1. Into the Amber Morning
The cold was brutal enough to sting Sophia's eyes as soon as she stepped outside, but fear still beat louder than the weather. The back door slammed behind them, and Ilie locked it quickly, his hands shaking only slightly. Lupin stayed close at Sophia's heels, hackles raised, eyes fixed on something behind the house—as if he could feel the presence pressing in on the walls even if it could not be seen.
"Move," Ilie whispered.
Sophia didn't need convincing. They moved down the narrow path behind his property, one carved through yards and half-fallen fences, leading toward the southern end of the village. The sky was pale, caught between night and sunrise—the kind of fragile morning that felt like it could collapse back into darkness at any moment.
"What if it follows?" she asked, her breath visible in harsh bursts.
"You don't look back," Ilie said sharply. "Don't acknowledge it. Don't recognize its shape. If it thinks you recognize it, it gets bolder."
Sophia swallowed a frightened breath. "I didn't recognize anything. I only heard—"
"That's why you're still alive," Ilie said.
They hurried across a narrow bridge where a frozen creek ran underneath, the water trapped mid-ripple. On the other side, the houses grew older, more spread out, with roofs that sagged under the weight of morning frost. Smoke rose from chimneys, but no one was outside. No one even peeked through a curtain as they passed.
It was as if the town collectively agreed that dawn was still too dangerous a time to be awake.
Sophia gripped her coat tightly and whispered, "Does everyone know about The Caller?"
Ilie hesitated. "They know enough."
"That's not an answer."
He glanced at her. "They know what to avoid. They know the warnings. They know the dead."
A chill laced her spine. "And they don't help newcomers?"
"Helping too much kills people too," he said simply. "If we tell you every detail, you'll start imagining things. When people imagine things, they make mistakes. Mistakes get you taken."
Sophia's steps faltered. "But you're helping me."
"I'm the one who found Florin," he said quietly. "I swore I wouldn't find another."
That silenced her.
For a few minutes, all she heard was the crunch of snow and the faint whistle of wind. Her mind drifted back to last night—to the knock, to the voice, to the unnatural way it had twisted her mother's tone like a puppet on strings.
"Ilie," she whispered, "if The Caller mimics what you want most… what does that say about me?"
He slowed. His boots sank deep into the snow as he turned to face her fully.
"It says you're grieving," he said softly. "And grief is a door. The Caller knows how to open doors."
Sophia's throat tightened. She blinked rapidly, refusing to cry in this freezing morning light.
Then Lupin growled—deep, sudden, a warning.
Ilie's head snapped toward the woods bordering the path. Shadows trembled between the trees.
"Keep walking," he said quickly. "Don't react."
Sophia forced herself to move, focusing on the footprints ahead and not the shapes shifting behind the tree trunks.
She tried not to hear the faint whisper riding the wind.
"Sooophiaaa…"
Not her mother's voice this time.
But childish.Laughing.Cruel.
She clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt.
When they finally passed the last row of houses, Ilie pointed to a narrow trail leading uphill.
"Mirela lives at the edge of the cliffs," he said. "We reach her by midday if we keep pace."
"And if The Caller follows?"
Ilie glanced behind them. The shadows in the forest shifted again, but he pretended not to see.
"It won't step into full daylight," he said. "Usually."
"Usually?!"
He didn't answer.
They walked faster.
2. The Path of Forgotten Names
The trail narrowed as it climbed uphill, winding between clusters of leafless birch trees and jagged boulders poking through snow like old bones. Sophia's breath grew shallow from the steady incline. Lupin padded ahead, occasionally stopping to sniff the air, curiously silent now. Ilie followed a few steps behind, watchful.
The higher they climbed, the thinner the trees became, revealing wider stretches of sky tinted orange by the slow-rising sun. But the forest below them still looked unnervingly dark. The line where the sunlight reached and where it failed to touch was shockingly sharp—like a threshold the shadows refused to cross.
At one point, Sophia stopped and stared. "The trees… they look burnt."
Ilie nodded solemnly. "They were. A long time ago."
"What happened?"
He pointed toward a dead pine, its trunk twisted in a way that seemed unnaturally deliberate. "People tried to drive it out."
"It?"
"The Caller."
Sophia stared. "Fire didn't stop it?"
"Nothing stops it," Ilie said. "But the fire stopped us. Killed three villagers. The Caller watched from the treeline the whole time."
Sophia felt cold sweat mix with the winter frost on her forehead.
"You saw it?" she whispered.
Ilie didn't answer right away.
Then: "Enough."
They kept walking.
The landscape grew harsher. Rocks jutted out of the ground like crooked teeth. A fallen tree blocked part of the trail, and Ilie had to help her climb over. The air thinned. The wind sharpened.
And then Sophia noticed something.
Carvings.
Dozens of them.
Symbols etched deep into trunks, branches, stone surfaces—spirals, crooked lines, shapes that hurt her eyes the longer she looked at them.
"What are these?" she asked.
"Wardings," Ilie said. "Older than the village. Maybe older than the forest."
"They protect us?"
"No." He exhaled. "They remind it of boundaries."
