SERAPHINA'S HOUSE — 11:00 PM
ITS TIME... HEHEEHAHAHAHA
Seraphina awoke once more. An awakening not born of peaceful slumber. An awakening that did not arrive gently, gradually, carrying with it the lingering sweetness of beautiful dreams still warm upon the eyelids. She was jolted. Hurled. Dragged by force from a subconscious realm that refused to release its grip upon her.
Her breath came in gasps—rushing ahead of herself, each inhale and exhale crashing like waves against unyielding cliffs. Without pause. Without mercy. Every pull of air felt shallow, insufficient, never enough. Every exhale felt like losing fragments of herself that would never return. Her soul pounded, a pulse she could feel at the very tips of her fingers, at the roots of her hair, in every corner of her body still trembling in silence. A pounding so fierce, so impossibly loud, that she was certain anyone standing beyond her door could hear it clearly.
Her two guiding lights never ceased their vigil. The walls with their fading floral wallpaper—blossoms she had once thought beautiful, tiny roses with green stems curling delicately, now transformed into small watching eyes peering from the darkness. Silently recording every fear she harbored. Storing them within petals that no longer bloomed. The corner near the wardrobe—where shadows had always gathered thicker than anywhere else, where lamplight never dared fully reach, as though something dwelling there refused all illumination. The bathroom door—the door that had swallowed her twice already, the door that concealed laughter and hissing and something she dared not name. Something perhaps older than this house, older than herself, older than the light she was now struggling to trust.
Her fingers began to clutch at the fabric that cradled her. So tightly. For so long. The white sheet gathered beneath her palms, transforming into a crumpled mess damp with sweat. Until the red of her nails faded, shifting to a pallid white—the color of bones buried too long, the color of ghosts who had forgotten how to return to the living world, the color of a fear that had seeped too deeply into her marrow.
Am I going mad?
Dreaming within dreams. Twice now. Twice I have woken believing everything was over.
Twice I have drawn breath with such difficulty.
She felt tears of relief nearly spilling, allowing her rigid body to finally release its tension.
And twice I have discovered that the reality I believed in was merely another layer of the dream.
The laughter still echoed inside her mind. The hissing continued to creep through the chambers of her head. The voice that called her name from the darkness—from a darkness never meant to speak—still lingered somewhere. Inside the very stones of her being.
Am I going mad?
Or is madness merely a word...
A word crafted by those too afraid to admit...
that the world does not always obey the rules of reason?
For eight minutes she remained imprisoned in silence—a solitude that confined her completely. The air in the room grew dense and heavy, a thickness capable of binding insects and dragging their souls from their bodies. Everything felt utterly still, and chains seemed to rise from the bed to shackle her in place.
She had been here too long already. She must escape, she thought.
Tick tock... Tick tock...
That rhythm continued its relentless song in a melody of loneliness that bound her freedom in chains. A sound that had once been mere background noise, easily ignored and drowned beneath conversation and laughter and all the sounds of living. Now each beat struck like needles piercing deep—every tick sharper than a freshly whetted blade, louder than a scream trapped in her throat.
Its countdown measured something unseen.
As though marking time before something would happen.
Like a metronome for a symphony of darkness waiting for its turn to be performed.
Yet—faint and distant—she heard something else.
Something that rose from deep within her own soul. A voice that gently caressed her ears, a voice resonating directly inside her ribcage, vibrating between the beats of her heart, flowing alongside the blood that coursed through her entire body. The voice sounded like that of a man—a wise man. Wise with the wisdom of one who had lived for a very long time. So long that his years stretched across ages, until he knew every hidden intricacy of the universe. Every crack in the sky not yet mended, every whisper behind the wind not yet translated, every secret guarded by stars long dead whose light continued its endless wandering.
"Don't be afraid, my child..."
That voice... was like the night wind carrying waves toward the shore to accompany its gentle melody, sweeping the sand softly, leaving behind white foam that would vanish into the white canvas of the ocean. A night wind scented with salt and the vast tapestry of the sky painting its canvas with beauty. A painting that stirred memories of a harbor always open, of ships that sailed away and returned against a horizon stretching endlessly at the edge of the sea.
The same wind she had breathed as a child, when she had stood at the water's edge with small feet half-buried in wet sand, gazing out at the open ocean and realizing something she had never understood before.
That the world was far too vast to be feared.
Her soul, which had been beating in chaos like war drums struck by panicked hands, now slowly returned to its original rhythm. Like turbulent water gradually settling back to a calm surface. Like fabric once torn, now slowly stitched together with golden thread of a purer kind. Wrapped whole without the barriers that had tormented her. Like a wound finally touched by the right bandage, by hands that knew precisely where to press and precisely where to release.
