Blood Is the Key

The voice rippled through the veil like sunlight breaking water. His mind reached for it, desperate.

A grassy patch appeared behind his eyes. Salt in the breeze. Shadows long and golden. A girl beside him, brushing grass from his chest.

"Should I close my eyes?" he asked, smiling through the haze.

"Don't cheat," she laughed. That same laugh—light, spinning, eternal. Her bare feet curled into the grass. Her fingers played with time. "Lie down for me. Flat. Still. Just for ten minutes."

He obeyed.

The ground was uneven beneath him. His black shirt let blades of grass poke through like tiny needles. His arms folded behind his head, his breath slowing with the breeze.

She leaned closer. Her voice was low, careful. "You're good with this, right? Don't move."

He nodded with that soft shake she always teased him for.

"Why do you do that?" she whispered. "Like the Indian natives. You've never even been there…"

A rustle. A crinkle. A gift, wrapped tight, shimmered in her hands. She held it like something sacred—not expensive, but holy.

"My eyes are getting heavy..." he murmured. "The weather's turning... You should hurry. You know what happens if you're still by this lake when it rains."

The sky above the treetops shifted. The light dimmed. And suddenly, the gift—whatever it was—was no longer just a gift.

It was a memory… or a warning.

"Did you already forget what I told you?" she said. Her voice was distant now. Somewhere between water and wind.

Thunder rumbled.

The lake behind them was no longer still.

And far beneath him, beneath the weight of water and stone, something ancient began to stir.

The mirror held no answers, only his breath—a thin fog kissed against the cold glass. His skin shimmered with fading tears, streaked like brushstrokes down his cheeks and chest, where warmth still lingered as if someone had touched him before vanishing into vapor.

Her shadow haunted the edges of his reflection. Even now, the image of her clung to the glass—neither alive nor absent, but fused. In death, she had not departed. She had melted into the folds of his world, become part of its fabric.

"All will be well," he murmured, and the room, as if held together by the syllables, sighed. Mirrors caught the motion of his lips and threw them back in silence, hundreds of his reflections repeating the phrase with mute devotion.

He undressed with reverence and stepped into the large, wood-carved tub. Water rose around him, warm and heavy, as though embracing him back. He pressed the red stone against his chest. It clung to him, pulsing faintly. The water began to change—reddening, thickening. The scent of something old, iron-rich, and alive filled the space.

The surface trembled. "Drip. Drip."

When he emerged, the water clung like memory. He collapsed onto the bed, bare and still soaked. A groan, low and guttural, escaped his lips—part grief, part release. His chest barely rose. The air buzzed. Nothing moved.

Then her voice pierced through:

"Hun. I've got a gift for you."

Sunlight cut through trees. A lake shimmered behind them. She brushed grass off his chest as he blinked into her smile.

"Should I close my eyes?" he teased.

"Don't cheat," she said, laughing. But her eyes held secrets. She held out two stones: one yellow, one green. One smelled of baked earth; the other, wet pine. He reached for them too quickly.

"No! We had a deal!" she yelped, pulling back too late.

He laughed—full and rich—holding the green stone to the sky. "Where did you find this?"

"I followed the sound of your melody," she said quietly.

His grin faded. "You heard that?"

She nodded. "It pulled me… through the trees. Into a pit. A forgotten one."

He glanced toward the forest, suddenly uneasy. He had walked that path. There had been no pit. No sign. Nothing.

"Play it again," she urged, suddenly breathless. "Please."

He hesitated. She begged again, stretching the word playfully until it sounded like song. He couldn't help but laugh. "Alright."

But before he could, he froze. "Where's the gift?" he asked, suddenly anxious. His fingers opened as if expecting it to appear. It was gone.

Her smile grew wider. Her silence grew louder.

"You have it," he said flatly.

She tilted her head, humming to herself, caught in some private rhythm.

He searched the grass, growing more desperate. She watched him squirm, her laughter bubbling like spring water. When he looked up, her eyes betrayed everything—gleaming with mischief.

"I'll play," he said, grabbing the lyre from her. "But you're giving it back."

Her smirk said: Maybe.

He sat. Back straight. Fingers still.

She leaned in, eyes bright, ready. Wind rustled the grass. The lake stilled. The trees hushed. Even the birds paused their song.

And then:

"Do you want to feel it... deep?" he whispered.

His lips grazed her ear. His tongue followed, soft and slow.

Her breath hitched.

He played.

Her shoulders pulled in instinctively, but her body leaned closer, almost unconsciously. It wasn't just the touch. It was the timing. The quiet. The way his voice wrapped around her spine like a slow current.

"Yes…" she gasped, barely aware that she'd answered aloud. It came out in a haze, like her body spoke before her brain could catch up.

"Then close your eyes," he whispered again.

She did. And her world fell still.

The melody began—sharp and ancient. It cut through the air like truth. With each note, time slowed. Wind halted. Lake stilled. The trees, even the clouds, leaned in.

Then—

"Cling!!!"

A bell rang, slicing the stillness apart.

He woke with a start.

Light crept through the crack in the curtain. His vision adjusted. And then he saw it:

The black window was open.

He didn't move. Not at first. Only he and his late wife had ever touched that latch.

She used to stand there in silence after long nights, humming. Since her death, he'd sealed that window shut.

Until now.

His heart thudded.

"Tah! Tah! Tah!"

The tapping came from behind the wall. Sharp. Rhythmic. Like knuckles on stone.

He blinked. The sound had been in his dreams too. Now it was real.

It faded.

He moved—barefoot across the floor, the chill grounding him. He was naked, but unbothered. Still grinning faintly at the memory of Eva walking in the day before.

When he reached the window, his amusement vanished.

No fingerprints. No signs of tampering. But he knew something had passed through.

He leaned out. Spiderwebs collapsed against his chest, brittle and soft. He brushed them away like old veils.

Nothing moved outside. No rustling. No figure. Yet the feeling lingered.

Something had been there.

And it had left the window open.