"Some graves don't hold bodies. They hold warnings."
It was 2:37 a.m. when Elias Vane arrived at the cemetery.
No one in the nearest town spoke of it. But it was there—somewhere between the dead GPS signal and the edge of the forest where the trees grew unnaturally symmetrical, like they'd been... replanted.
Elias had deep brown eyes and dark brown hair. Standing at 188 centimeters tall, he possessed a striking appearance. Beyond his looks, he was kind-hearted, patient, well-mannered, and merciful by nature.
Elias was a lawyer by profession.
Last week, a stranger handed him a mirror at a
train station. A compact mirror. Inside it, instead of
a reflection, was a photo—of Elias standing at a grave.
A grave he had never visited.
The back of the photo was scorched, but a single word survived:
"You."
Now here he was, standing in Harrow's Hollow Cemetery—
a place that shouldn't exist—looking for a grave
he had never seen, but somehow remembered
standing over.
The fog moved oddly, like it parted for him.
And then he saw it.
Grave 23.
Unmarked.
Slightly ajar.
Slightly.
Ajar.
As if something had pushed its way out.
He stepped closer. Soil cracked beneath his feet,
soft like ash.
Elias crouched and reached in the grave. His hand met something cold.
A sealed glass cube, perfectly intact, untouched
by dirt or decay. Inside: a leather-bound journal.
He pried open the cube. No alarms. No voice
screaming from the sky. Just silence.
He opened it. The first page wasn't written in ink—
it was written in blood, dried into symbols that
pulsed faintly.
The second page was worse.
It was a detailed drawing of Elias.
His breathing hitched. What kind of grave is it?
Elias ran. He left the journal inside the grave and
didn't look back.
When he got home.
Inside:
The journal was already on his table.
Still open.