"Thank you... Father!"
She stepped away from her bed.
The wooden floor welcomed the soles of her feet with a cold that crept slowly upward—from her heels to the arches of her feet, from the arches to her toes, from her toes into her entire body still bearing the remnants of trembling fear. Yet this cold felt entirely different. Before—in dreams that had deceived her, in layers of illusion that had toyed with her sanity—the cold had pierced like needles of ice injected from beneath the floorboards, like dead hands gripping her ankles and refusing to let go, like an invitation from the underworld trying to drag her down into an endless abyss.
This time... it was only cold.
Ordinary cold. Honest cold. Cold that concealed nothing beyond the temperature of wood that had aged alongside this house.
She switched on her bedroom lamp.
Click.
Light flooded the room in an instant—banishing the shadows that had been lurking in the corners, driving away the dark figures that had previously dared to dance at the edges of her vision. There was nothing strange. Nothing moved. Only her room. Only her bed with sheets still rumpled, still bearing the imprint of her restless body, still holding the warmth of skin that had only just left them. Only the old wardrobe with its carved flowers she had known for so long—wooden roses slightly chipped at the bottom, exactly as she remembered them, exactly as they had always been since her earliest childhood. Only the mirror in the corner reflecting her own image: a woman with black hair flowing loose, blue eyes still holding remnants of fear in their depths, and lips beginning to curve upward into a smile barely visible.
See?
There is nothing here...!
You are all right.
You have always been all right...
She steadied her heart. Gathered every shard of courage that remained, collecting them one by one from the deepest corners of her soul. Then she stepped forward—toward the darkness that had twice already swallowed her whole. The darkness behind the bathroom door. The darkness that had once whispered with a voice belonging to no one. The darkness that had once laughed—a long, fractured laughter that somehow felt so deeply personal, so terribly intimate, as though it had been crafted especially for her by something that knew her better than she knew herself.
But this time she made a vow.
A vow she carved deep into the walls of her heart. A vow she whispered to herself again and again—like a chant recited before battle, like a prayer offered at the edge of despair, like an oath she would never break even if the sky collapsed and the earth split open beneath her feet.
I will not be afraid.
Even if the terror proves real. Even if Helel himself stands waiting behind that door—with shattered wings and violet eyes blazing like embers from the deepest hell. Even if the darkness ahead is blacker than anything I have ever witnessed, colder than anything that has ever touched my skin.
I will not run. I will not fall again. Never again. I will not let myself become the woman who curls on the floor, weeping alone, begging a sky that refuses to answer.
I will stand...!
I will fight!
She drew a breath. Filled her lungs completely—as though she meant to inhale all the courage remaining in this world and store it inside her chest, between the ribs that protected her heart, within that heart that still beat steadily—proof that she was still alive, still whole, still possessed of the right to fight back.
Then she kicked the door.
BRAK!
So fierce. So forceful. So brimming with the rage she had long suppressed in silence—rage at the darkness that had hunted her relentlessly, rage at the fear that had nearly paralyzed her, rage at herself for nearly giving up. The impact might have been heard by the couple enjoying their first night together in the house across the road. Perhaps they woke from their sleep, exchanged glances with half-lidded eyes, and wondered who was making such a commotion in the middle of a night meant to be still.
But Seraphina did not care.
Tonight, she was a storm that had chosen to hide no longer.
_ _ _
The bathroom was empty.
Only the cold white ceramic floor beneath the soles of her feet. Only the mirror reflecting her own face—a weary face, a pale face, yet still radiating the remnants of a courage she had only just discovered. A small flame not yet extinguished by the night wind slipping through the crack in the window.
The shower hung in the corner, its last droplets of water falling with a sound—tik… tik… tik…—that was strangely soothing, like the ticking of a gentler clock than the one in her bedroom.
The towel hung on its rack, slightly askew, exactly as she remembered it.
All of it had been nothing but a dream. A dream nested within a dream. Two layers of illusion that had nearly drowned her. And now… now she was awake. Truly awake.
She touched the faucet. Turned it slowly—the metal was cold beneath her fingers, slightly rusted at the joint, yet still functioning as it always had. Water flowed, clear and cold, wetting the tips of her fingers with a sensation that was simple yet deeply reassuring. The cold crept to her wrists, traced along her forearms, and she let it—let the sensation anchor her back to the real world. A grounding sensation. A sensation that refused to hold any deception. A sensation that whispered without words, without sound, without the slightest doubt:
This is real.
You are real!
You are here!
