Slipping back into the quiet cottage just as the first hints of true dawn painted the eastern sky in hues of soft vender and rose, Myra was relieved to find her grandmother still soundly asleep. She moved with the practiced silence of someone who knew every creak and groan of the old house, her bare feet padding softly on the wooden floor, shedding her rain-soaked cloak and mud-caked boots by the door before tiptoeing to her own small bed, the chill of the night still clinging to her skin.
Myra paused before succumbing to her own exhaustion, her gaze drawn to her right forearm, where a persistent throb served as a stark reminder of her desperate act. The throbbing ache was a persistent reminder of her desperate act. With a sigh, she carefully examined the wound in the dim light filtering through the window. It was a jagged bite mark, still bleeding sluggishly. Grandma can't see this, she told herself firmly. Knowing she couldn't risk her grandmother seeing it, Myra quietly retrieved a clean linen cloth and some simple herbs from the small wooden chest at the foot of her bed. With practiced movements, she gently cleansed the wound, applying a poultice of herbs known for their healing properties before wrapping the forearm tightly with the linen, concealing the evidence of her perilous night.
Exhaustion cimed her almost instantly, her weary limbs sinking into the mattress, but even in her sleep, fragments of the night’s terrifying events flickered through her dreams like half-forgotten nightmares. The cold touch of Freya’s skin, like smooth, lifeless marble, the glint of her fangs, the crushing weight of her unconscious form as Myra had desperately tried to move her – they were vivid images that would likely linger in the corners of her mind for some time.
Awakening before her grandmother stirred, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the small window, Myra felt a dull ache in her right arm, a faint stiffness that spoke of the unusual strain. She rose quietly, wincing slightly as she moved her injured limb, and busied herself in the small kitchen, the familiar rhythm of preparing breakfast – the clinking of dishes, the scent of heating milk, the comforting aroma of brewing herbs – a small anchor of normalcy in the unsettling aftermath of the tumultuous night. She tried to project an air of normalcy, humming a tuneless melody as she worked, hoping to mask the turmoil that still churned within her, a knot of anxiety and unresolved fear.
When her grandmother finally awoke, a soft rustling of the bedclothes preceding her gentle cough, her eyes, though still a little weak and clouded with sleep, held a knowing glint as they settled on Myra, a perceptive gaze that missed little. “Did you see Freya, dear?” she asked gently, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity and perhaps a touch of underlying concern that Myra couldn't quite ignore.
Myra offered a small, hopefully reassuring smile, perhaps a little too bright, a touch forced. “Yes, Grandma, I did. And… thank you for letting me go.” She busied herself with pouring tea into delicate china cups, the steam rising in gentle swirls, avoiding her grandmother’s direct gaze, her fingers fiddling nervously with the teapot handle.
Her grandmother, however, was far too perceptive, her years lending her an uncanny ability to read Myra's unspoken emotions. She noticed the way Myra kept her right arm tucked close to her body, almost protectively, concealed beneath the folds of her long dress sleeve. “Myra,” she said, her tone sharpening ever so slightly, a note of gentle but firm inquiry entering her voice, “why are you holding your arm like that? Did you get hurt during the storm st night?”
A nervous ugh, a little too high-pitched, escaped Myra. “Oh, it’s nothing, Grandma. Just a little… scratch. I was a bit clumsy in the dark, that’s all.” She deliberately kept her expnation vague and dismissive, hoping to deter any further probing questions that she wasn't ready to answer. She shifted her position slightly at the kitchen table, subtly trying to keep her injured arm out of her grandmother’s direct line of sight.
“Are you sure, child?” her grandmother pressed gently but persistently, her brow furrowed with genuine concern, her aged eyes filled with a love that worried over Myra’s well-being. She reached out a frail hand across the small wooden table as if to touch Myra’s concealed arm, a gesture of comfort and inquiry.
