A thread of fear

Time no longer felt like hours, only the slow drip of water somewhere deep in the stone and the heavy ache in her bones. Alice sat curled against the damp wall, arms wrapped tight around her knees, cloak clinging to her skin with sweat and mildew. Her body had learnt the rhythm of this place: cold pressed into her back, hunger sharpening her stomach until it dulled again, silence folding itself around every sound she dared make. She had counted too long and lost track of which breath belonged to night and which to morning. The world outside the door might have moved forward, but in here it only circled.

The lantern in the corner had burnt low, its wick drowned in its own wax, so the light was faint and shrinking. Shadows gathered like threads pulled in toward her, crowding the corners of her vision. The stone walls seemed to breathe with the damp, exhaling mould and the sour tang of iron. She listened to it all because it was the only proof she had that she hadn’t gone deaf in the dark. Every scrape of boots beyond the door, every drip, every whisper of cloth shifting against her skin became a kind of clock. She told herself that as long as she could hear, she was alive.

She clutched the bloom close. It pulsed faintly in her palm, not a heartbeat but something that mocked one, slow and steady as if it belonged to something larger than her. Its petals twitched sometimes, folding and opening with her breath, bending as though listening. She hated how alive it seemed. She hated how it reminded her of the woman’s words. Ordinary girls don’t make dead things bloom. The memory made her throat tighten and made her press the bloom harder against her chest until it hurt. It was the only warmth she had left, and it frightened her more than the cold.

She tried to picture the others. Ren stood stubborn with the gauntlet gleaming on his arm, jaw tight the way it got when he wanted to argue but couldn’t. Hibiki, restless, loud even when he tried to be quiet, eyes too sharp with anger. Miyako, who always seemed to know what to do, knives flashing like she’d been born with them. Alice tried to believe they were still out there, moving, looking for her. She tried to imagine them safe. But every time she did, the thought twisted. What if they came here? What if they stepped into the same shadows, heard the same voices, and felt the same walls closing in? What if she wasn’t the one who broke, but they were?

The silence pushed harder when she thought like that. She pressed her forehead to her knees and whispered into the folds of her cloak, “Don’t come. Please don’t.” The words were thin, more air than sound. They didn’t fill the cell. They didn’t ease the tremble in her hands. They only reminded her how alone she was.

Her stomach cramped with hunger. She had eaten something yesterday—or what she thought was yesterday. A crust of bread shoved through the slot, hard enough to scrape her gums, and water in a dented cup that tasted like the stone it had seeped through. She told herself she didn’t need more, that she could last, but her body betrayed her with every hollow growl. Her lips split when she licked them, and the taste of iron stayed long after.

The bloom pulsed again. She tried to ignore it, tried to hold still and listen past it, but it was there all the same—steady, insistent, alive in her hand. Sometimes she thought it was keeping her awake on purpose, dragging her thoughts back whenever she drifted. Sometimes she thought it was waiting for something, and that terrified her most of all.

Hours bled past. She dozed against the wall, dreams fractured and shallow. She thought she saw the orchard, crows perched on rotting fruit, their eyes glinting too human. She thought she heard Ren’s voice calling her name, rough and urgent, but when she jerked awake the only sound was dripping water and the faint rasp of her own breath. The lantern had burnt lower. The shadows were thicker, the walls closer. She bit her lip until it bled just to remind herself she hadn’t been dreaming forever.

Her throat was raw when she whispered again. “One more day. Just one more.” She repeated it, a rhythm to match the dripping water, a promise that might keep her bones from shaking apart. “One more.” The words meant nothing, but saying them gave her something to hold. The silence pressed back. The shadows didn’t move. The bloom kept pulsing. Alice curled tighter into herself and waited for the stone to decide what it wanted from her.