Things That Burn Quietly
940 Words
Ashveil Hollow had a way of softening the edges of things.
Even unease, even fear, even fire.
By morning, the memory of the dream had already begun to slip. Not the emotion—never that—but the image. Seren couldn’t remember what the man had looked like. She couldn’t remember the sound of his voice, not really. But the weight of it lingered in her chest, curled there like a coal buried beneath ash.
She rose before the sun, boots already caked in dry mud from the well. Maela was still asleep. The fire had gone out in the hearth, and the house was cold. Too cold for early autumn.
Seren pressed her fingers to the necklace again.
Still warm.
The bakery was quiet when she arrived. Rina hadn’t shown up yet, which was strange. Rina was never late. Not for bread. Not for anything. Seren checked the back, the loft, even the small woodshed where the sacks of grain were kept, but found nothing.
She lit the oven herself and kneaded in silence.
Every knock of her fist into the dough felt louder than it should’ve.
The absence of sound made her ears ring.
By the time the first batch rose, Rina stumbled in—wet cloak, hair tangled from wind, eyes dark and wide.
“You went out,” Seren said, frowning.
Rina didn’t answer at first. She set down her basket slowly, then leaned against the counter.
“I had to check something,” she said finally.
“What?”
“There was noise near the glade. Howling. Not wolves.”
Seren stilled.
“What do you mean?”
Rina shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anything, but… the trees were wrong. Too still. And I found claw marks in the dirt, but they weren’t fresh. They looked old. Like something old had come back.”
Seren’s stomach twisted. She thought of the man in her dreams. The heat under her skin. The sudden stillness of birds.
“Did you tell the guards?” she asked.
Rina snorted. “The royal ones? They wouldn’t care unless something was clawing at the palace gates. Besides, they barely speak to us.”
Seren hesitated. “You think it’s related to… everything?”
“I think,” Rina said carefully, “that the Hollow remembers. And it’s remembering something it shouldn’t.”
They worked in silence after that.
But it was a different kind of silence than before.
Not empty. Not peaceful.
Heavy. Like it had teeth.
Later that day, Seren went to the meadow again.
She hadn’t meant to. She told herself she was just walking, clearing her head. But her feet took her back to the twisted yew, to the place where the dreams always ended.
The sky was gray overhead, the wind still and uncertain.
She stood beneath the tree and placed a hand against its bark.
Cold.
Solid.
She didn’t know what she expected.
A vision. A memory. A flicker of the presence again.
But there was nothing.
So she waited.
Minutes passed. Then more.
The wind stirred, carrying the faint scent of smoke. Not woodsmoke. Not the warm kind from hearths or ovens.
Something darker. Older.
Seren looked up.
There—on the edge of the tree line—something moved.
She didn’t see a face. Or a form. Just… motion. The kind that lived in corners. In places you weren’t supposed to look at too long.
But the strange thing was, she wasn’t afraid.
Her pulse was loud. Her skin tingled.
But fear didn’t come.
Instead, she felt something else. Recognition.
Like she’d seen that shape before.
Not here. Not in this life.
Somewhere deeper.
The wind shifted again. The scent vanished.
So did the presence.
And suddenly the clearing was just a clearing again. The tree just a tree.
And Seren was alone.
That night, she finally lit the dream bundle.
She waited until Maela had gone to sleep, until the windows were latched and the shutters drawn. She placed the bundle in the bowl beside her bed and struck the match.
The herbs caught instantly, the silver thread sparking before disappearing into smoke.
The scent filled the room—soft, floral, with an edge of burnt sugar and something like lightning.
She lay back, eyes wide open, and waited.
Sleep crept in quietly, a hand around her throat, not cruel, just firm.
She stood in a hallway of stone.
Not the hall of her dreams. Not the great one filled with fire and gold.
This one was narrow. Cracked. The torches along the walls burned blue.
Ahead, a door.
She didn’t want to open it.
She wanted to run.
But her feet moved anyway.
The handle was warm.
Inside, a room. Empty. Except for a single mark on the wall—etched into the stone, glowing faintly.
The same mark from her pendant.
She stepped closer, breath catching.
Then—
A whisper behind her.
She turned.
He stood there.
Not shadow this time. Not distance.
But still veiled. Still blurred.
Only his eyes were clear.
Dark. Burning. Familiar.
Not like a stranger’s.
Like someone she had known a very long time ago.
“Seren,” he said, voice low and rough, like gravel under flame.
She froze.
He reached out, not to touch—but to offer something.
A memory?
A promise?
She couldn’t tell.
But just before her fingers could meet his—
She woke up.
The smell of smoke still lingered.
The dream bundle had burned to ash.
And when she rose to open the window, her hands were trembling.
Not from fear.
From longing.
- Writer
