It had been three days since the incident.
Three quiet, unbroken days.
No dreams.
No blood.
No whispering voices from nowhere.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Macon woke up and the world stayed still.
The morning sunlight pooled across his sheets, warm and steady, and the faint smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen. He sat up slowly, half-expecting the dizziness, the rush of sound in his head, the phantom pain in his chest — but none came. Only silence. The kind that almost felt like mercy.
Down the hallway, Vivian's voice floated in, soft and casual. "Breakfast's ready!"
Her tone had changed — lighter, teasing again, almost normal.
He got up, stretched, and followed it.
The kitchen glowed with morning light. Vivian was already at the counter, hair tied up in a messy bun, humming under her breath as she flipped eggs in the pan. The radio murmured a song in the background.
She looked up when he entered. "Oh, look who's human again."
Macon chuckled. "I've always been human."
"Mm-hmm. Says the guy who fainted, bled all over the floor, and woke up spotless like Jesus on a Tuesday."
He groaned. "You're never letting that go, are you?"
"Never." She smiled — a real smile this time — and slid a plate toward him. "Eat before you die of guilt."
The smell of eggs and toast hit him, and he realized how long it had been since anything had tasted good. He sat down, took a bite, and for once, the world didn't tilt beneath him.
Vivian joined him at the table, stirring her coffee absentmindedly. "You really do look better," she said. "No nightmares?"
"None."
"No weird flashes, or light glowing out of your chest?"
He gave her a look. "Viv."
She raised her hands. "Just checking."
"I'm fine," he said — and this time, it didn't sound like a lie.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was comfortable. She smiled softly and sipped her coffee, and Macon leaned back in his chair, breathing in the quiet.
For the first time, he let himself believe it. Maybe whatever curse or madness had touched him had finally burned out.
Maybe this was peace.
---
The day was bright and gold when Macon stepped onto campus again.
Students hurried past him, laughing, their voices echoing through the courtyard. The world felt alive — almost too alive — after days of stillness.
He found himself slowing down just to take it in. The smell of wet grass. The sound of sneakers squeaking against the tiles. Even the chaos of chatter and footsteps felt grounding. He'd missed this.
"Hey! Look who decided to stop ghosting the living!"
He turned.
Rina stood a few steps away, clutching her ever-present sketchbook, pencil behind her ear, and that same lopsided smile on her face.
He blinked, surprised. "Rina."
"You disappeared for a week," she said, mock-offended. "Was it an alien abduction? Secret mission? Tragic romance?"
"Just… wasn't feeling well."
"Right." Her expression softened, all teasing gone. "You okay now?"
"Yeah," he said, smiling faintly. "I think I am."
She eyed him critically. "You look less haunted. Ten points for effort."
He laughed. "I'll take it."
"Sit," she said suddenly, pointing at the bench beneath the oak tree. "Let me draw you. My art prof keeps complaining that I only draw sad people. You'll be my redemption arc."
He hesitated, then sat. "You're assuming I'm not sad."
"Oh, you are. But at least now you're sad and alive."
Her pencil started moving. The sound of graphite scratching paper filled the quiet space between them.
"Hold still," she murmured. "You move like someone who's trying to remember what peace feels like."
He looked at her, startled. "That's… accurate."
"I know." Her smile was soft. "I draw people, remember?"
When she finished, she turned the sketchbook toward him. It wasn't perfect — his expression was a little distant, his smile small — but it looked real. Human.
"See?" she said, tapping the paper. "You look human again."
Macon stared at it for a moment, then nodded. "Thanks, Rina."
"Anytime." She grinned, then closed her sketchbook. "Just don't vanish again. I don't want to draw your tombstone next."
---
By the time he got home, clouds had rolled in, heavy and gray. The smell of rain lingered in the air. Vivian was at the dining table, laptop open, the faint glow of the screen reflecting off her face.
"You survived the outside world," she said without looking up.
"Barely." He sat across from her. "But it felt good. Rina made me sit for a sketch."
"Oh?" She smirked. "So that's her name now."
He rolled his eyes. "It's not like that."
Vivian chuckled, then her tone softened. "I'm glad, Macon. I really am. You seem lighter."
He met her gaze. "I feel lighter."
For a moment, the room fell quiet except for the patter of rain starting against the window. Vivian hesitated, then said softly, "About that night… I shouldn't have yelled. I was scared. I thought you were—" she stopped herself, swallowing. "I thought I was losing you."
His expression gentled. "You didn't. I'm still here."
"I know. But I also know you're hiding something. You always do." She smiled faintly. "I guess that's just who you are."
He exhaled. "Maybe. But right now, I just want normal."
Her eyes softened. "Then take it. Live it, even if it's borrowed."
He nodded, and they ate together — quiet, easy, like the world wasn't about to break again.
When dinner was done, he stood by the window, watching rain trail down the glass. The streetlights blurred behind it, soft halos in the dark.
Maybe the dreams really is gone, he thought.
Maybe it had all just been a storm that finally passed.
He smiled to himself — small, tired, but peaceful.
It felt good to believe.
---
The house was quiet.
Macon lay in bed, listening to the steady rhythm of rain and the faint ticking of the clock on his desk. His eyelids grew heavy, his breathing slow.
Sleep came softly this time. No pain. No voices. Just darkness.
Then — something shifted.
A smell, faint and sharp: metal and smoke. The air around him thickened, growing heavy and warm. His hand twitched against the sheets.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling blurred. His room shimmered like a reflection on disturbed water. The sound of rain faded, replaced by something else — a deep, resonant echo that trembled through his bones.
A horn.
Distant. Ancient. Calling.
Macon sat up sharply. "No…" His chest began to burn, right where the scar had been before. "Not again."
The light beneath his skin pulsed faintly, and the world began to tear.
The fan above him stretched into shadow. The floor tilted. He reached out, gripping the edge of his bed — but it wasn't solid anymore. It was dissolving, bleeding into smoke and flame.
"Stop!" he shouted, but his voice cracked. "I'm done with this! I'm—"
The pull came
anyway.
Fierce. Relentless.
He felt himself fall — not through space, but through time. Through memory. Through the echo of something older than his body.
Then, silence.