Chapter 12 – Footsteps in the Rain
1029 Words
The storm had passed, but the sky still wept.
A thin drizzle followed Elias down the cobbled road, turning the dust to mud and the air to silver haze. The village he approached was so small it hardly deserved a name—just a scatter of houses leaning against one another like weary travelers. Moss crawled up their walls, and shutters creaked in the wind, closing one by one as he passed.
He was used to fear. He had worn it like a cloak in every town since the hunt began, but this was different. The silence here wasn’t born of superstition. It was grief. The kind that hung in the air long after the crying stopped.
A woman peered out from behind a curtain. When his eyes met hers, she pulled it closed. A man hammering a board to his door paused, crossed himself, and disappeared inside. Elias sighed.
“Another village haunted by ghosts,” he muttered.
Or perhaps—by one ghost in particular.
He found an inn near the edge of the square, a lopsided building whose sign—The Hollow Willow—swung and groaned in the wind. Inside, the hearth burned low. A heavy-set innkeeper polished a cup that didn’t need polishing and looked up as Elias entered.
“No rooms,” the man said without hesitation.
Elias set a silver coin on the counter. “Even for a traveler caught in the rain?”
The innkeeper hesitated, eyes darting toward the window. “You shouldn’t be out after dusk.”
“Because of her?” Elias asked quietly.
The man’s hand stilled. For a moment, only the sound of dripping water filled the silence.
“They say she walks when it rains,” the innkeeper whispered. “The lady under the willow. Those who see her never sleep the same again.”
Elias smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes. “Then I’ll take my chances.”
The coin disappeared. A key replaced it. “Upstairs. First door on the right.”
The room was small but dry. A single candle burned beside the bed, its flame casting soft shadows against the wooden walls. Elias removed his cloak and set his dagger on the table. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and pine, mingled with something softer—lilies.
He stiffened.
It wasn’t possible. The scent again.
Outside, the rain grew steadier. A child’s laughter drifted faintly from the square below. Curious, Elias looked out through the narrow window. A boy, no older than seven, was skipping through puddles, bare feet splashing. He stopped when he noticed Elias watching, tilting his head with innocent boldness.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Elias called softly.
The boy shrugged. “She likes the rain.”
“Who does?”
“The lady,” the boy said simply, pointing toward the far end of the village. “She stands by the willow. She sings to the water.”
Elias followed the child’s gaze. Beyond the rooftops, through the mist, he could just make out the shape of a great weeping willow. Its long, silver branches trembled under the drizzle.
“Does she speak to you?” Elias asked.
The boy smiled mysteriously. “Only when no one’s watching.” Then, before Elias could respond, the child dashed away, leaving only ripples behind.
Night fell like ink. The rain deepened to a slow, rhythmic patter that lulled the village into uneasy sleep.
But Elias could not rest.
He stood by the window, watching the willow in the distance. Each flash of lightning illuminated it for an instant—then darkness swallowed it again. The hum of rain on the roof sounded almost like a voice, a low melody weaving through the storm.
He grabbed his cloak and stepped outside.
The air was cold and heavy with fog. The streets were deserted, the lamps extinguished. Only the sound of rain guided him toward the far end of the village. As he neared the willow, the world seemed to hold its breath.
There she was.
A figure stood beneath the sprawling branches, veiled in mist and moonlight. Her gown shimmered faintly, the fabric glistening as though woven from rain itself. Long dark hair spilled down her back, glinting silver under the faint glow of the moon. She wasn’t quite solid, yet not entirely shadow either—like something caught between worlds.
Elias froze. Every instinct told him to draw his blade. Every part of his soul told him not to.
“Mira?” he whispered.
The figure turned. Her eyes—pale, distant—met his across the rain-drenched clearing. He could not breathe.
Recognition struck like thunder.
Not the face—he had never seen it—but the feeling. The ache in his chest. The sense that every sorrow he had ever carried belonged to her.
Her lips parted as though to speak. The rain paused midair for a heartbeat.
Then she was gone.
The branches swayed where she had stood, empty now. Only a single petal drifted down, landing at his feet—a lily, impossibly fresh, glowing faintly against the mud.
He knelt, picking it up. The scent was unmistakable.
“Why do you run from me?” he murmured into the rain.
No answer. Only the echo of her song fading through the willow leaves.
He returned to the inn long past midnight, soaked to the bone. The candle in his room had burned low, leaving trails of wax down the table. On it lay something that hadn’t been there before—a damp footprint, small and bare, leading from the window to the foot of his bed. And resting beside it, the lily he had taken from the ground, dry and white as snow.
Elias touched it, trembling. “So you were here.”
The rain outside softened into silence. Somewhere in the distance, the willow sighed.
And though he did not see her again that night, he felt her presence—gentle as a hand upon his heart, cold as the memory of love.
For the first time since the hunt began, Elias did not feel alone.
- Writer