"How can something like that understand boundaries?"
"It understands hunger," he said. "And rules about hunger."
Sophia shivered. Something about the symbols made her feel exposed, as if every carved spiral watched her pass with quiet judgment.
They walked another hour before the trees thinned completely, revealing the crest of a cliff overlooking a wide valley. Snow stretched far below them in shimmering fields cut by thin rivers and dark forest patches.
And on a small plateau near the edge stood a crooked wooden house.
Smoke curled from its chimney. Wind rattled dozens of strange charms hanging from the eaves—twisted roots, metal rings, tiny glass bottles filled with red soil, feathers tied with black twine.
"Mirela's house," Ilie said.
Sophia felt a chill crawl up her spine. "This looks… welcoming."
"That's because you're looking at it," Ilie said. "It doesn't feel welcoming when you're inside."
Comforting.
They approached the house. Lupin whined softly, tail low.
Ilie knocked on the weathered wooden door.
At first, nothing.
Then footsteps. Slow. Shuffling. Like someone dragging more than just their own weight.
The door creaked open.
An old woman with long white hair and pale green eyes stared out at them. Her skin was cracked like parchment, her thin frame wrapped in layers of wool and leather. She held a staff twisted from a gnarled root and smelled faintly of smoke and sage.
Her gaze drifted over Ilie… then to Sophia.
She froze.
Her eyes sharpened like knives.
"You brought her here," she rasped to Ilie. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Ilie said. "She needs to talk to you."
Mirela leaned forward slowly, inspecting Sophia's face with unsettling interest. She reached out and cupped Sophia's chin with long, cold fingers.
"You heard it."
Sophia swallowed. "Yes."
"You saw its shadow."
"Yes."
"You dreamed its shape."
"Yes."
Mirela's eyes widened.
"You should have come sooner," she whispered.
Sophia's heart pounded. "Why?"
Mirela stepped aside, opening the door wider.
"Because now it knows your mind."
3. The House of Veils
Inside, the cottage was warm — overly warm, almost suffocating. A fire burned fiercely in a stone hearth, sending sparks spiraling upward into a blackened chimney. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling, their dried leaves rustling like paper. Every surface was cluttered: jars of soil, bones, dried mushrooms, candles stuck into melted wax clusters, old books with cracked spines.
Sophia tried not to stare at a glass jar containing what looked disturbingly like a human tooth.
Mirela shuffled to the hearth and stirred the fire with her staff. "Sit."
Sophia obeyed. Ilie stood near the door, tense, hand resting subtly on the knife at his belt. Lupin lay down but did not relax—his ears twitched constantly.
Mirela turned to Sophia. "Tell me everything."
Sophia recounted the sounds, the voice at her window, the dream, the tapping that came even at dawn. Mirela listened without blinking.
When Sophia finished, the old woman closed her eyes and whispered something in a language Sophia didn't recognize.
Then she opened them again.
"You are marked."
Sophia's breath hitched. "Ilie said the same thing. What does that mean?"
Mirela leaned closer. "It means The Caller has chosen you."
"For what?"
She smiled a thin, chilling smile. "For attention. For curiosity. For hunger."
Sophia shook her head, anger flaring through the fear. "No. I didn't do anything. I didn't call it. I didn't invite it. Why me?"
Mirela tapped her staff on the floor. "Because The Caller hears emotions the way wolves smell blood. And you, child… you bleed grief."
Sophia felt like someone had punched the air out of her lungs.
Mirela continued. "It sensed a wound in you and followed it."
Sophia choked back a sob. "So what now? How do I get rid of it?"
"You don't."
The room went silent.
Then Mirela leaned even closer.
"But you can bargain with it."
4. The Rules of the Caller
Sophia stared. "Bargain? With a monster?"
Mirela shook her head. "The Caller is not a monster. Monsters are simple. Predictable. The Caller is old. Intelligent. Bound by rules older than this land."
"Rules?" Sophia echoed.
"Yes." Mirela held up three fingers. "There are three."
Sophia and Ilie listened in absolute stillness.
"First rule," Mirela said. "It can only mimic voices it has heard in your thoughts. Not real sounds — only memories. The stronger the emotion tied to the voice, the better the imitation."
Sophia felt cold. "So when it sounded like my mother—"
"You were thinking of her," Mirela finished. "Dreaming of her. Missing her."
Sophia looked away, ashamed.
"Second rule," Mirela continued. "It must be invited to cross a threshold. A door, a window, a human fear… it needs one open."
Sophia shivered. "I never invited it."
"No," Mirela agreed. "But it tricks those it chooses. Pretends to be a loved one. A lost child. A dying friend. Until you open the door willingly."
Ilie muttered, "Florin didn't know that rule."
Mirela ignored him.
"And the third rule," she said, voice low. "It cannot be seen fully unless it wishes to be seen. When it reveals itself—truly reveals itself—someone dies."
Sophia felt her blood turn to ice.
"So why me?" she whispered. "What does it want?"
Mirela tapped her staff again. "What do you want, Sophia?"
"I don't— I want to be safe. I want this to stop."
