Chapter Three: They Only Knock When Death Comes
1067 Words
The knock came just after twilight—three hesitant raps against the wood, as if the one delivering them wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be heard.
Seraphine didn’t move at first.
She sat in her father’s old chair, cloaked in firelight, tea cooling in her hands. The grave she’d dug that morning still ached in her muscles. Her body was tired, but her mind had begun to hum again, that sharp and restless edge that always arrived after the dead grew quiet.
She rarely had visitors.
She never had guests.
Another knock.
Softer this time.
Almost ashamed of itself.
She rose, set her tea aside, and crossed the room to the door.
“Miss Mera?” came a voice from the other side—rough and frayed by exhaustion. “Please. I wouldn’t be here if I had another choice.”
She opened the door just a fraction.
Rain clung to the man’s shoulders in silver rivulets. Revik. A farmer from the southern slope. She’d seen him before—buying salt from the trader’s cart, dragging sacks of grain with his sons through the Hollow. He wasn’t the type to seek out someone like her.
That’s how she knew it was serious.
He held a cloth-wrapped bundle in one hand. The other clutched a small coin pouch, trembling.
“Silver,” he said. “For the help. I—I know how they talk, but I know you’ve helped before.”
Seraphine stared at the pouch, then at the man’s face.
“I don’t take payment.”
Revik looked stunned. “But—”
“Come inside.”
He hesitated for only a moment before stepping into the warmth of her hearthlight. He smelled of damp wool, earth, and desperation.
As he spoke, she moved through the room like a ghost—gathering jars, herbs, bits of bone and bark and root. Her silence wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t kind either. It was clinical. Focused.
He told her everything.
His youngest son had fallen ill four nights ago. Fever, then fits. Then the voices started—ones that didn’t belong to a child. Whispers from dark corners. Cold breath at the window. Scratches on the inside of the door. And eyes—his son’s eyes—glassy, silver-rimmed, watching something Revik couldn’t see.
“It’s not rot-blood,” he said, shaking. “The village healer gave him salt root. Prayers. Holy water. None of it touched him. But I saw what you did for the miller’s boy last winter. You stayed until he stopped screaming.”
“I stayed until he passed,” Seraphine corrected softly.
He swallowed. “I know.”
She handed him a bundle—moonvine bark, blue ash, and a vial of blackthorn sap.
“Boil this. Mix it with water from the well. Not river. Well. Bathe him in it while it’s still hot, then make him drink the rest.”
Revik nodded, clutching the bundle like salvation.
“It won’t cure him,” she said. “But it’ll buy you time. For the body to fight. Or for you to say goodbye.”
That was all she could offer. Time. Never mercy. Never miracles.
He turned to go, then paused in the doorway. His voice dropped.
“They say you speak to the dead.”
She didn’t answer.
“I don’t believe what they say about you,” he murmured. “I think they’re afraid of what you understand, that’s all.”
Seraphine held his gaze for a moment too long.
“Then you should be afraid too,” she said.
And she closed the door behind him.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Seraphine leaned her forehead against it, letting the stillness press in.
She hated this part.
Not the sickness. Not the herbs. Not the weight of being needed only when death knocked hardest.
She hated the hope in their eyes. The kind that trembled and clung and whispered, She’ll know what to do.
She never knew what to do.
She could delay it. Stall the rot. Buy time. But there was always a price—and sometimes the dead didn’t want to leave. Sometimes they stayed behind, and the ones who called her for help never asked if she could silence them too.
She moved back to the hearth and stared into the fire. The tea was cold now. She didn’t bother reheating it.
The boy’s voice echoed in her mind, though she’d never heard it. She imagined him thin and pale, too tired to cry, fingers curled like claws beneath the blanket. She’d seen it too many times to pretend otherwise.
A life unraveling before it ever had a chance to begin.
She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. That ache—she wasn’t sure it was hers anymore. Not entirely.
You care too much, whispered a voice from somewhere behind her eyes. You always do.
Seraphine closed her eyes. “Not now.”
Why not? the voice pressed, smooth and sharp. You’re aching for a boy you never met. You’ll spend the whole night worrying for a family that will forget your name the second the fever breaks.
“I didn’t ask for thanks.”
No, the voice said, almost fond. You just want what they have. A place. A family. A reason to be missed.
Seraphine clenched her jaw.
The voice shifted, softening with a cruel sweetness. You could’ve had it. A home like theirs. A life not wrapped in graves and whispers. You were born with magic and ended up digging holes for people who spit when they see you.
She opened her eyes.
The hearth crackled, indifferent.
It should’ve been us, the voice murmured, barely audible now. We should’ve been the one with warm arms and firelight. With children. With something worth losing.
“Enough,” Seraphine whispered.
The voice receded, retreating like fog before the wind.
But it lingered, just beneath the surface—watching, waiting, full of quiet bitterness and a hunger for things she’d long buried.
She rose from the chair and moved to the window. Outside, the mist had thickened. The graveyard was nearly invisible now, veiled in white.
Somewhere out there, a boy lay dying.
Somewhere deeper, something else was waking.
She placed a hand to the windowpane and whispered, “I’ll come back for you.”
But it was unclear who she meant.
- Writer
