The Keeper's Guardian

Chapter 2:Through the Storm

Layla POV

Outside, late afternoon had settled over the city. That soft, muted light just before dusk— everything looked a little faded.

The apartment felt colder now.

Emptier somehow.

The distant hum of the city buzzed against the window—a cruel reminder that the world kept turning, even as mine was falling apart.

I kept telling myself I was strong.

Stubborn.

Fiercely independent.

I’d be fine…

I’d learned how to stand alone.

Been doing it for years.

I should be able to handle this.

I had to.

There was no one left to lean on now.

But in that moment, I felt small.

Like a thread stretched too far, fraying at the seams.

My arms curled tighter around myself, trying to make the space between my ribs feel less hollow.

I was alone.

My parents died when I was a baby—

something no one ever talked much about.

It had always been just me and Gran.

No cousins.

No friends I could call.

Not even a neighbor I knew by name.

She was everything—my whole world.

The only person who had ever felt like home.

And now...

She was gone.

The weight of everything pressed on my ribs, each breath a quiet battle.

For a long moment, I just sat there—numb.

Hollow.

Then something shifted.

I had to go back.

Back to the Drakensberg.

The place that shaped me.

The place I hadn’t seen in years.

Gran always said the mountains would call us home—that when the time was right, they'd bring me back.

Even as a child, I felt their pull.

Gentle. Steady.

Like a hand guiding me.

Like they held something I’d lost—but would return if I just listened closely enough.

I remembered climbing those trails with Gran, her hand steady in mine, her voice weaving stories of ancestors and spirits that lived in the stones.

Her stories drifted into the breeze like prayers.

Then one morning, she handed me an envelope and said I’d been accepted to a boarding school in Johannesburg.

No warning. No conversation. Just a decision made.

She said I needed a future beyond Bergville.

I didn’t question it.

I trusted her.

But eight years later...

All I had were questions.

The kind that come too late.

The kind no one’s left to answer.

Had she regretted it?

The distance between us...

The silence?

Had she missed me the way I missed her?

The weight of everything unsaid pressed harder.

Grief curled tight in my chest like a fist.

The tears didn’t come.

Not yet.

They hovered behind my ribs like a storm that had forgotten how to break.

Maybe I’d spent too long learning how to hold it all in.

Falling apart wouldn’t help—not now.

But my chest was too tight.

My hands wouldn’t stay still.

My throat ached from the effort of holding everything in.

I pressed my palms to my eyes, willing the feelings back down.

There’d be time to fall apart later.

Right now, I had to move. To breathe. To function.

So I did.

I moved through the apartment like a ghost—barefoot, mechanical, detached.

I went to the closet and dragged out my old suitcase from the back.

The zipper stuck like always.

I yanked it free with more force than necessary.

That tiny resistance made my breath hitch—like even the smallest thing was trying to hold me back.

I didn’t let it.

Only one thing mattered now—getting home.

Drawers opened and shut.

A sweater. A toothbrush. Shoes.

None of it mattered—not the clothes, not the toiletries.

But I packed them anyway.

Because doing something—anything—was better than drowning in the stillness.

I sat at the edge of the bed and slipped on my boots—slowly, like the motion might trick my body into believing I was okay.

They were the same pair I’d worn on rainy days and rushed mornings.

The soles worn smooth.

The leather cracked at the edges.

Familiar.

Solid.

The laces trembled in my hands, as I tried them.

Tight.

Secure.

Like it could hold me together.

For a second, I just sat there, breathing.

Then I stood.

And kept going.

My fingers curled around a familiar set of keys.

Cool and solid in my palm—they grounded me.

The car wasn’t much—an old, rusting relic with chipping paint and an engine that groaned like an old man getting out of bed.

But it was mine.

Every scratch, every dent, every stubborn sputter was familiar.

It reminded me of home.

Of simpler times.

Of her.

I stood, gripping the suitcase handle.

It bumped along behind me with a dull rattle as I moved through the apartment one last time.

Switches off.

Door locked.

Each step toward the exit felt like it echoed louder than it should’ve.

The hallway outside was dim—the kind of in-between light that made everything look slightly unreal.

The air hit me—cool, sharp, smelling of wet concrete and smoke from somewhere down the street.

My boots struck the pavement as I crossed to where the car waited beneath a flickering streetlamp.

It looked older than I remembered—slumped like it was tired, too.

I shoved my suitcase into the backseat, wincing as the hinges squealed.

As I slid into the driver’s seat, just as a gust slammed the door shut behind me.

I sat there for a long moment, fingers hovering over the ignition.

Frozen.

