21:39
Continuation of Orin's perspective
"You look… pale," she observed, her tone flat but not unkind.
I looked down at my trembling hands, then up at her.
Her eyes — unnaturally red — lingered on my hands. "Do… Do you have water?" I asked my words painted with fear
She looked down to my hands, "Your hands are clean, it was your gloves which had the blood. Whose blood is it?"
"It's not my own."
She sighed walking into a relatively small shop, after some time she came out holding a mug of water.
For a second, I'd wonder how she'd known the water for my hands and not to drink. But it was trivial. It didn't matter.
The water hit my hands — cold, sharp. It soaked through the creases, washing blood that wasn't mine. My fingers rubbed together, slow and uncertain.
"You are no murderer-so what happened." She asked as she poured the water
I hesitated. "It's a long story."
"It always is." She turned without waiting for more.
The door clicked shut behind us. She led me into a narrow shop, the scent of wood polish and old sugar clinging to the air. The floors were spotless, though faded in places — as if cleaned often but walked even more.
"Would you like tea?" she asked from the kitchen.
"If you don't mind. Sweet, if possible." I muttered, her head pulling closer to hear
"Figures," she muttered. A small smile traced her lips.
She vanished beyond the curtain, her pale hair trailing behind like silk unraveling in water. It shimmered briefly — not in color, but in presence, like something remembered rather than seen. She moved like a flame. It was elegant, but mundane. I dismissed it.
I sat. The silence was not empty. It hummed faintly, like a thought just out of reach. A fan spun overhead, shifting the air in small, methodical circles. The warmth was unfamiliar. Not unpleasant.
I had no reason to stay. But I didn't leave.
I came for answers.
As I sat up, now preparing to silently leave.
A light flared in the kitchen. Not the yellow-white of bulbs, nor the flicker of fire.
Something older. Something that didn't belong in this age.
Witchcraft…?
I swallowed dryly. That word had once meant superstition, it warranted death.
It had gotten a woman killed.
So… what was it now?
I stood. The floorboards creaked beneath me — long then short, sharp, as if warning me off.
Something flickered in the next room — orange, too steady to be candlelight.
Often, silence is powerful, it's silence that allows way for thought, but this time silence overwhelmed noise to where even the creaking of the floorboards and my own thoughts became muffled. Each step brought me closer, and yet for each step my legs felt as if they would give way.
Flickers of fire shot through my head. It was recognition. It was fear.
I looked down to my hands. They were in the shape of a fist, clenched tight but- shaking. I sighed then quickly looked in.
It was nothing. Simply her cooking.
"Is something wrong?" she asked
Yes. Something was very wrong. The flame wasn't normal — it was deliberate. Ancient. The walls converged like thin shafts, and equally something flickered within me. A feeling itching to be felt once more. Like then. A few days ago.
"What was that?" I countered skeptical of her facade
"What was what?" She said almost stunned
I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion.
"My eyes lie to me sometimes. But something in me… already knows what I saw." I intoned forming barely coherent speech
While she tried to mask it with a soft smile, she was fearful. There were signs.
When afraid, people may tremble, they may shatter and cry. But her eyes had lost their colour. Grey…
Her smile faltered, and for a moment, the red bled from her gaze — not fading, but retreating. Like something pulling back inside her.
"I lowered my tone, "I'm not here to hurt anyone. I just… need to understand."
I smiled weakly, her eyes slowly gaining colour, "If you want-you don't need to tell me."