“Yes, really, Grandma,” Myra insisted quickly, gently but firmly moving her arm away, a subtle flinch betraying her discomfort. “It’s just a little thing, truly. How are you feeling this morning? Much better, I hope? Did you sleep well despite the storm?” She steered the conversation back to her grandmother’s health, a topic that always held her unwavering attention and served as a reliable distraction.
“Yes, I am feeling stronger, thank you, dear,” her grandmother replied, her gaze still lingering on Myra with a hint of suspicion and a knowing sadness that Myra tried not to meet. But she didn’t press the matter further, perhaps sensing Myra’s deep reluctance to talk about whatever had transpired during the storm-swept night.
Myra breathed a silent sigh of relief, a weight lifting slightly from her shoulders. Maintaining this carefully constructed facade was already proving to be exhausting, a constant effort to suppress her worry and the lingering images of Freya’s still form, but she knew she couldn’t burden her frail grandmother with the complicated and potentially terrifying truth, not yet, not until she understood it herself. All morning, she forced a smile, a mask of normalcy that felt increasingly heavy and strained.
Myra knew she couldn’t stay cooped up within the familiar walls, the gnawing need to see Freya again, to ensure with her own eyes that she was truly alright and not still lying cold and unresponsive on that mountaintop, became a burning ache in her heart, an insistent whisper that drowned out all other thoughts. “Grandma,” she said, rising somewhat abruptly from the table, her chair scraping slightly against the wooden floor, “I need to go out for a little while. I won’t be long.”
Her grandmother looked at her, a knowing sadness, tinged with a wisdom that saw more than Myra perhaps realized, in her gentle eyes. “Be careful, Myra,” she said softly, her voice carrying a weight of unspoken concern. “And don’t worry about me, child. I’ll be quite alright here with my book. Just… be careful out there.” Myra nodded, meeting her grandmother’s gaze with a silent promise she wasn't entirely sure she could keep, before slipping out of the cottage and into the cool, crisp morning air, her thoughts already racing back with frantic urgency towards the antique shop.
Myra offered her grandmother another bright, albeit slightly strained and hurried, smile. “Thank you again, Grandma,” she said, her voice pitched a little too high with nervous energy. With a final, reassuring nod that she hoped looked convincing, she turned and slipped out the cottage door, the forced smile holding precariously until the wooden tch clicked softly and decisively behind her, severing the connection to the carefully maintained pretense.
The moment she was out of sight of the cottage windows, the carefully constructed facade crumbled, her shoulders slumping with the release of tension. The anxiety and longing for Freya, which had been simmering beneath the surface of her forced composure, erupted with a renewed and almost painful intensity. Myra broke into a run, her feet pounding on the familiar dirt path that led towards the vilge, her cloak billowing out behind her like dark wings, propelled by a desperate need to know. The need to see Freya, to know with absolute certainty that she was truly safe and recovering, and to understand what had happened on that storm-ravaged mountain, propelled her forward with a speed born of pure, fear and love.
From the small cottage window, her grandmother watched Myra’s retreating figure, her gaze following the swift, anxious movements until she disappeared from view behind the hedgerow. The unnatural swiftness of her departure, the frantic energy in her stride that belied her casual expnation, didn’t quite align with the simple errand she had described. A thoughtful frown, etched with a growing unease, creased her aged brow. Myra clearly holds a deep affection for this Freya, the old woman mused. But is that the whole of it? Does she hide something beneath her careful words?
A seed of unease, small but persistent, took firm root in the old woman’s heart. Myra’s uncharacteristic secrecy about her injured arm, the palpable anxiety that had clung to her despite her cheerful pretense and forced smiles… it all suggested a deeper, perhaps more complicated and potentially even dangerous truth that her granddaughter was shielding her from.
The enigmatic name Freya was now intertwined in her mind with a sense of profound mystery and a disquieting hint of something potentially perilous lurking just beneath the surface of their quiet vilge life. Her grandmother sighed softly, a worried frown deepening the fine lines on her face as she continued to watch the empty path where Myra had so hurriedly disappeared, a chilling suspicion and worry took root in her heart, heavy and unyielding as stone.
