Page 4 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

Nightmares evolved from passing fears into something far more tangible. They became my waking reality, one I carry in the hollows of my chest. The dreams of yesteryear faded, blurred into the distance like echoes in the fog, whileall that remained were memories of a life I could no longer reach. And so I stopped yearning, stopped hoping, stopped living. Not because I surrendered without a fight, no—it was not a quick capitulation. I fought with all the fury of a soldier in battle, refusing to yield. But what I did not know, what no one could have prepared me for, was that I was fighting a war that had already been lost. Victory was a lie, a false promise. The ending was not triumph, but disillusionment. My dismay was my fate.

That day, I lost more than I could ever name.

A day seared into my mind, its memory staining everything it touched—like blood on white linen, impossible to erase. The day lingers in my thoughts, a persistent ghost that will never be exorcised. A dread, cold and heavy, nestles in my bones, wrapping itself around my heart. Each day I live with that moment, its portrait so vivid, the pain so sharp it feels as though my wounds are still fresh, still bleeding, and still being torn apart. Every heartbeat is a reminder. Every breath, a struggle.

They say the most smirched souls are the strongest. But I know now, they lied.

Defeat has woven itself into the very fabric of my being. It is as familiar to me as the air I breathe, its cold fingers curling around my throat, tightening with every passing day. It strips away the plastic layers of resilience, leaving me bare, vulnerable. Most days, I retreat from the world, locking myself away in the shadows where no one can reach me. I let my tears fall, letting them wash away the cobwebs that settle in my eyes, the remnants of a life I can no longer recognize. On rare nights, the wells of sorrow dry up, and there we are, me and my heartbreak—silent, staring at the peeling wallpaper in my bedroom, our only company the silence.

It is as though I am staring into a mirror, yet the reflection before me is no longer mine. This person, this hollow, broken shell—stares back with eyes full of darkness. The light that once danced in them is gone, replaced by emptiness. The smile she wears is a mask, cracked and twisted. The bruises, hidden beneath the surface, tell stories I can no longer bear to remember.

I wonder, sometimes, if I’ll ever find my way back to the person I used to be.

And then, from deep within the recesses of my mind, a distant laughter rises—faint and fleeting, like a memory too fragile to hold. Pulling me out of my thoughts.

The world outside is a stark contrast to the storm brewing within me. The sky stretches above, a vast expanse of azure hues untouched by the violence of the winds below. A few puddles from the rain still cling to the cobbled streets, reflecting the light like fractured jewels. From this rooftop, perched high above the chaos, everything seems so distant—so far away. The Reverie Etoile’s lily-white view is a quiet sanctuary, a place where the noise of the world falls away.

From here, I can see the serene life below, stone-paved roads winding through small shops and narrow streets, mud-brick houses with their clay-tiled roofs, and the gnarled vines that twist around statues. The landscape is alive with movement, laughter, and the rhythmic pulse of life itself, and yet, I feel none of it.

My legs hang over the edge, my hands pressed firmly against the stone. A soft nudge, just a slight push, would send me tumbling into the depths below. The thought plays in my mind, but somehow, I do not fear it. If I were to fall, it would not be a tragic end, not in this moment. My final sight would be one of quiet grace—a view so beautiful itmight almost lull me into peace. The zephyr, gentle as a lover’s touch, stirs my hair, and in that fleeting breath of air, I feel the strain of the world lighten, if only for a moment.

And I ponder once more, in the languor, if I will ever know solace again.

And just for a second, I am not a twenty-four-year-old who is being held prisoner by her past, a past that could crumble the strongest of fighters. Instead, I’m just a girl in Greece, admiring its beauty.

This part of Greece, called Sybactus, is the true gem. There is just something about its allure that draws you in like a moth to a flame. It has a way of charming you during the day and haunting you at night.

Streets turn from golden to calamitous, and that lustful breeze during the day quickly washes away to daunting gales. Sybactus is like two sides of a rotten yet replenished coin.

Ballet Mistress Anoushka drove us with a merciless precision, yet it was I who felt the sharpest edge of her gaze, more than any of the others. Every movement I made seemed to fall short of her impossible expectations, my steps too uneven, my back too rigid. Each failure was a gash that only deepened with each correction. Perhaps, though, it was not my dancing that vexed her. But my being, that stirred something far darker within her, than mere discontent with what I had to offer.

But whatever it might have been, I felt gagged. Like she had a vice gripping my neck and strangling me. So when class was dismissed, this was the only place in mind to come to and find some fleeting peace.

A little girl, as far as she may be, I see her. Her giggles are clamorous and brimming with glee as she screamsPapawith her hands up in the air while her lilacdress flows to the beat of the wind. She runs to a man holding a bouquet of tulips with a smile that matches the little girl’s. It is so contagious that my lips can not help but twitch. Her father’s face brightens and the moment she jumps into his arms, I am filled with sorrowful greed. I long to feel that kind of love once more. To be held in my father’s hands.

“Fleur.”

I glance up from the rabbits I’m coloring, the bright hues of my crayons momentarily forgotten. "Oui, Papa." I turn all my attention to him as he rises from his chair and walks over to join me on the rug. The smile on his face, that quiet, steady smile, clouds around me like a blanket—warm, soft, and full of love. It always makes Mama blush, her cheeks turning pink as she watches.

He reaches into his pocket, and for a moment, I do not see what he's holding. Then he slowly spreads his fingers, opening his palm to reveal a small, shiny treasure. My eyes light up. It’s beautiful, a thing of delicate perfection. I’ve always had a soft spot for pretty things.

“Savez-vous comment votre grand-mère a rencontré votre grand-père, fleur?”

I shake my head. His chuckle fills the space between us, rich and kind, and his green eyes sparkle.

“Quand ton grand-père a rencontré ta grand-mère, il a dit qu’il n’avait jamais rencontré quelqu’un d’aussi beau qu’elle. À cette époque, il voyageait pour le travail, alors?—”

I scoot closer to him, eager for more, my heart racing with curiosity. “So what happened, Papa?”

“Alors, il lui a donné ce collier.”

I look down at the necklace he is holding. It is silver, with a tiny flower pendant that catches the light, sparkling. I reach out, my fingers brushing the cool metal.

Papa stands, and I stand with him, hand in hand, as hewalks us to the mirror above the mantle. The reflection shows us side by side, and I watch as he carefully clasps the necklace around my neck.

“Votre grand-père a offert ce collier à votre grand-mère comme symbole de chance.”

“Luck?” I ask, my hand tracing the cold, smooth chain that now rests against my skin.

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