The Girl who Sells Tears

Chapter 58 – The Girl Who Sells Tears

The forest was darker this time.

Elvis stood barefoot on cold, wet soil, her heart hammering as shadows moved between the trees like silent watchers. The air buzzed with energy—old magic, thick and alive. She recognized this place now, and it no longer frightened her. It called to her.

She walked, guided by instinct rather than sight, until she found the edge of a misty stream glowing with moonlight. A single figure sat on a boulder near the water's edge, hunched over a small box and humming a haunting lullaby.

Elvis recognized her instantly.

The silver-haired girl.

But tonight, she was different.

She looked older—wiser. Her violet eyes had lost their innocence, and in her hands, she clutched a tiny vial glowing with tears.

Elvis approached slowly. "Thalia?"

The girl didn't look up at first. She simply swirled the vial, watching the liquid glisten like starlight.

"Do you know what these are?" she asked softly. "They're not just tears. They're memories. Pain. Loss. Sacrifice."

"Tears from who?" Elvis asked, stepping closer.

"From all of us," Thalia replied. "From the witches who died protecting the Queen. From the children who never found their mothers. From the guardians who failed. From me."

Elvis swallowed. "You sell them?"

Thalia finally looked up, her eyes glinting. "Only to those who need to remember."

Elvis felt her pulse in her ears. "Then sell one to me."

Thalia's brows lifted slightly. "You don't buy these with money, Queen Mother. You pay with truth."

Elvis paused. "What truth?"

Thalia stood and reached into the box, pulling out a teardrop-shaped crystal. She held it out. "One memory for one truth. Speak it aloud."

Elvis took the crystal, its coolness biting her palm. She closed her eyes. "I've always feared what I truly am. I pretended I was just a girl. Just human. But I'm not. And deep down, I've known it since I was a child."

The crystal burned hot and then vanished.

Suddenly, the forest around her shifted.

She stood now in a memory—not her own, but real.

A small child—her—hid beneath a floorboard, watching glowing flames lick the ceiling as witches screamed outside. A woman—fierce and beautiful, her hair like fire—cast a spell over her, whispering, "They must never find you. Not until you're strong enough to fight back."

Elvis gasped, stumbling backward as the vision ended.

"You were hidden during the purge," Thalia said gently. "Your mother died keeping you safe. But the spell wasn't just protection. It sealed your memories. Your powers."

"And now it's all breaking," Elvis whispered.

Thalia nodded. "Because it's time."

Elvis sat beside her, shaking. "How do I become who I'm meant to be?"

"You continue the journey. But not just here," Thalia said, placing a hand over her heart. "You must seek the Witch of the Eastern Vale."

"Who is she?"

"She's the keeper of soul memories. The one who can unlock the full truth. She lives between the dream world and the waking one. Few find her unless they're meant to."

Elvis frowned. "How will I know where to go?"

Thalia smiled faintly. "She will find you. And when she does, do not fear her. Her tongue is sharp, and her tests cruel—but she will guide you."

Elvis stood slowly, letting the weight of the prophecy settle in her bones. "And what about you?"

Thalia looked down at her hands. "My time grows short. Spirits tied to dreams only last so long. I've held on for you… but soon, I must rest."

A lump formed in Elvis's throat. "Will I see you again?"

Thalia's eyes shimmered. "If the stars are kind."

She turned back to her box of tears, whispering to them like old friends. Elvis stepped away, watching her fade back into the mist.

When she opened her eyes again, she was in bed—sweating, shaking, and more awake than she had ever felt in her life.

Alexander sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes bloodshot. "You were gone longer this time. Are you okay?"

Elvis nodded slowly. "I found her. Thalia. And I saw more—my mother, the fire, everything."

He moved closer, brushing hair from her face. "What did she say?"

"She told me about someone called the Witch of the Eastern Vale. She said I have to find her. That she holds the key to unlocking everything."

Alexander frowned. "That sounds dangerous."

"I think it will be. But I have to go."

He grabbed her hand. "Then I go with you."

Elvis hesitated. "You don't have to—"

"I will. You're not doing this alone."

A soft smile touched her lips, but it was brief. Her mind already raced with possibilities. With fear.

The next night, she dreamed again.

But Thalia was not there.

Instead, she stood in an open field of wild red flowers. The sky was black. The wind screamed. And a voice—deep, ancient—spoke from everywhere and nowhere.

"You seek what cannot be undone."

Elvis turned slowly. A shadow stood across from her, cloaked in torn veils and smoke.

"You wake what should stay buried."

"Who are you?" she asked.

The shadow didn't answer. Instead, it lunged.

Flames erupted from Elvis's palms on instinct, but the shadow absorbed them with a hiss and laughter that chilled her spine.

"You are not ready," it snarled.

Then it vanished.

Elvis woke with blood on her lip—she'd bitten herself in fear. Her hands trembled, but her heart burned. She had been warned.

But that didn't stop her.

She spent the next week preparing.

Her senses grew sharper. Her powers now flickered even when she tried to suppress them. She could hear whispers in the wind. She began drawing symbols she didn't know she knew. And she kept dreaming of the wild red flowers—every night, closer to the Vale.

Then, it happened.

One night, she walked into her dream not in the forest, but in a crumbling hall of black mirrors.

In the center stood a woman with dark skin, silver braids piled atop her head, eyes like lightning, and a cane made of twisted bone.

"You finally made it," the woman said. "Took you long enough."

Elvis blinked. "Are you—"

"I am the Witch of the Eastern Vale," she said flatly. "And you, my child, are a mess."

Elvis bristled. "Excuse me?"

The woman waved her hand, and mirrors shattered, revealing glimpses of Elvis's past—her rage, her fear, her denial.

"I will teach you," the witch said. "But first, you will bleed."

"What?"

"Every truth has a price. If you want to remember it all—your bloodline, your mother, your power—you must survive the Ritual of Rebirth."

Elvis swallowed hard. "What does it involve?"

The witch grinned wickedly. "Pain. Fire. Fear. And if you're lucky—freedom."

Elvis stepped forward without hesitation. "Then let's begin."