The storm pushed against the windows.

City lights bled through the rain—streaking into gold and crimson smears.

I drew a deep breath and turned the key.

The engine sputtered.

Coughed.

Then caught—settling into a rough but familiar hum beneath me.

I gripped the wheel tighter.

I could do this.

I had to.

With a shaky breath, I eased the car onto the rain-slicked road.

The steering wheel felt cold and slightly tacky beneath my fingers, the worn leather humming faintly under my grip as the windshield wipers moaned in steady rhythm.

Johannesburg’s lights shimmered in the rearview mirror—then vanished, blurred into a ghostly smear by the downpour.

I didn’t look back. There was nothing left for me there—not after the call. The words had cracked something open in my chest. Anna Maria Smith. My grandmother. My only living family. Dead.

Gone.

The thought echoed again, sharp and surreal. No matter how many times I repeated it, it wouldn’t sink in.

And now?

Now I was heading back to the Drakensberg for the first time in eight years. The place I had once called home—the only place that had ever felt like it held a piece of me. Maybe now, it held the truth too. About Gran. About the dreams. About me.

Time blurred into kilometers. Small towns slipped past like ghosts—unseen, unnoticed. Rain hammered the windshield, and the silence inside the car grew louder than the storm outside.

Five hours passed in a daze of wet roads, white-knuckled grips, and thoughts that churned like mist—thick and clinging.

I remembered how Gran used to talk about the mountains. She said they were alive. That they held secrets older than time itself. "They remember before memory," she’d whisper, her eyes catching on something far away.

Tonight, that memory felt real. Tangible. Like something was watching.

The Drakensberg rose ahead like a fortress—bone-white and shrouded in mist, jagged and ancient. Their peaks were hidden behind a veil of clouds, thunder rolling across them like a warning. Low. Guttural.

The closer I got, the heavier everything became. The rain. The night. My chest.

Gran had sent me away when I was thirteen. No explanation. No tearful goodbyes. Just a train ticket and a hug at the station that said everything and nothing.

Her love had never been loud. It lived in the way she brewed rooibos with honey when I couldn’t sleep. In the hand-knit scarves folded quietly into my suitcase. In the stories she told when she thought I wasn’t listening.

But something had kept her here, not with chains, but with roots that ran deeper than time.

I never truly understood what. Was it love? Or fear of what would happen if she ever left?

The road curved sharply. My tires skidded on the slick asphalt before catching again. My heart stuttered.

Then the sky cracked open. A flash of lightning painted the hills silver—and for a breathless second, I saw something. A shape. A flicker. Movement.

Gone.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. My pulse beat in time with the thunder now—wild and warning. The Drakensberg didn’t just look real. They looked awake. Watching. Waiting.

"These mountains don’t forget," Gran used to say. And now, it felt like they remembered me.

When I turned onto the gravel path that led to her cottage, something inside me twisted. The same tightness I used to feel when I snuck outside as a child—convinced something was watching from the trees.

I told myself it was the storm. The wind. My grief. Nothing more.

Branches overhead groaned and swayed, shedding rain in heavy sheets. They didn’t look like trees anymore—more like arms, stretching, Reaching. Ancient limbs clawing at the car, as if trying to hold me back.

My breath caught, there it is.

Gran’s cottage.

A shadow hunched at the end of the road, half-swallowed by mist. A part of me had imagined it would be gone. That I’d return and find ruins. Or worse—nothing at all.

But it was still here. Small. Weathered. Familiar.

The crooked chimney, the ivy-covered walls—it looked untouched by time. Like it had waited for me.

I slowed to a crawl. Headlights sliced through the dark until I stopped beneath the old oak tree by the garden gate.

I killed the engine. And just sat there. The rain hammered the roof in a steady rhythm, like a second heartbeat.

This house had once been my sanctuary.

My childhood was stitched into its bones—warm bread rising in the kitchen, lavender curling through bathwater, soft laughter flickering by the fire.

My hand hovered over the door handle. Shaking.

Gran wasn’t here. She was gone, and the house I was returning to wasn’t the same, not without her here. I gripped it tight. Then shoved it open.

Wind rushed in first—wild, icy, thick with pine and earth. Rain slapped my face, sharp and immediate, and still, I didn’t flinch.

I stepped out. Thunder cracked overhead, splitting the sky like a scream. As if the mountains were waking up just for me.

I popped the backseat. Grabbed my suitcase. It slipped in my grip, the leather slick with rain and suddenly it felt heavier than I remembered. Still I didn’t stop.

I hauled it free and trudged down the gravel path. Each step dragged, soaked and shivering.