She shut the faucet. Took the towel from the rack—its rough fabric felt familiar against her palm. She dried her fingers slowly, one by one, as though realizing for the first time that she had hands. Ten fingers. Two palms. A framework of bone and muscle and skin that had been with her all her life, that had touched so many things, that had held so many memories.
I have hands.
I have a body.
I have will.
I am real... Real!
I exist!!
She leaned for a moment against the sink. The cold porcelain seeped into her palms, traveled to her wrists, calming the nerves that still trembled. Her breath, which had been ragged, now slowly returned to normal—one inhale after another, one exhale after another, like waves finally settling after the storm had passed. And for the first time since all of this began—since Ken's scream had torn through her dreams, since Helel's laughter had crept into her home like a guest refusing to leave, since she had collapsed before Liora's door and felt that the world had ended and she would forever be a prisoner of her own fear—she smiled again. A smile born of a relief so profound, of an acceptance that she had walked through hell and somehow still stood here, in her own bathroom, in the silence of midnight, with wet hands and a heart that still beat steadily. The smile of a woman who had nearly drowned, yet had chosen to keep swimming even when the shore lay far beyond her sight.
Thank you...
She stepped out of her bathroom. Glanced at the clock on the wall.
11:10 PM.
The hour was still young. The night still stretched long before her. And she would not spend it hiding beneath her blankets, waiting for dawn to arrive as her savior. She had waited far too long already.
She descended to the living room.
One by one she conquered the steps with slow and measured treads—steps no longer born of fear, but of the full awareness that each descent was a small victory to be celebrated in silence. A secret ceremony between herself and the house she had long inhabited, between her soul and the walls that had borne witness to every version of herself that had ever existed.
The wooden stairs released a sound—kriik…—with every touch of her soles upon their surface. A sound that had once made the hairs on her nape stand upright—a sound that had reminded her of door hinges shrieking in the dead of night, of something crawling in the darkness with fingers far too long and eyes that could not be seen, of the nightmares that had twice swallowed her and nearly refused to spit her back out. Now that sound was only the voice of old wood—wood that had supported her steps since she was a child, wood that had absorbed the vibrations of every stumble and fall, wood that remained sturdy despite its age surpassing the count of decades.
A house built by her father and her grandfather—rough hands that had laid brick upon brick, hands that had poured cement beneath the scorching sun, hands that had raised this foundation with the hope that someday their children's children would find shelter within it. A house that had once sheltered her mother—a gentle woman with silver hair and a voice that always knew how to calm the storms inside her chest. A house that had once witnessed her very first steps—tiny trembling feet, small hands reaching out to find balance, the bright laughter that had filled the living room when she finally managed to walk without falling.
You are only a house, she whispered inwardly, greeting the walls that had stood for so long, that had protected her from rain and wind and sometimes from the outside world that was far too loud and far too cruel. You are my second womb—the place where I was reborn after emerging from my mother's body. The ribs that protect the organs of my dreams—dreams that were sometimes too fragile to share with the world. The eyes that taught me how to see—the first light I ever recognized, the first shadow I ever feared, the first color I ever loved. And you will not become a hell for me. Not anymore... I will not let you be stolen by a darkness that we never even invited in at all.
She lit every lamp.
Click—!
The lamp on the sitting table, its soft yellow light falling upon the vase still holding withered roses—petals already turning brown at their edges, already curling and drying, yet somehow still radiating the remnants of the beauty they had possessed when first plucked from the garden behind the house. Those roses were proof that even in decay, something still endured—something that refused to vanish entirely.
Click—
The lamp near the bookshelf, its light illuminating the spines of books she had not read in so long—old novels with yellowing pages, anthologies of poetry she had bought with Liora at the spring market when the world had still felt simple, when words had still been a sufficient escape, when the two of them could sit for hours beneath the oak tree reading and thinking of nothing beyond the stories spread before them. A thin layer of dust covered most of those books, and she made a promise to herself—tomorrow, or the day after, or someday soon, she would clean them. She would read them again.
Click—
The lamp in the corner near the window, where shadows had once danced in movements that should not have been possible—movements out of sync with the light, movements that seemed to possess their own will, movements that had made her shudder and pull herself more tightly inward. Now that corner was only empty. Only the curtain stirring gently in the night wind—the same wind that had once carried whispers, now carrying only the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. Only the wooden floor faithfully reflecting the light, revealing the grain of its planks already worn thin in places.
Every light that dwelled upon every surface of her house—she lit them all. Without exception. Without leaving a single corner to be darkened. As though she meant to ensure that there was no longer any space for the darkness to hide, no longer any crevice for shadows to lurk, no longer any place for that laughter—that long and fractured and deeply personal laughter—to echo between these walls.
