Scene 1 - Arrival

  Part 0 - The Prelude

  She ran. That was all she could do. He was dead. She knew it. She’d felt it. But in that instant, she had to let it go. They were coming for her. Those she also knew. Friends, now turned enemies.

  They knew where she was. Of course they did. They’d been in contact only a few minutes before, she’d told them, and they were on their way. Job done. But that scream. The shout for help. The feeling of life ceasing. Particularly of someone so familiar.

  And the sight. She’d seen it. Other side of the waterway. It all felt so surreal. It felt unreal, in fact. What could she do, but run before the same faces came for her, as they had done already of him.

  Anger. Frustration. Hurt. Betrayal. The reality around her, already tarnished by the war across the galaxy, crumbled. The stability and consistency of what had been, swept from under her feet and now she was falling. As if plunged into an endless void of fear, loss, and tragedy: A depression of sorts; dark, damaged, and afraid.

  And there they were, behind her. Their minds all the same. She turned, seeing their faceless faces, the helmets that hid their sameness with sameness. An irony, she thought, faceless murderers.

  One question played on her mind for the briefest of microseconds, Why?

  She reached forward to push them away, but a blue burst of searing pain shocked her, burning her shoulder, shattering her defense, just as easily as her world had been shattered around her. She felt the heat and saw the white flash before darkness succumbed her.

  Am I alive?

  Silly question. Of course I’m alive. I’m talking to myself… Then again, is this what it’s like to be a ghost. I could be a ghost. That would be interesting. Where am I? Is this some kind of ghost waiting room? I can’t see anything. Is this… really what it's like?

  No. It can’t be. I can feel. I’m sure I can feel, if not the Force, then... something. Am I... floating? Wait… Do ghosts even feel? What can I feel?

  Wet.

  What the hell does that mean? C’mon, I can try better than that. What can I feel?

  Very wet.

  Oh, haw haw! Very funny… Let’s try that again. What can I feel?

  Pain.

  What? Ghosts don’t feel p-

  Her eyes snapped open, and she found herself staring up at a dark brown-gray and orange overcast sky, with thousands of tiny needle like droplets of rain pelleting her, and the pain of the wound on her shoulder making her grit her teeth.

  She was lying almost entirely embedded in the slushy sediment of what felt like a soggy sponge, with a vacuum tube pulling at her to keep her where she was. How long have I been here? Better yet, where is here? Her thoughts raced as they attempted to answer questions she had no answers for, seeing only the rain filled sky above.

  She struggled against the suction of the mud, using as much strength as she could muster in her weakened state, freed her left arm and attempting to find purchase in the slimy watery muck, to pull or drag herself free before she drown.

  “I must survive…”

  Part I - The Rain That Fell

  It wasn’t rain. It was something meaner. Finer than needles, sharper than glass. Cold enough to make her ribs flinch with every breath. It soaked through the tears in her sleeve and chased the warmth off her skin with surgical precision. No storm like this happened by accident.

  Her boots squelched through the half-flooded gravel path, soles barely gripping the slick stone beneath. Her shoulder throbbed with every step — old wound, not fresh, but not forgotten either. Just something else she hadn’t taken care of.

  The lights of the estate shimmered behind curtains of weather, all gold and sterile, like a memory that didn’t want her back.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  She stopped at the gate. No buzzer. No code. Just stood there, breathing the taste of ozone and mud, trying to feel anything except the cold.

  The gate clicked open without warning.

  Of course it did.

  They were waiting.

  The walk to the front door felt longer than it should’ve. Her legs were heavy. Her spine wanted to curl in on itself. The urge to turn around pulsed somewhere deep in her chest, but she pushed forward because stopping was worse.

  The front doors opened before she reached them.

  He stood there.

  Older than the last time she’d seen him — if she’d ever seen him at all. Hard to say. The past felt like it belonged to someone else now. His face looked carved from iron, lines deeper than age alone could explain. Uniformity in posture. Stillness in the way predators wait.

  Her uncle.

  She said nothing.

  “You’re late,” he said. Voice like cold stone — not angry, just factual. “We thought you’d come sooner.”

  She didn’t answer. Didn’t explain. She hadn’t spoken aloud in... how long? Long enough to forget how it felt.

  He stepped back. She crossed the threshold.

  The door shut behind her like a lock slamming.

  Warmth rushed over her skin — artificial, quiet, distant. She didn’t deserve it. The air inside smelled like clean wood and neutral money. It made her dizzy.

  “I didn’t know where else to go,” she said. Words rasped out of her throat like they'd been dragged uphill.

  “We expected as much.”

  That was all.

  He turned and walked. No gesture for her to follow, no glance back. Just the sound of his boots on polished floors, a rhythm she hadn’t heard since the war began.

  She followed.

  Her own steps left muddy footprints behind her.

  She didn’t look down.

  Part II - ‘Her’ Room

  He didn’t say anything else. Just turned and climbed the stairs like the house was pulling him away, somewhere she couldn’t follow.

  She followed anyway—not out of trust, but the dull ache of having nowhere else. Her legs moved like they belonged to someone else, each step a reminder of the shoulder wound that throbbed in time with her boots against the polished stone. The mud smeared with every footfall, a trail of her intrusion she couldn’t bring herself to care about.

  The house itself offered no resistance. No creaks, no groans. Just a silent watchfulness that made her skin crawl.

  At the top of the stairs, he turned left, not bothering to see if she was still behind him. Two corridors, a narrow landing, and then he stopped before a door. Pale gold panel, utterly devoid of welcome. No name.

  “This was her room,” he said, voice devoid of inflection, his back still to her.

  The silence that followed felt heavier than any words he could have spoken—a weight of unspoken grief and expectation.

  “Everything’s still in place,” he added, the words clipped. “We never touched it. Not since…”

  He left the rest unfinished, the silence filling the space between them.

  Eria remained frozen, her gaze fixed on the door as if it were a barrier she couldn't bring herself to cross.

  “You’ll sleep here,” he stated, matter-of-factly. “You’ll be her now.”

  She finally looked at him then, truly seeing him for the first time. In the stark light, grief seemed to have etched him deeper, sharpening his features, carving him down until only the bones of the man remained. Or maybe that was just what loss did to people.

  “I’m not her,” she said, her voice a low, flat rasp, unused to shaping such words.

  He gave a single, sharp nod. “You will be.”

  Then he opened the door, the scent spilling out to greet her before she even crossed the threshold. A faint, sweet fragrance, like dried flowers and dust mingled with something cloying beneath—a ghost of a perfume. The air inside was warm, but stale, preserved rather than lived-in.

  Everything within the room was meticulously arranged, frozen in a moment: a bed made for a body that would never lie in it, shelves filled with untouched books, a desk too pristine to have ever been used. Even a dressing stand held a brush, waiting for a hand that would never reach for it again.

  She stepped inside like an intruder in a shrine, her boots silent on the plush carpet. Words felt useless here.

  He didn’t follow.

  “You’ll find clothes in the drawers,” he said from the hallway, his voice flat. “They’ll fit well enough.”

  Her eyes remained fixed on the bed, the centerpiece of this carefully preserved tomb.

  “You’re Elezia now.”

  She offered no response.

  The door clicked shut, the sound echoing in the sudden silence, and just like that, she was alone. A living woman locked in a room built for a ghost.