Chapter 4: Petals in the Wind
It rained that morning. Not a proper downpour, not even steady enough to call it rain by city standards — just a hesitant, misty drizzle, like the sky was unsure whether it wanted to cry or only pretend to. The kind of weather that turned windshields into murky watercolor and made the city feel more like a memory than a place.
Aria Solenne walked through it with her umbrella tilted low, the black nylon speckled with silver droplets that refracted the shifting light above. Beneath her boots, puddles scattered like glass laid over cobblestone, each one catching pieces of the street, the skyline, the wings of birds darting overhead. Everything was muted — washed - out greys and steel blues. The city looked drained of warmth, like it was being slowly erased from the inside.
Her footsteps echoed more than they should have. No one noticed her. Or maybe they did and just didn't want to. That was the new rhythm of things. People didn't look too long. Not at puddles. Not at windows. Not at each other. Even the stray ginger cat that usually curled up on the bakery's sun - warmed ledge was gone this morning, the window fogged over, dark inside.
And for the first time in weeks, Aria felt the weight of someone watching her. Not a person. Not even a presence exactly — but an awareness. Like the weather had grown sentient and was holding its breath to see what she would do.
The bookstore's door was ajar.
No glass was broken. No signs of a break-in. Just… open. Left like a question or a mouth half-spoken.
She hesitated at the threshold, umbrella dripping behind her onto the stone stoop. Inside, the air was thick — book dust and the unmistakable undertone of metal. Like rust. Or blood. She didn't like that her first thought was blood.
"Mrs. Yune?" Her voice felt small. Hoarse. Out of place.
No answer. Just the faint sound of pages rustling deeper inside, like a breeze was turning them gently even though none moved.
The front room was unchanged at a glance — books shelved neatly, mugs on their hooks behind the counter, the scent of dried lavender clinging faintly to the curtains. But the lights in the back room flickered weakly, and then cut out entirely. Aria stood in the silence a full minute before doing anything.
She didn't go to the back room. She didn't call again. She just moved like she always did, making tea with mechanical precision. Two cups. Hers and Mrs. Yune's. She set them on the counter and let the steam rise slowly into the stillness. The warmth didn't settle her. It felt wrong somehow, like the ritual was echoing a memory that no longer fit.
By afternoon, the city felt thinner.
Aria moved through the outdoor market distractedly. The usual vendors were there — mostly. Some looked off. More pale than usual. Others barely made eye contact, their words slurred or strangely rhythmic. She passed tables of fruit too bright to be real, produce wilted before it could be touched. She reached for a peach and pulled back immediately; the skin beneath her fingers felt cold and bruised, and when she glanced down, it was crawling with tiny, unseen filaments she couldn't fully see, only sense.
Then someone screamed.
The sound split the air like a cracked bell.
A woman collapsed by the fountain, her limbs spasming as she hit the stone with a sickening thud. Bystanders froze — some ran toward her, others stepped back. A few just filmed. No one touched her.
Aria didn't move. Her breath hitched, caught in her chest like it had tripped over itself. Her feet rooted to the ground. She could see the woman's lips moving, twitching between breaths. Then, suddenly — her eyes snapped open and locked on Aria like a magnet.
She shouldn't have been able to see her from that angle.
But she did. And then she smiled.
It was not a grateful smile. Not pain, either. It was hollow. Mechanical. Meant for her alone. And then the woman coughed — once — blood spilled down her chin, bright and syrupy against her pale throat.
And still — no one else seemed to notice.
They were looking. But they weren't seeing.
Aria turned and walked away, faster than before, her hands trembling at her sides. She didn't look back, not even when someone called out, "We need a medic!" The voice was too far away. Too distant. Like a television left on in another room.
When she got home, the flower on her bookshelf had changed again.
There were three now.
Three perfect crimson blooms growing from the same invisible root behind the poetry anthology. No pot. No soil. No reason. They pulsed slightly in the low light like they were breathing — or waiting for something.
She dropped her bag and sat on the floor, staring at them without blinking. They didn't wilt. They didn't move. But the petals were curling inward at the edges now, like a hand clenching very slowly.
Then she looked up.
On the mirror — fogged even though the air was dry — there were words scrawled in a shaky, half - erased script:
She awakens where others fall.
Aria didn't approach the mirror. She didn't touch the glass. The words stayed for a long time, then slowly disappeared, as if some unseen breath had wiped them away.
That night, she dreamed again.
This time, the dream didn't begin in a room or a place — but in fire. A silent blaze swallowing a city block by block, the buildings melting into ash that rose like smoke and drifted up into an endless crimson sky. People ran — but they had no faces. Just silhouettes crumbling into embers.
And in the center of it all was a girl.
She stood alone, barefoot, in a shallow lake of soot. Her white dress was soaked at the hem in red, the stain rising slowly as though the fabric itself was bleeding. Her hair clung to her shoulders. Her hands hung at her sides. She looked right at Aria.
Not past her. Not through her.
At her.
She opened her mouth, and though no sound came, Aria could still hear the words. Felt them. They unspooled inside her skull like they belonged there.
Run, little bloom. Or become the fire.
Aria woke up gasping, her sheets damp with sweat, her breath rasping like she'd been underwater. Her eyes stung with tears. She didn't remember starting to cry. But she couldn't stop.
And outside — through the crack in her curtains — the sky was bleeding.
A single crimson seam had appeared across the clouds, long and straight like a knife wound slowly splitting open. It glowed softly, a line of red light against the charcoal sky.
She watched it for a long time.
Not moving. Not blinking.
And in the stillness of her apartment, the fourth bloom began to open.