Only light. Only warmth. Only home.
Her home.
_ _ _
The melody and rhythm of Toronto 2014 drifted through the room, soothing and carrying her soul away for a moment...
Huh? What... what is that...?!
Eh... wait a moment...
Isn't that... a song by...
Daniel Caesar...??
How is this possible...
I...
Wait!
Wait just a moment, Sera!
Let me try to remember...
Hmm... there was a ball... white, with golden footholds...
Ah!!
I bought it with Liora once... a ball made so we could listen to music from famous artists... Orbis Luminara... that was what Liora called it!
Sera... You fool!
You were the one who played the song yourself—
One more for tonight... you said so yourself!
Orbis Luminara...
Shaped into a perfect sphere, small enough to fit within the grasp of a single palm, its surface of clear crystal seeming never to rest in true stillness. Within its body lay a tiny core of light, like a captured star trapped behind glass, shifting slowly with every vibration stored inside it.
Encircling the crystal were three thin rings of golden metal. They did not cover the sphere's surface, but instead embraced it from three directions, leaving most of the crystal exposed so the light within could still be seen. Upon each ring were etched delicate symbols that would only glow when the Orbis was in use.
At its base rested a small pedestal shaped like an inverted crown. This pedestal served as a lock when the Orbis was placed upon its player, while also protecting the resonance core hidden at the bottom of the crystal.
When not in use, the Orbis Luminara emitted only a pale light, almost invisible. But once placed upon the player, the core within began to spin. Golden light crept through the engravings on the rings, then filled the entire sphere like dawn slowly rising from within an ocean of glass.
It had no buttons, no dials, no part that needed to be touched to begin the music. The player recognized the Orbis's resonance the moment its pedestal locked into place. Moments later, a single opening note would sound, clear and soft, before all the echoes stored within the crystal flowed once more into song.
The Orbis Luminara was crafted in various sizes and qualities, though its basic form remained nearly always the same. Nobles favored versions with golden frames and intricate carvings, while common folk more often used frames of silver, brass, or simpler metals.
To most, it was merely a device for listening to music.
But to some, an Orbis was something far more precious.
For once a song had been stored within the crystal, that voice no longer belonged entirely to its singer.
It became the property of time itself.
Hehe...!
Thank you, Liora...
She gripped the object in her hands, admiring its beautiful form and the melody that soothed her soul... before finally pulling the small lever at the side of its pedestal.
Click...
The golden rings encircling the Orbis slowly lost their light. The melody drifting through the air did not vanish at once, but instead faded little by little, as though a voice were receding toward a place beyond the reach of any ear.
She lifted the Orbis from its pedestal.
Liora had told her once...
If the Orbis was removed before the stopping lever was pressed, the resonance connection would sever instantly. The music would cease without closing, and the light within the Orbis would extinguish in a single blink.
Perhaps that was why those who treasured music always stopped their Orbis properly.
They believed that a song deserved its ending, just as every story deserved its final sentence.
But I do not want you to grow weary of working without me there to listen...
Enough now... everything needs rest, does it not?
Yes, Sera...
Hahahaha...
Asking myself... answering myself...
How utterly foolish I am...
---
She took her jacket.
The old brown jacket, worn thin at the elbows—its threads beginning to fray, its color faded in places, yet still holding a warmth no other garment could ever provide. A jacket that carried a story in every loosening seam—seams once stitched by her mother's own hands, beneath the dim glow of an oil lamp, on nights when the world still felt safe and the name "Helel" had never yet reached her ears. Whenever one of the seams began to loosen, her mother would sit in the chair beside the window, push the needle through, pull the thread taut, and smile as she said, "This jacket will keep my little Seraphina company longer than I will."
She had repaired it countless times—patching the torn sections, re-sewing buttons that had fallen off, reinforcing the elbows that had nearly worn through. But the jacket had never truly fallen apart. It continued to endure, continued to protect, continued to serve as a second layer after her own skin.
Before—in a panic that had nearly killed her—she had worn this jacket inside out. The inner side facing out. The outer side facing in. The buttons misaligned; the first button slipped into the second hole, the second button into the third, and so on, creating a chaos that mirrored the chaos inside her heart. The collar untended—one side folded outward, the other folded inward, creating a silhouette without symmetry—the silhouette of a woman falling apart who no longer cared whether her world fell apart with her.
Now... she put it on with care.
She fastened the buttons one by one—first, then second, then third—with fingers that no longer trembled. Each button found its proper hole with quiet precision, without hesitation, without hurry. She straightened the collar before the mirror; she folded it outward, smoothed both sides, made certain every crease fell exactly where it should—symmetrical, neat, controlled. Movements that were calm. Movements that were deliberate.