"No," Mirela said sharply. "Underneath the fear. What do you want most?"
Sophia opened her mouth.
Closed it.
A wave of shame and longing washed over her chest.
Finally, she whispered, "My mother."
Mirela nodded. "And that is why it came."
Sophia's eyes stung. "What does it want me to do?"
"Follow," Mirela said. "It wants you to leave the safety of houses, lanterns, fire. It wants to have you alone. It wants to feed on what you feel."
Sophia's voice broke. "Then what choice do I have? How do I stop it?"
Mirela studied her closely. Then she walked to a drawer and pulled out a small wooden box carved with symbols similar to those in the forest. She placed it in Sophia's hands.
"Inside is a charm," she said. "It will keep The Caller at bay for three nights. No more."
"Three nights? That's it?"
Mirela nodded. "Enough time to understand what it wants. Enough time to learn the fourth rule."
"Fourth?"
Ilie frowned. "I thought there were only three."
Mirela's smile was thin.
"There is a fourth rule. One nobody speaks of. One only a chosen target understands."
Sophia felt a trembling dread. "What is it?"
Mirela leaned close, her breath warm and unsettling on Sophia's ear.
"You will learn it when it shows you its true voice."
Sophia swallowed. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Mirela said, stepping back, "that The Caller does not only mimic the living."
She paused long enough for the words to sink deep.
"It also mimics the dead."
Sophia's breath stuttered.
Her heart twisted painfully.
Her lips trembled.
"My mother is dead."
"Yes," Mirela whispered, eyes gleaming. "And that is exactly why it chose her voice."
5. The Tremor Under the Floorboards
Before Sophia could respond, something in the cottage groaned.
Not the wood.Not the wind.
Something beneath the floorboards.
Lupin shot to his feet, growling loudly.
Ilie grabbed his knife.
Mirela's expression hardened. "It followed you."
Sophia stood, panic rising. "It can't come in, right? The charms—"
"The charms are for the walls," Mirela said, gripping her staff. "Not the ground."
A crack sounded under Sophia's feet.
The floorboards trembled lightly — as if something huge and slow were dragging itself along the underside of the cottage.
Then a whisper seeped through the cracks.
"Sophiaaa…"
Her mother's voice.
Her REAL mother's voice.
Soft.Warm.Loving.
"Sophia, sweetheart… are you there?"
Sophia's breath shattered.
"No," Ilie growled. "Don't listen."
Sophia clapped her hands over her ears, but the voice wasn't in the room—it was inside her head.
"Sophia, please… don't leave me out here…"
Her legs went weak.
It was too perfect. Too tender. Too painfully familiar.
"Mom…" she whispered before she could stop herself.
Ilie grabbed her shoulders. "That isn't her."
The floor CRACKED loudly.
A long, pale hand burst through the wood—fingers too many, too long—gripping the air as if searching for something to pull upward.
Sophia screamed. Mirela lunged forward, slamming her staff onto the floor. A burst of white light erupted from its tip, and the hand recoiled with a shriek that rattled the walls.
Then silence.
Sophia collapsed into Ilie's arms.
"What was that?!" she gasped.
Mirela straightened slowly, breath heavy. "It was hungry."
Ilie turned on her. "We need to get her out of here."
Mirela nodded. "Take her to the cliffs. Now."
"The cliffs?" Sophia croaked.
Mirela's eyes bore into hers.
"To see the truth."
"The truth about what?"
Mirela opened the door and pointed toward the snowy path.
"The truth," she said, "about why The Caller wants you."
6. The Path of Answers
They hurried out of the house, the door slamming behind them. The wind hit Sophia like a slap. She clutched the wooden box to her chest, heart still hammering from the creature's hand clawing through the floor.
Ilie walked beside her, his jaw tight, his knife drawn. Mirela followed behind, staff tapping rhythmically against the snow.
"Why the cliffs?" Sophia gasped.
"Because," Mirela said, "that is where your mother died."
Sophia stumbled. Her voice cracked. "No she didn't. She died in a hospital. I was there. I—"
Mirela stopped. Turned to her. Spoke softly.
"She didn't die in a hospital."
Sophia's world stopped.
"What… did you say?"
Mirela's eyes glinted with a painful truth. "You were told a story. But it was not the truth."
Sophia's chest tightened painfully. "Why would anyone lie about that?"
Before Mirela could answer, the wind howled sharply, carrying with it a voice so cold and powerful Sophia felt her bones vibrate.
"Sophiaaaa…"
Not her mother's voice.
This one was deeper.Full.Complete.Like a chorus of thousands speaking in unison.
Mirela's face went pale. "Hurry."
Sophia felt her heart battering against her ribs.
"Whose voice is that?" she whispered.
Mirela didn't look back.
"That," she said, "is its true voice."
Ilie grabbed Sophia's hand and pulled her forward.
"Move," he commanded. "Before it decides to follow."
Sophia stumbled after him, snow soaking her boots, tears blurring her vision.
Behind them, the forest groaned.
And The Caller spoke again.
"Sophia… come home."
Sophia screamed and ran.
And the cliffs waited.