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NO EYES: A Forgotten Whisper

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Synopsis
She doesn’t remember who she is. He wants to prove himself. And the Perennial Forest is done waiting. Pecola is blind. But her world is far from dark. Haunted by glowing spirits called Breaths and chased by flickers of forgotten memories, she enters a forest no one returns from—except her. And she has no idea why. Antic is trouble with a smirk. He’s not cursed—just clumsy, chaotic, and not nearly as powerful as the warriors in his realm want him to be. When his family is destroyed by a rival clan, all he wants is revenge... until he meets her. Together, they stumble into a journey neither of them asked for—guided by a porcelain doll with abandonment issues (Dolly), a grim-faced swordsman with secrets (Grin), and the dangerous, sensual magic of a world built on memory, grief, and desire.
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Chapter 1 - The Whispering Walls

Kingdom, Aetherland

Suburbs Misty Oaks: 1922

The earth was warm beneath my feet.

I pressed my toes into the grass, curling them, feeling the moist soil shift and cling to my skin. The garden was still cool from the night air, dew clinging to the blades in soft kisses, but the sun was rising fast, pushing heat across the estate like warm breath on the back of the neck.

I didn't wear shoes. Not ever, unless someone made me.

Shoes cut off too much. The texture, the pattern of things—the sharp spots, the mossy dips, the patches where ants had claimed their little kingdoms. I needed to feel everything to understand it.

That's how I learned the world. Through my feet. Through my hands. Through my ears. Through what I could feel and smell and hear and taste. If I couldn't touch it, I didn't trust it.

I stepped forward slowly, arms loose at my sides, and lowered myself into the grass. My dress caught the breeze—a white thing, long and ripped in one sleeve. It had been my favorite since I was twelve. No one had ever told me to throw it away. Maybe they assumed I couldn't tell how it looked.

They'd be wrong.

I could feel how worn it was in the seams. How the edges frayed. How the neckline had stretched a little more each year. It was like wearing a memory, and memories—real ones—were harder to come by than people thought.

I rolled in the grass without thinking. My braid followed me, thumping against my shoulder blades. It was long now. Reached past my waist. I tried to keep it neat because that's what you do when you're trying to be taken seriously. You braid things. You tie them up. You hold them together.

That's what Ami my caretaker said once. "To braid something is to keep it from unraveling."

I don't think she meant just hair.

My name is Pecola Ennui. I'll be Eighteen in a month.

I don't look like the girls in the papers or the ones that follow my sister Joy, around like swans at a pond. I'm shorter. Softer in the arms and shoulders. My skin is deep brown, warm like tree bark after the rain. I keep my bangs cut myself. Uneven but serviceable. They fall over the line where my eyes should be.

I say "should" because most people expect pupils. I don't have any.

What I do have are two glowing white orbs where my eyes should be. They glow whether I want them to or not. Not bright like a lantern—more like the soft light of a pearl under moonlight. People don't usually look at them too long.

It makes them uncomfortable. That's fine. I don't look at them either.

Floof barked once and I sat up straight.

"Shh," I whispered. "This is our quiet hour."

He didn't care. His tail slapped the grass like he was swatting flies.

Floof was enormous. Bigger than most couches. A shaggy sheepdog with fur like wet laundry and mismatched eyes—one cloudy blue, one dark brown. He smelled like pine and river water, and he always ran slightly sideways, like his legs were arguing about which direction was forward.

He had no business being quiet. Still, I leaned over and pressed my face into his fur. He grumbled with joy and rolled onto his side, snorting.

"I should name your left paw Slap," I muttered. "That's the one that bruises."

I didn't talk to people this much. But with Floof, I could say whatever I wanted. He didn't interrupt. He didn't correct my metaphors or change the subject. And he didn't ask questions I didn't have answers to.

I stood slowly, brushing grass from my legs. I counted my fingers out of habit. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Not because I thought I'd lost any. But because I liked the rhythm of it. It kept me centered.

I wandered toward the tree.

It was a crooked, scraggly-looking thing, with branches that zig-zagged like a thought that kept changing its mind. I liked that about it. It didn't try to be perfect. It just was.

I climbed the tree every morning, because that's what you do when you want to see things from above—even if you can't technically see. And because if you're hanging upside down, the world feels new. And because no one tells you you're not allowed to be somewhere when you're already higher than they can reach.

I reached the top and pulled my satchel from its branch. Book in hand. Hanging by my knees. I liked to read upside-down. It helped me feel where the words were supposed to go. When you're blind, your hands become the eyes, and sometimes the eyes need a new angle.

The breeze danced through the leaves, and the world smelled like soil, citrus, and something faintly metallic. I turned the page of my book. I didn't need to read it to know it was about stars.

I just remembered.

Then I felt it again.

A sound, but not a sound. More like a thought someone whispered too close to my ear. It came from beyond the gate.

The Perennial Forest.

It never truly called. But it hummed. It waited.