I have time.
I have control.
I will not run anymore.
She opened the door of her house.
The hinges creaked—kriiik—the exact same sound, the sound that had once turned her palms cold and trembling. The sound that had once conjured monstrous images of something waiting on the other side—something with a mouth far too wide, eyes that never blinked, and a long, fractured laugh.
But this time... no trembling came. No cold spread from her palms to her wrists, from her wrists to her arms, from her arms through the whole of her body. No hairs on her nape stood on end as though warning of danger lurking near.
Only the sound of an old door. A familiar sound. A sound she had heard thousands of times since childhood, since she had first learned to open a door on her own without her mother's help—when she had still been too short to reach the handle and had to stand on her tiptoes, when her mother had stood behind her and let out a small cheer the moment the door finally swung open.
You are only a door, she whispered to the hinges still creaking softly, to the wood beginning to rot at its base, to the iron handle worn smooth from being gripped too often.
And I am no longer afraid of you.
I am no longer afraid of whatever waits beyond you.
I am no longer afraid of whatever tries to enter through your cracks.
She closed the door behind her. Locked it with care—slipping the key into its hole, turning it gently, making certain every piece of metal met its match.
Click.
The sound of metal meeting metal. A sound that was firm. A sound that was final. A sound that declared without doubt, without hesitation, without the lingering remnants of fear still clinging to the corners of her heart:
Whatever is inside, let it remain inside.
I am finished hiding.
I am finished being a prisoner in my own home.
I am finished... being the woman who curls on the floor and waits for dawn.
Tonight, she was someone new. Someone who put on her jacket with steady hands. Someone who closed the door with calm resolve. Someone who was, at last... free.
She stepped further, past the gate of her home.
The small iron gate was cold beneath her touch—cold metal that had always been so, ever since her grandfather had first installed it decades ago. Yet the cold felt different now. Before, in memories still fresh and wounds still raw, the cold had felt like ghostly hands trying to hold her back—skeletal fingers curling around her wrist, a grip whispering that she would never be able to leave, that she would always return to this house as its prisoner, that there was no escape from a fear that had rooted itself far too deep. Now it was only iron. Only metal resisting the warmth of the night. Only an inanimate thing that held no grudges, carried no memories, bore nothing beyond its original function—to open and to close, to grant passage and to seal it shut.
She closed it slowly. Giving herself time to feel every second of this simple act—every hinge turning, every metal surface meeting its frame, every faint vibration traveling from the handle to her palm. To note in her memory that she had come this far. That she had changed. That she was no longer the same woman she had been just a few hours ago—the woman who had curled on the floor, the woman who had wept at Liora's doorstep, the woman who had nearly surrendered to the temptation to stop fighting. No more shadows disturbed her. No more laughter mocked her. No voice called her name from the darkness—in a tone too familiar, too intimate, too knowing of exactly where her fears lay and precisely how to wake them from their slumber. All of it had vanished, or at least retreated to a distance far enough for her to breathe without feeling strangled.
Only the night. Only the moon hanging in the sky—the same moon that in her mind had once seemed like a giant eye watching her without blinking, making her feel observed even within her own home—transforming its once-soothing light into the glare of a cosmic interrogation. Now the moon had returned to being the moon it was always meant to be. A pale stone sphere faithfully orbiting. A silent witness to all that had happened—tears fallen on the bathroom floor, prayers lifted on empty streets, Helel's laughter echoing between the walls of what was once the safest place in the world. A silent witness to all that was yet to come—the steps she would take, the path she would choose, the small battles still awaiting her ahead.
She stood still for a moment before the now-closed gate. Her hand still rested on the iron handle—not because she feared letting go, but because she wanted to remember. To remember how it felt to hold something cold that held no terror. To remember how it felt to stand here, at the threshold of her own home, and feel no urge to flee.
Then she let go...
Her fingers lifted from the iron handle one by one—pinky, ring finger, middle finger, index, and at last the thumb. Like releasing something that had held her captive all this time. Like bidding farewell to the version of herself she used to be—fearful, trembling, and nearly drowned.
It is finished...
I am done with all of that.
The Elysian night opened its path before her—welcoming her with a silence no longer suffocating, but filled with quiet understanding. As if the night itself knew: this woman had walked through hell. She had fallen, she had wept, she had nearly surrendered. Yet she rose again. She lit every lamp in her house. She put on her jacket with steady hands. She closed the door with calm resolve. And now she stood here—no longer a prisoner, no longer a victim.
She stood here as someone who had found her courage once more.