exhaustion dragged her down. As soon as she lay back on the pillow, she drifted into sleep.

And into another dream.

She was standing once more at the edge of the forest, barefoot, dressed in a white nightgown. The moon above was full but offered no warmth. Its silver light felt cold and watchful.

The trees parted, as if welcoming her.

She walked slowly. Wet leaves clung to her feet. The mud squished beneath her toes. The forest whispered her name.

"Rachael... Rachael..."

Then the house appeared again. The abandoned, towering house cloaked in shadow. The windows gaped open. The front door creaked, swinging slightly though no wind stirred.

Compelled by something unknown, she stepped inside.

The air was thick with decay. The floor moaned under her weight. Strips of peeling wallpaper revealed shifting symbols and words that seemed to flee her gaze. Mirrors along the hallway reflected her movements with a delay, blinking when she didn't.

"You've been here before," her voice whispered behind her.

Upstairs, a pulsing blue light called to her.

Each step of the staircase felt heavier. The hallway stretched longer than reality allowed. Doors whispered behind her. One offered the sound of crying. Another held an off-key lullaby.

The final door.

She reached for it. It opened by itself.

Inside: the glowing deer. Its eyes held sorrow, not malice.

And behind it, on the wall, a painting of her—older, hollow, clutching a glowing pendant. It shimmered in soft blue.

She turned.

And woke up.

Her heart thundered. She sat up, clutching her chest. The glow from her dreams had been replaced by the pale reality of her reflection in the mirror. She looked drained. Miserable. Her skin had lost its warmth.

She reached for her long blue coat and bucket hat.

Only Dylan could bring color back to her face.

Downstairs, her mother sat in her rocking chair.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Just to see the streets," Rachael replied.

"But you're not well."

"I'm fine, Mother."

"Okay, but come back before nine."

"Before nine, I promise," she said, closing the door.

The park was alive with children playing, couples strolling, laughter echoing. And then she saw him.

Dylan.

Sitting on the swing, hands tucked into his coat, hair slightly damp from the mist.

Rachael walked over and sat on swing beside him. He looked at her, concern in his eyes.

He stood and held the swing chain with one hand, placing the other gently on her bruised forehead.

"Where did you get that?"

"I fell... slipped in the park."

Then he took her hand, turned it over, and stared at the scrapes.

"You went to the forest, didn't you? Alone."

She nodded, lowering her eyes. "I heard something. Animals maybe. I got scared and fell while running."

She lied. How could she tell him the truth?

He might not believe her.

"You shouldn't go there alone. It's dangerous."

"But you didn't show up yesterday."

"I stayed home yesterday... and I shouldn't have. You were here, waiting, and I let you down. I'm so sorry, Rachael. That was my fault. I won't ever leave you alone like that again. I promise—I'll be here, every single day, no matter what. Rain, storm, whatever comes… I'll be right by your side."

She looked at him and smiled.

He smiled back. "Come on, let's walk."

They left the park hand-in-hand, their fingers gently intertwined like they were made to fit. The sky blushed in warm shades of orange and gold, casting a soft glow over everything as the sun dipped low. Water still dripped lazily from the leaves above, but the air between them was warm and electric.

"Have you ever sat by the river under the night sky?" Dylan asked, his voice low and inviting.

"Never," Rachael replied, her eyes locked on his.

"Come tomorrow," he said with a smile that reached his eyes. "I'll show you the place I love most in the forest."

"I can't wait," she whispered. "I don't want to miss a single moment with you."

Dylan's eyes softened as he wrapped his arm around her waist and gently lifted her to sit on a large, moss-covered tree root. He stood close, holding her hand with one of his, while the other brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. Leaning in, he placed a slow, tender kiss on her lips. The world faded around them in that moment—just the two of them, hearts beating in quiet rhythm.

They stayed like that for hours, talking, laughing softly, sharing stolen glances and long silences that spoke more than words ever could. Every smile, every touch, every breath they took felt sacred—like the beginning of something too beautiful to name.

In his eyes, she found the comfort she'd longed for. Maybe it was time to tell him the truth. About the dreams. The deer. Everything.

Maybe he was her escape.

As the night deepened and shadows stretched longer beneath the trees, the air around them had grown still, holding its breath.

"Time to go," he said softly, his voice almost reluctant, like he didn't want to leave.

Rachael looked up at him, her eyes searching his. "Will I see you tomorrow?" she asked, her voice fragile with hope.

He stepped closer without a word, his gaze burning into hers. Slowly, he cupped her face in his warm hands, his thumb brushing gently across her cheek. Then he leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to the bruise on her forehead—a kiss that said more than any apology, more than any promise.

"You'll see me every day," he whispered, his voice fierce and certain, as if nothing in the world could stop him.

Rachael's heart fluttered, her breath caught in her throat.

She smiled, but before she could speak, he stepped back—his eyes lingering on hers one last time—then turned and disappeared into the woods, swallowed by the trees and shadows.

She stood there, her skin still tingling from his touch, her heart echoing his promise.

And she couldn't wait to see him again.

Dinner was warm and comforting—chicken asparagus lemon stir fry paired with chicken soup. The rain still whispered against the windows, but inside, the kitchen glowed softly, filled with the smell of food and the quiet hum of domestic life.

Rachael sat quietly at the dining table, picking at the last pieces of her food, lost in thought. Her mother, in her gentle rhythm, moved about the kitchen—washing dishes, wiping counters, and placing the clean plates carefully into the cupboard. The clinking sounds were soft and repetitive, almost soothing.

Just as Rachael stood to leave, her mother turned, drying her hands on a towel. "Where are you going?"

"To my room," Rachael replied softly.

"Sit down. I brought something from the nearby shop—thought we could spend some time together."

Curious, Rachael sat back down as her mother walked over to the chimney and took a rectangular box placed there. She returned to the table and placed it gently in front of them.

"Let's make a puzzle together."

Rachael's lips curled into a small smile. "From where did you get that?"

"I saw it at the toyshop near the bakery," her mother replied, eyes twinkling. "And I thought… it's perfect for us. Just a little time. Just you and me."

Rachael picked up the box. The cover showed a beautiful scenery—snow-capped mountains, a log cabin tucked among trees, and a quiet stream cutting through the valley.

"We have to make this? All of it?"

Her mother nodded. "All thousand pieces."

"That'll take forever."

"I've got all the time in the world to spend with my precious little daughter."

Rachael laughed lightly. Her mother's warmth was something she hadn't felt in so long. She looked at her, really looked—there was color in her cheeks, a liveliness in her eyes. For the first time since her father's death, she looked like someone trying to live again.

And if she was truly trying… then Rachael wouldn't let her try alone.

She opened the box, pouring the bag of puzzle pieces out onto the board. Together, they started sorting through the chaos. Edges first, of course. Then colors. They worked in quiet harmony, occasionally sipping warm tea, sometimes laughing when a piece almost—but didn't quite—fit.

Time slipped past them gently.

The night grew deeper, but they remained, huddled over the puzzle, piecing together not just a picture, but something deeper.

A bond.

Two years of silence, grief, and distance… and tonight, it felt like something had cracked open. A window letting in light.

Maybe the house wasn't the only thing that could haunt.

Maybe love could, too—but in the most healing way.

Rachael smiled.