Page 19 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

Thefounder. The name sends a cold shiver down my spine. Mama always said, strangers bring danger, and the founder—he’s nothing but a myth, a whispered ghost that never shows his face. No student has ever truly seen him. His name is only spoken in hushed tones, a figure too far out of reach to touch. My gaze hardens, doubt pooling in my chest.

“I think you have the wrong person,” I say, though the words come out with less conviction than I wish.

“Are you Odessa Fontaine?”

My breath catches in my throat. “Yes.”

“Then I have the right person.”

“No, you do not,” I bite back, but my resolve falters as his eyes stay locked on mine, unwavering. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?—”

“He does not take well to being held. I strongly suggest you come with me, Miss Fontaine.” The word ‘suggest’ feels more like an order, and I know without a doubt that resisting him will get me nowhere.

I’ve fucked up, haven’t I? My mind races, spiraling into dark corners I dare not explore. What does the founder want from me? To strip me of whatever small dignity I have left? To cast me aside like a discarded toy? Or worse—does he know the things I’ve done, the things I’ve become? My heart thunders in my chest, a frantic drumbeat that fills my ears, warning me, urging me to run. But I can’t. My body feels stuck, as if I’m already being drawn into something I can’t escape.

“Why does the founder?—”

“That, unfortunately, is not for me to say. We mustn’t keep him waiting.” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, an unspoken finality that makes my stomach churn.

And so, I follow, unable to find the courage to turn away, trapped by an unseen force, my every step heavy with dread.

After a hesitant pause, I relent, the weight of inevitability pulling me forward.

“I understand,” the words slip past my lips, final, resigned. I grab my bag in a swift motion, fingers trembling as if trying to outrun the wave of dread that rolls through me. I move behind him, footsteps falling in sync with the rhythm of my racing thoughts. A thousand scenarios, darkand uncertain, weave themselves into my mind, each more chaotic and disturbing than the last. I cannot silence the growing cacophony of fears that seems to echo in the very air around me.

The world blurs. I feel detached, as if I’m walking through a fog thick with apprehension. My surroundings become distant, as though they no longer belong to me. And yet, I follow, helpless, toward a fate that feels both inevitable and far too sinister to be real.

We reach the garden after what feels like an eternity, though I’m hardly aware of the path that led us here. The gates, always closed, stand wide open before us, an invitation I never asked for. The space beyond, forbidden and unreachable to students like me, feels different now—like a trap waiting to close around me. It has always been a boundary, an unspoken rule, and yet, now it lies exposed, daring me to cross.

The garden stretches out before us, and the air smells thick with jasmine and dandelions, their scents heavy, lingering in the silence. The colors are unnaturally vibrant, too bright, too rich. The flowers spill over in a chaos of reds, purples, and oranges, their petals trembling as if afraid to touch the earth. The leaves, dark green, seem almost unnatural in their richness, their shadows pooling at the edges of the garden like an encroaching storm.

We walk deeper into the maze of nature, the path winding beneath our feet and leading us further into the unknown. The garden itself seems alive, pressing in on us, as if it is watching. A cold shiver runs down my spine, and my breath catches in my throat. The air feels thick with something—something unseen, something that waits.

And then, there he stands.

Mr. Moretti.

The founder.

He is everything I didn’t expect and everything I feared. A man carved from shadows and light, his presence filling the space around us with a magnetic pull. His eyes lock onto mine, and I feel them, demanding and relentless. The world shifts, tilting slightly, as I find myself drawn into his gaze.

His appearance is nothing like I imagined. He is not old, not frail. His beauty is something dangerous, something that makes my heart stutter in my chest. His features are defined, like they were sculpted from marble—a strong jawline, and a light beard that only adds to his allure. But it is his eyes that hold the candle.

Those eyes.

Icy blue, like the depths of a stormy ocean. They pierce through me, seeping into my thoughts, unraveling everything I thought I knew about control. They see too much, and in their depths, I feel something stirring—something dark and inevitable.

He steps closer, and the air between us crackles with tension. His gaze is unyielding, a predator’s stare. His presence is suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

Oscar steps back, although he stays for just a moment longer, watching us as if he’s waiting for something. But Mr. Moretti’s voice cuts through the air, commanding, like a velvet rope pulling at Oscar’s presence.

“Thank you, Oscar. You’re excused.” The words are smooth, polite, but firm, and Oscar nods and leaves without a word.

And then it is just the two of us.

I stand there, suspended in the gravity of this moment, and everything about him feels so familiar, like the darkest part of me has been waiting for him, for this. The pullbetween us is undeniable, magnetic, and I cannot look away.

His eyes, so cold yet burning, meet mine, and for the first time, I feel both insignificant and irrevocably tethered to something far beyond me.

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