Episode four
1158 Words
The shrill beeping of the alarm clock sliced through the silence. 6:00 AM.
Raymond exhaled, rubbing his temples before switching it off. He hadn’t slept. Again. Hours had passed in restless tossing, his mind a storm of thoughts circling the same three things.
Mia.
The red thread.
The painting.
His fingers twitched against the sheets, reaching for answers that refused to come.
Dragging himself to the bathroom, he turned on the shower, letting the hot water pound against his skin. It did little to clear his head. The steam curled around him, thick and suffocating, as his mind replayed the same relentless questions.
“Why did she have it?”
“How did she get it?”
It had to be a coincidence. It had to be.
By the time he stepped out of the shower, the morning air had lost its chill, but the unease inside him remained.
He dressed quickly, the routine automatic—white dress shirt, black tie, dark gray suit. Yet every movement felt heavier than usual, like the weight of something unseen clung to him.
As he entered the sitting room, the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. His nanny—Margaret—stood by the dining table, setting down a plate of toast and eggs.
She had raised him for as long as he could remember, stepping in where no one else had. And like always, she noticed the moment something was off.
“You look like you haven’t slept, Young Master.” Her tone was gentle, but there was no missing the concern in her eyes.
Raymond didn’t bother denying it. “I was working late.”
Margaret huffed. “Work, work, work. It’s always that. One day you’re going to collapse, and then what?”
He sighed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” She wiped her hands on her apron and gestured toward the chair. “Sit. Eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Margaret asked. “At least drink your coffee.”
“I’ll take juice instead.”
“Fruit juice?” She raised a brow. “Since when do you—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “Never mind. I won’t argue with you this morning.”
Raymond allowed himself a small smirk. “That’s a first.”
Margaret muttered something under her breath but poured him a glass of juice anyway. He took a sip, barely tasting it, his thoughts already elsewhere.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” she continued, studying him carefully. “Something on your mind?”
Raymond hesitated. Margaret was perceptive, always had been. But this… this wasn’t something he could explain.
“Nothing important.”
Margaret didn’t believe him, but she let it go. “Well, whatever it is, don’t let it consume you.”
He nodded but remained silent.
” It’s already too late for that.”
The black sedan glided smoothly through the streets, the morning cityscape a blur beyond the tinted windows. Raymond sat in the backseat, his posture relaxed but his mind far from it.
He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small, well-folded piece of paper. It was nearly wrinkle-free, a sign of how carefully he had kept it over the years.
Unfolding it, he let his gaze settle on the drawing.
A faceless woman.
Her features were missing, but her physique, the curve of her shoulders, the length of her hair—those details were sharp. And around her wrist, a thin red thread trailed out of the frame, as if connecting to something—or someone—beyond the page.
For two years, she had appeared in his dreams. Always the same.
It would start beautifully—laughter, warmth, a feeling he could never quite name. They would talk, play, share moments that felt… real. But then, it would always take a turn.
Tragedy.
Pain.
Death.
Every time he woke, his chest ached, as if mourning something he couldn’t even remember.
He had tried to make sense of it—tried to figure out who she was, why the dreams felt so vivid. But no matter how much he searched, no answers came.
Until now.
The red thread.
The same one from his dreams.
And Mia had it.
He pressed his thumb against the drawing, staring at the faceless figure.
Was she the one?
Or was it just a meaningless coincidence?
The thought unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain.
His driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “Sir, we’re almost at the office.”
Raymond nodded, folding the paper neatly and slipping it back into his pocket. He didn’t want to think about it anymore.
The moment Raymond stepped into the building, all conversations seemed to halt for a brief second.
Employees straightened their backs, voices hushed into murmurs as he passed.
“Good morning, sir,” they greeted, offering small bows or polite nods.
Raymond barely acknowledged them, his mind too cluttered to care. He made his way straight to his office, shutting the door behind him with a sigh.
Finally, Silence.
He sank into his chair, rolling his shoulders as he exhaled slowly.
Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe Mia’s thread was nothing. Just some cheap piece of yarn she picked up somewhere.
His fingers tapped idly against the desk as he tried—tried—to push it all aside.
A knock at the door.
He blinked.
“Mia,” came the familiar voice. “I have your breakfast.”
Raymond stiffened.
A second later, the door opened and in came . Mia—as she set the bag down on his desk. “I got you your usual.”
Raymond barely heard her.
His eyes locked onto her wrist.
For a moment, he thought he saw it—the thin red thread.
It was impossible. It had to be his imagination.
But suddenly, his body moved on its own.
He stood.
Mia’s smile faltered. “Uh… sir?”
He didn’t answer. He was already walking toward her.
Mia took a step back.
Then another.
Her breath hitched as she realized he wasn’t stopping.
“Sir?” she tried again, voice unsure.
She kept moving back, but he kept approaching—his gaze focused, unreadable.
Her back hit the wall.
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest. “What are you doing?”
Raymond didn’t speak. He leaned in, his eyes scanning every detail of her face.
Mia’s breath caught.
She could feel his warmth, his presence so close it was suffocating. His gaze was piercing, intense, as if searching—for something, for answers, for confirmation.
Oblivious to how wrong their position was, Raymond reached out. His fingers ghosted over her wrist, the place where—**in his dreams, in the drawing, in everything—**that thread had always been.
Mia’s entire body tensed.
She couldn’t move.
She couldn’t breathe.
- Writer