The garden gate loomed through the downpour. Rust flaked into my palm as I pushed it open.

The cottage crouched beneath the trees like a secret. Its shape was the same—but the air had changed.

It hummed.

But I just kept walking. Toward the house I used to belong to. Toward the ghosts waiting inside.

Thankful the key was still there, tucked beneath the flowerpot. My hand found it automatically. But the moment my fingers touched the cold metal, my chest tightened.

Something about it felt... off. Like the house itself wasn’t sure it wanted me back.

With a breath that didn’t quite steady me, I pushed the key into the lock. It turned with a reluctant click. The door creaked open, slow and uncertain.

Silence rushed to greet me. Thick. Suffocating. It clung to my skin like a wet sheet as I stepped inside.

The door groaned shut behind me. Sealing the storm outside.

Darkness pressed in, dense and unmoving. I fumbled for the switch just inside the door, fingers brushing the familiar plate.

The overhead light flickered once before it buzzed to life—soft and yellow, casting long shadows across the hallway walls.

I moved forward. Each step echoed. Water dripping from my coat onto the old wooden floor.

The air felt cold.

The kind of cold that sinks into your bones and whispers:

You’re too late.

The hallway gave way to the living room. I reached for the floor lamp. It flicked on after a moment, casting a low amber glow.

The room unfolded around me like a memory—dusty and dim.

Gran’s armchair sat beside the fireplace, its velvet worn, smoothed by time. Beside it, her easel leaned in its usual place. A canvas rested there—half-finished. A sky. A hill. The curve of a tree. The brush beside it was stiff in its jar, the paint long dried.

Her knitting basket rested on the table by the window. A shawl half-complete, needles mid-stitch, as if she had only stepped away for a moment.

Like time had simply paused.

I swallowed hard.

The silence pressed in closer, thick and listening. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. I was supposed to be strong. I could handle everything on my own.

I had to. But standing here, in the quiet weight of a home that no longer had a heartbeat—I felt like I was unraveling.

Gran had been my anchor. And now I felt like I was adrift.

Alone.

A flicker of something caught my eye.

Movement.

Just beyond the hallway.

I turned, every nerve standing on end.

Nothing. Only shadows.

But something pulsed at the edge of my vision. Warm. Faint. Familiar.

I stepped closer. Heart pounding. Skin buzzing.

There it was again. A glow. A presence.

The air shifted. That same sensation from the dreams.

The pull.

Slowly, I edged closer to the window, pressing a hand to the cold glass. Lightning split the sky, illuminating a figure, still as stone, standing outside. The storm wrapped around him like a shroud, but it was his eyes that held me.

I froze, my breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat. He just stood there. Still. Half-shrouded by rain and mist. Tall. Unmoving.

Eyes like embers.

Familiar. Burning through the dark.

Watching me.

I couldn’t look away.

Time stretched, suspended. Every second dragged like the sky was holding its breath.

Then, just like that—he was gone. Swallowed by the mist and storm. My thoughts scrambled for reason. A trick of the light. A hallucination. It couldn’t really be him, could it?

But those eyes, they were the same eyes from my dreams. Eyes that had haunted me, carved into my mind like a brand, a part of me I couldn’t escape.

I blinked, my heart pounding violently against my ribcage, as though trying to escape. The wind howled outside, relentless, clawing at the windows like it knew the storm inside me was just as wild.

The figure was gone. But the feeling lingered. Like smoke that wouldn’t clear. Like a name I couldn’t remember but had always known.

My fingers brushed the windowpane. Cold. Wet. Real.

So why did everything else feel like a dream?

I tore my gaze away and backed into the hall, heart still thundering, ears straining for sound. The silence inside the house was no longer empty.

It was watching.

I looked toward the front door.

Toward whatever waited beyond it.

Something inside me whispered to turn back, to forget the way his eyes had found me in the dark.

But before my mind caught up, my body was already moving —one step, then another. The floor creaked beneath me like breath held too long.

I stopped just before the door. My hand hovered, fingers trembling with the weight of a choice I hadn’t realized I was making.

Then my heart beat slowed down. Like it remembered something I didn’t.

I pressed my hand to the door, and it was like touching skin—alive with something ancient. Something sacred.

Beyond the wood and glass, the storm moved like a living thing—its rhythm syncing with mine.

I wasn’t afraid.

It’s like something was calling to me. I didn’t know what I was doing or why, but in that moment, it didn’t matter.

The uncertainty fell away, and all that remained was a quiet, unshakable pull — like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Because some doors don’t stay closed forever.

And some storms… were always meant for you to walk into.