CRYING GHOST

MAYA

The roar in Edward's voice hung in the cold night air, leaving a ringing silence that made my skin prickle with dread. I pulled the satin sheet tightly against my chest, my hands trembling violently as I stared up at him in the shadowy room.

Edward didn't move. His tall, massive frame blocked out the faint moonlight from the balcony window, his broad chest rising and falling in harsh, uneven breaths. His eyes—usually a warm, honey amber—were glowing a fierce, terrifying crimson in the dark.

"I know you are not Philomena," Edward rasped, his voice dropping into a low, agonized murmur that sounded as if it were being torn straight from his soul. "She is dead. I watched her die. But why... why am I seeing her in your face?"

My throat felt bone-dry. "Edward..."

"And why did you scream and moan like her?" he cut me off, taking a step backward, away from the bed as if proximity to me was physically burning him. He pressed his palms against his temples, shaking his head in sheer disbelief and agony. "It has been over nineteen years since she was wrapped in my arms, Maya! Nineteen long, excruciating years! But I still remember. I remember every touch, every gasp, even her exact voice... and her smell."

He looked down at me, his eyes filled with a terrifying mix of grief, confusion, and raw betrayal.

"Tonight... when I was inside you... it wasn't just your body I felt," he whispered, his voice cracking down the middle. "It was her. Her scent overwhelmed my senses. Her voice rang in my ears when you cried out. It was like she was right here beneath me."

I sat frozen on the mattress, completely lost and confused. My mind spun in absolute chaos. How could he scent her on me? How could he hear her in my voice when I had spent so long keeping my true identity buried deep beneath the surface? Was the pack magic reacting to our intimacy? Was the bond breaking through the illusion?

Before I could find my voice, before I could figure out what to say or how to explain the impossible, Edward turned on his heel. He didn't say another word. He grabbed his pants, pulled them on hastily, and walked out of the room, slamming the heavy door behind him.

The click of the lock echoed like a gunshot.

I was left alone in the vast, silent bedroom. The warmth of our lovemaking evaporated instantly, replaced by a deep, shivering cold that seeped right into my bones.

Slowly, unsteady on my feet, I slid off the edge of the bed and wrapped a silk robe around my bare body. My knees felt weak as I crossed the floor toward the tall, gilded vanity mirror in the corner of the room.

I stood in front of the glass and forced myself to look.

The reflection staring back at me was the same one I had looked at for years. I saw Maya. The soft brown eyes, the delicate jawline, the distinct curve of my lips, the dark hair falling over my shoulders. I traced my fingers along my cheekbones, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"I am still Maya," I whispered to the empty room, my breath fogging the cool glass. "I look like Maya. My face hasn't changed. How come he sees Philomena?"

Did he see through the mask because of the intense passion we had just shared? Or was my true soul pushing through, bleeding into my voice and scent when I lost control in his arms? The thought sent a violent chill down my spine. If Edward suspected the truth without proof, or if Maria caught wind of his doubts, the fragile safety we had built would shatter into pieces.

I couldn't sleep. The silence in the room felt heavy, almost suffocating, as if the walls were leaning in to listen to my ragged breathing.

I returned to the bed and sat on the edge, pulling my legs up to my chest and staring at the dark floorboards. Hours crawled by in excruciating slowness. The clock on the mantle ticked steadily—tick, tick, tick—marking the agonizing passage of the night.

It was long past midnight, right in the deepest, darkest hour before dawn, when the air in the room suddenly turned icy cold.

It wasn't a draft from an open window. It was a dense, unnatural frost that made my breath form tiny white clouds in front of my face. The subtle scent of wild jasmine and dried lavender—a smell I hadn't carried in almost two decades—filled the air, so strong it made my throat tighten.

Then, I heard it.

A soft, heartbreaking sob.

My head snapped toward the far corner of the room, near the large bookshelf where my journal had vanished days ago.

Sitting on the floor, curled into a tight ball with her knees pulled to her chest, was a figure.

My breath hitched in my throat. My blood turned to liquid ice.

It wasn't a dream. I was wide awake, my eyes wide open, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it echoing in my ears. This was reality.

The woman sitting in the corner was crying softly, her shoulders shaking with quiet, deep-seated agony. She wore a simple white gown stained with old dirt and faded crimson spots around the hem. Her long, dark hair spilled over her face, but through the thin strands, I could see her pale skin and delicate features.

It was Philomena.

My former self. The ghost of who I used to be.

"No..." I gasped, my voice barely a thread of sound as I pressed myself flat against the headboard of the bed, clutching the blankets to my chest. "No, this... this can't be."

The figure slowly lifted her head. Her face was pale as alabaster, tears streaming down her cheeks like liquid silver in the moonlight. Her dark eyes, filled with endless pain and sorrow, locked directly onto mine.

She didn't speak. She didn't move closer. She simply sat there, weeping quietly in the shadow of the bookshelf, looking at me with a gaze that felt like a sharp blade piercing my heart. It was a look of profound grief—a warning, or perhaps a lament for the secrets buried in this house.

"Why are you here?" I whimpered, tears spilling over my own eyelashes. "What do you want from me?"

As soon as the words left my lips, the weeping figure began to fade. The outline of her white dress blurred into the shadows, her pale face dissolving into the moonlight, until the corner of the room was completely empty once more.

The suffocating cold lingered for a few seconds longer before the room returned to its normal temperature. The heavy scent of jasmine faded away, leaving only the stale night air.

I sat there in the dark, shivering violently, my hands clutching my chest as if to hold my frantic heart inside my body. I had faced Maria’s cruel games, I had survived near-death, and I had fought for my place beside Edward... but in all my life, I had never been so terrified.

The ghost of my past had returned, and she was crying for a reason.