I'd never gone in. Not once. Not even a toe past the gate. The stories said people who entered never came back. Or came back... changed. And that wasn't a metaphor. They came back wrong. Crooked. Hollow. Smiling with too many teeth.

Still, the forest whispered sometimes. Just enough to make me wonder.

But I didn't go. Because I took things seriously. When they say "stay out," I stay out. When someone tells you there's danger in the dark, you don't grab a candle and start a parade.

You sit down.

You wait.

And you listen harder.

"Miss Pecola!"

Arnold's voice echoed from the open window, breaking the spell.

"Breakfast don't cook itself, but you best believe it sings better when you're helpin'!"

Floof barked and took off running. I slid down the tree, wiping my hands on the soft edge of my dress. My braid had come loose. I'd fix it later.

I turned to the breeze one more time, toward the scent of pine and old air and forgotten voices.

"I heard you," I whispered. "But I'm not ready yet."

Then I followed the path back to the kitchen.

I followed the scent of rosemary and yeast, stepping across the tile barefoot, letting the temperature of each square tell me where the light fell through the stained glass.

The kitchen was always the warmest room in the house, not just from the ovens, but from Arnold. He had a way of speaking that made everything feel like a song—one with a long intro, a soulful middle, and a perfectly improvised end.

He was already at the stove, sleeves rolled, humming some jazz standard that had no name, just feeling. The smell of flour and garlic kissed the walls, and the windows were fogged from something boiling in the copper pot.

Arnold didn't turn around when I entered. He never had to.

"Well, well," he said, like it was the first line of a lullaby. "If it ain't our barefoot scholar, dragged back from the wilderness by her belly."

I slid onto my stool at the counter, hands folding neatly in front of me. "I wasn't in the wilderness. I was in the lawn. Technically."

He turned, laughing, wiping his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder. "Lawn, wilderness—if you're outside that long and talking to trees, girl, that's wilderness behavior."

"I was talking to Floof," I corrected. "And the tree was just listening."

"Mmhm." Arnold plucked a ladle from the drawer. "Well, I hope Floof's been warned not to follow you up that branch anymore. Nearly gave me a heart attack when I saw all four of his paws hangin' off that top branch last week."

"He's improving," I said, straight-faced. "I think he's developing opposable thumbs."

Arnold wheezed. He had one of those full-body laughs, like it rolled up from the soles of his feet and rattled out his chest like thunder. It made the kitchen feel smaller, safer.

He slid a bowl toward me, careful of my hands. The soup steamed—parsnip, leek, something sweet beneath it all.

"You used honey again," I said.

"Just a spoon," he replied.

"I can taste it."

"Of course you can. That tongue's sharper than my knives." He turned to the stove again, swaying a little as he stirred something else. A deeper bassline from his humming filled the room.

I tapped my fingers on the counter, matching the rhythm. He picked it up immediately, adding percussion with the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot.

"Hey!" he called suddenly, spinning. "Bop with me, Pecola!"

I froze, mid-spoon. "What?"

"Bop! You know—rhythm, groove, that thing your heart tries to do when the music's good."

"I don't... bop."

"You do. You just don't know it yet."

Arnold grabbed his small hand-congos from the top shelf, the ones he only pulled out when the mood struck right. He began a gentle rhythm—thump-ch-chk, thump-ch-chk—and it filled the whole kitchen like the sound of rain tapping on a sunroof.

I started humming softly. One of his old tunes. A wordless, looping thing I'd memorized without trying.

"That's it," he whispered. "You feel it now."

We made music together. Not perfectly. I was off-beat sometimes, and he was too in love with syncopation to stay steady. But it worked. It always worked.

He quieted after a while, resting the congos on his knee, catching his breath.

"I miss them, you know," he said, voice low now. "My wife. My boy. Haven't seen them in over three years."

The soup was warm in my hands. The bowl solid. Real.

"You always talk about him like he's grown up," I said. "But he's only seven."

"Feels grown when you ain't there to see the inches happen," Arnold murmured.

I listened. Sometimes that was all you could do for someone.

"They write me letters," he added. "He draws things. My wife—she writes about the weather like it's poetry. 'Today it smelled like cinnamon and rain, Arnold.' Can you believe that?"

"I believe her," I said.

Arnold chuckled once, quiet. "She's better with words than me. Always has been."

We sat in silence. Just the pop of the stove and the ticking of the clock that had never worked.

Then he stood.

"I should prep for tonight," he said, dusting off his apron. "Your mother's coming."

My spine straightened. "She is?"

"And your sister. They're due before dinner. Miss Ami said to give you time to prepare yourself."

He didn't look at me when he said it, which meant he knew what it meant.

I nodded once. "Thank you."

He started toward the pantry, then paused.

"Oh—" he said, turning back with a grin, "—if she asks about Floof?"

"I'll say he's a mop with a pulse."

Arnold winked. "Atta girl."

