Page 10 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

At first, I did not believe it. I was a skeptic, just another fool caught up in the thrill of a good ghost story. But then, I started to hear it. The creaks in the floorboards and the gloom that moved on their own. And when I found myself standing in the library, late at night, alone with Madgar, Icould not shake the feeling that something was watching me. Something old, somethinghungry.

“Blow away thae clouds floating in ye head, daydreaming is for fools,” she said to me one evening, her voice gravelly with the weariness of years spent in this very place. “Only thae that hope are foolish to think dreams can be more than thoughts.”

I wanted to tell her that hope was not foolish, that daydreams were the seeds of something greater. That without them, we had nothing to strive toward. But I held my tongue. Instead, I placed a hand on my chest, trying to calm my disheartened heart. “And daydreaming is hope,” I countered quietly.

And like a violent rain called upon, she materializes from nothingness, as if the thought of her brought her into being, slipping from the corner and gracing my sight as she glances at me. Her eyes narrow as she drops a case of books into my cart. “I need thir put away before ye clock strikes”

And then, without warning, she softens. For the briefest moment, her tough exterior slips away, and a glimpse of something more human, more vulnerable, flickers across her face. It is almost imperceptible, but I see it.

“Alright”

Her expression hardens again, but I catch the faintest trace of a smile hiding behind her lips. She is guarded, such that I have yet to learn even a fraction of her life. But in time, I would. I knew that much.

And as I continue to work, as the days slip by in the company of dust and olden tales, I realize that, perhaps, it is not just the books that hold all the secrets in this place. Perhaps it isMadgar, too.

“My da was a priest, wrapped in holy words and all that pious shite, but me—I was the priest’s daughter, raised underthe dim glow of stained glass and the sins no one dared to speak off. While he was off preachin' about salvation, me ma was back home, entertainin' fellas, her laughter spillin' through the thin walls, louder than his sermons ever were. He talked of light and grace, but our house was chokin' on murk, and there I was, stuck between the pulpit and the poison, learnin' quick that even the holiest of 'em carry their darkness

"How's yer ma?" she asks, her voice light, but there’s a ladenness beneath it, a shadow stitched into the words. She pauses, her eyes locking onto mine, searching deep like she’s trying to dig up something I’ve long buried. The silence between us grows like a smothering haze, and in that lonely chasm space, a heaviness settles inside me, battering against my ribs, clawing at the edges of memories I’d rather leave to rot.

"As she was the last time," I mutter, my voice barely more than a breath, brittle and distant, as I tear my gaze away. My fingers fumble for a book—any book—just something to anchor me in the moment. I slide it back onto the shelf with a soft thud, the sound too small to drown out the silence stretching between us.

Her stare holds, worried and knowing, burning into the side of my face like it could break down the walls I’ve carefully put together. Then, without a word, she pats me on the shoulder, a gesture too gentle to comfort, too final to ignore, and turns, her footsteps fading into the distance. I stand there, the ghost of her touch still clinging to my skin, the space she left behind feeling colder than before.

And just as the emptiness starts to sink in, Naseria and Miro walk through the door,a much-needed destruction, a stark contrast to the affliction that hangs in the air. They wave at me, oblivious to the storm churning beneath my skin, and head toward the back.

I quickly tuck away the casebound books, my fingers brushing against their smooth ends, before grabbing the file I’ve kept hidden, carefully, like a secret hidden away in the folds of my mind. With a practiced motion, I follow them down the dim corridor, the world outside fading away and the lull growing heavier. This room, tucked in the back, away from prying eyes, is where the walls seem to listen, and where truth waits to be uncovered.

“So l dug, and found something,” Naseria says, her voice slicing through the haze just as I lower myself into the chair.

“No,hellothen?”

Sometimes, I wonder where I would have been if it weren’t for these two. We’re a mismatched conundrum, with idiosyncratic pieces that look nothing alike. Each of us is our own brand of strange, chaotic, and beautifully flawed. Yet, together, we’re something beautiful, something that makes sense in a world that often doesn’t. It’s that uniqueness that binds us,I suppose. Our clashing beliefs that stitch us closer, weaving something fierce and unbreakable. It’s not always pretty, but it’s real. The fights we haveforone another, notagainst—that is what makes us who we are. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

Naseria was born in Greece, while Miro and l moved here for somewhat similar reasons — our families’ careers. Naseria was my neighbor and Miro was the kid we happened to sit with at lunch one afternoon, and, well, the rest is what they callhistory.

“So boorish, don't you think Essa,”Mirosigns.Ever since theincidentthat happened when he was young, his mutism has only grown to be a part of him.

“Her buried ancestors will surely turn and roll”

The Inachus were considered royalty,true royalty, farmore revered than the so-called Royal Family ever was. Their name bore influence, the kind that could bend spines and silence rooms. And Naseria is a descendant,bloodline pure, legacy intact. You’d expect her to walk around with her nose in the air, draped in the kind of elegance and decorum drilled into her ancestors. After all, the Inachus were infamous for their rigid adherence to etiquette and culture, their lives choreographed to perfection like some grand, unending performance.

But Naseria, she’s a hurricane in human form. Miro and I love to pull at that thread, teasing her mercilessly about how she’s the walking antithesis of her esteemed lineage. Instead of grace, she moves with wildness, teetering somewhere between a near-neanderthal and a feral creature loose from its cage. Her laughter is loud, her temper louder, and the way she slouches in chairs or snarls at authority would have her ancestors spinning in their gilded graves at how far their bloodline has fallen.

But honestly, I wouldn’t have her any other way.

“They were prudish,” she voices, “moralistic too.”

And indeed they were. She pulls out a book from her bag and places it on the table with a thud, and the dust coating it clouds around us.

“You just happen to keep dusted books now?” l arch my brow.

“Among other things,” she grins.

Naseria flips through the worn-out pages until she lands on one, with a lot of red highlighting.

“This,” she murmurs, her perfectly manicured nail pressing hard against the marked map, the paper crinkling beneath her certainty. Miro and I exchange a glance, a flicker of soundless conversation passingbetween us as we wait for her to unravel whatever revelation she’s stumbled upon.

“Circles, circles, and more circles,” she mutters, almost to herself. “It wasn’t an unknown message, it was so clear that I missed it at first. It’s been sitting on the edge of my realization this whole time.” Her voice trails off as her eyes drift into the distance, glassy and far away like she’s staring straight through us. For a brief moment, I wonder if she’s even talking to us anymore, and judging by the crease in Miro’s brow, I’m not the only one thinking it.

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