The soft creak of the kitchen door caught my ear before I heard the clink of Ami's boots on the tile. She never really "walked." She moved like a thought — already halfway into the next room by the time you noticed her in the first.

Floof's ears twitched from under the counter. He growled, then immediately wagged his tail when he recognized the sound of her bracelet. I clicked my tongue twice — he understood. Back to pretending he was a rug.

"I heard music all the way from the studio," Ami said, setting a small stack of folded linens on the counter. "Was that 'Misty Day in Springtime Minor,' or did you two invent something again?"

Arnold puffed his chest like a rooster. "Bit of both. Pecola was tapping rhythms like a real percussionist today."

"I wasn't," I said, flatly. "I was syncing with your off-beat."

Ami smiled, then walked toward me, brushing my braid gently over my shoulder. "You're always syncing, sweetheart. That's what makes you lovely."

Her voice had that tone — the soft one. The kind she used when something uncomfortable was approaching. I felt her hands pause on my shoulder. Something was being framed. Curated.

I waited.

She cleared her throat. "Your mother and sister will be joining us for supper. Tonight."

My stomach dropped.

Arnold's spoon stopped stirring.

I blinked twice. "...Why?"

Ami took a slow breath and stepped away, her shoes creaking softly as she returned to the far counter. "She says she wants to check on you. She says Joy has been asking to visit."

"She hasn't," I said. I didn't raise my voice. It wasn't anger. It was just a fact. Joy never asked to visit. Joy came to parade.

"I know, darling," Ami replied gently. "I think it's more for appearances. There's a gala this week in Misty Oaks, and—"

"Of course."

Arnold muttered something under his breath, but I didn't catch it. It had the tone of a man who wished garlic could fix people.

Ami continued, her voice more practical now. "I'll need your help in the library today. Some of the old records are dusty. I thought we'd pull them out and see what can be shelved properly."

"Is that a code for hiding Floof?"

Her smile widened a little. "That's the second half."

Floof gave a low snort under the cabinet.

I stood, feeling the floor cool beneath my feet. My fingers brushed the edge of the counter, then the back of the chair, then the wall — mapping my way by memory. The light had shifted since morning. Shadows stretched in long ribbons across the tile. The room felt tighter.

Mary. Joy.

I'd have to press my dress. Re-braid my hair. Hide everything that was mine.

The library door let out a low groan as I pushed it open, like it didn't approve of sudden visitors.

I didn't ask for permission.

The familiar hush met me — thick velvet silence, broken only by the occasional tick of the grandfather clock and the dry whisper of old pages settling. The scent was always the same: dried glue, pressed flowers, and dust warmed by the sun.

My fingers slid along the molding. Three ridges. One smooth bevel. Turn left.

The second shelf from the floor was mine. Not by law — by claim. In the court of secrets, I was judge, jury, and librarian.

I crouched and pulled free the first book by its cloth spine. College Application Essays, 3rd Edition. The corners were curled, the margins were full of notes. Not my handwriting. It had belonged to someone before me. Someone who'd tried. Maybe someone who'd gotten out.

I sat cross-legged in the center of the rug and opened it where the ribbon still marked my place.

"Admissions officers are looking for voice," it read.

I touched my own throat.

My voice was fine. Steady. Measured. Clear. But it was never right — not soft enough for Mother, not sharp enough for Joy, not warm enough to sell. I read on.

"Speak from truth, and you will be remembered."

"Show them not who you are expected to be — but who you already are."

I closed the book slowly.

That was the problem. I didn't know what I already was. Only what I wasn't.

I wasn't normal. I wasn't in school. I wasn't seen.

I turned to the corner shelf. The books were stacked haphazardly — herbals, histories, and one collection of obscure philosophy so dense it felt like chewing wood. I liked that one.

I climbed up the shelf with care — one foot hooked beneath a ledge, back flat to the cabinet — until I could perch backward on the top beam, legs hanging over.

Hanging upside down helped me think. Something about the blood rushing toward my brain gave it permission to feel alive.

I turned the book right-side-up — the irony not lost on me — and read slowly from the opening line.

"We exist within layers. The surface world is shaped by rules. The deeper world is shaped by memory. But memory is often false — a loyal liar."

My braid hung down like a rope beside me. I could hear Floof pacing somewhere below.

The sun moved again. I could tell by the way the warmth shifted across my toes.

From outside the window — beyond the garden, beyond the gate — the wind rustled the edge of the Perennial Forest.

I stiffened.

There it was again. That low thrumming hum. Too low to be called music. Too rhythmically wrong to be called nature.

I hummed softly, trying to match the tone. The note changed. Mocked me.

I shut the book.

"No," I said out loud. "Not today."

My knees swung, and I dropped from the shelf in one clean motion, landing with a soft thud. Floof trotted toward me, tail high, tongue out.

I pressed my hand to his snout. "Library stays a secret, remember? You tell anyone, I'll feed you onions."

He huffed.

"Exactly."