The Quiet Unraveling

Quiet settles at first inside the golden walls. A false peace lingers where time slows too soon.

Furniture here fits just right. Cold plates arrive each day through her quiet hands, sliding onto wood - a pale fillet, steamless soup, fruit set stiff in syrup. Eating happens only when hunger insists. Warmth never stays in the cup. Taste has gone missing.

Nothing speaks louder than quiet. At Noah's estate, stillness felt thick - charged with his sharp attention, Alex’s steady alertness, a low buzz of restrained strength. This place? The hush has no weight. It rings like vanishing.

One hour every afternoon, I walk inside the walled garden. A groundskeeper tends to roses while avoiding my eyes. Smooth gravel lines each pathway. Every flower sits untouched, unnaturally still. Not a single weed breaks through. Wild growth does not exist here. This place resembles art more than earth. Stone walls rise high, covered in blooming vines. Pretty. Impossible to leave.

On day three, Beatrice shows up.

A light appears, sudden, warm. Her dress is bright, made of soft folds that catch the air. With her comes fruit - round, golden, smelling of long afternoons. The words come quick: “Hello there! Are things feeling more like home now?” A pause. Then, “I picked these just today. Summer, right here.”

Out there among the flowers, she holds a peach, slicing it slow with a shiny little blade, hands steady. Talking about nothing much - some theater piece now showing downtown, how warm this week has been, pages from a book she finds sweet. Not one word on Vivian. Nothing about rooms that stay shut tight. Once more we are close, like before, the single clear note in all this hushed confusion.

Yet things feel changed. There’s intent now behind her gentle ways, a quiet aim. Once the fruit is gone and talk runs out, she places the blade aside, then looks at me with soft, dark eyes.

“You know, Paige,” she says, her voice softening with concern, “while you’re here, safe and resting, it might be helpful to… understand your gift better. To help you control it. These visions… they must be such a burden. Where do they come from, do you think?”

Trapped inside that soft question - sudden, bright, sharp. It closes fast when light hangs still.

Truth is, I can’t explain it, my words flat. That feeling sits right. How a whole story stays inside me? No clue. Still, it’s there, somehow.

“But you must have some idea,” she prods gently, leaning forward. “A childhood fever? A fall? Something that opened a… door in your mind?” Her gaze is intent, curious in a way that feels surgical.

That thing? Always around, I say, staring past the flawless roses.

She doesn’t push. She just nods, a sympathetic smile on her lips. “Of course. It must be so confusing for you. We’ll speak of it another time. No need to upset yourself.”

Each time we meet, that topic comes back.

“When you see something,” she asks two days later, as we walk the gravel path, “is it like a dream? Or is it more like… remembering something you’d forgotten?” Her tone is light, academic.

“It’s like when you recall something,” I reply, cutting the words short.

“Fascinating,” she breathes. “And are they always about the future? Or can you see the past as well? Present events far away?”

Fire comes first. Then the silver mine slips into mind. The future isn’t here. It lives where nothing has occurred

“Yet you stopped them,” she muses. “So it’s not a fixed future. It’s a possible one. You change the story.” She says it almost to herself, a strange, hungry look in her eyes.

Around her comes the rhythm of my quiet hours. Fear grows before she arrives. Hunger does too. She remains the single person who steps into my world. With every meeting, talk shifts - digs further, presses harder. Kindness still shows in her voice, yet purpose sharpens behind it.

From far away is where I spot her. Down long corridors she moves like water. Sipping tea somewhere out of reach. Not one word has ever come from her to me. Just stares. Those pale blue eyes sharp, pleased. Like a cat that already knows how it ends for the mouse - no rush, just waiting.

It creeps in slowly, this loneliness. Silence where updates should be feels like punishment. Wondering about the city - what now? Did Noah see the message I left behind? Maybe it means nothing to him. Could it be she has him now, that Lady Lenora? Outside, nothing stirs - no sound, no hint - and yet my thoughts race ahead, painting horrors where none are seen. Quiet stretches on, thick like fog, while images twist inside my head without mercy.

Now silence grows between me and the quiet servant. My gaze leaves the glass pane behind. Slowly, almost kindly, the edges of this lovely chamber begin closing in.

Few days pass before something shifts during Beatrice’s stay. The air thickens without warning.

She doesn’t bring peaches. She brings a small leather-bound journal and a pencil. “I thought, my dear, it might be therapeutic for you to write them down. The visions. As they come. It could help us find a pattern, a trigger. It could help you master them, instead of them mastering you.”

The notebook rests where we can both reach it. Harmless at first glance. Heavy with what it might hold. A quiet thing that speaks too much.

My voice carries a hint of rebellion, soft but clear. Writing them down feels wrong somehow. That stubborn streak shows up again, just for a moment.

Her smile doesn’t waver, but it cools. “Paige, we only want to help you. This… ability… it’s dangerous. In the wrong hands, it could cause such harm. We’re keeping you safe, but you must help us understand. To protect you. To protect everyone.”

They are my caretakers. That is Beatrice. Next comes Vivian. Me. Us.

Staring at the pages, I catch hold of what might be. Control creeps in, quiet-like. Not something that cuts. Never meant to harm. A thought too tempting to ignore.

Yet handing them over to her…

This time my voice is firmer. "No," comes out clear, harder at the edges.

Something flashes in Beatrice’s eyes - a flicker of impatience, swiftly buried. “Very well,” she sighs, as if I am a stubborn child. “But the offer stands. When you’re ready to stop being a victim of your gift, you know where to find me.”

Midnight comes. Sleep won’t arrive, not tonight. Back and forth across the floor - blue and cream beneath my feet. Quiet hums now, thick with soundless words. Those painted faces on the wall - they follow. Their gaze holds something familiar. Like Beatrice saw through me long before I did.

Water fills my chest, though the room stays still.

Later that day, Beatrice spots me outside among the plants. A stone seat holds me still while my eyes lock onto one spot on the wall. My thoughts? I’m pushing them away, clearing everything out like an empty cloudless stretch above.

Here, she takes a seat close by. Silence stretches between us - minutes pass without words. That soft mask has slipped away. Now stillness holds her, eyes sharp, taking measure.

Finally she speaks. You are stronger than the rest, she states. A shift colors her tone. Not cold exactly, but stripped of comfort. Thoughtful. Measured like a doctor checking pulses.

My gaze shifts toward her, inch by inch. A single word escapes - “Others?”

Our eyes lock. Quiet calm sits on her features, yet within her stare - endless shadows swirl, unfamiliar. Not hate. More like an old, tired wonder, worn smooth by years beyond counting. It lingers there, unblinking.

She says it softly: different versions of yourself.

Out here, meaning slips away. Floating through the sweet-smelling breeze, the phrases feel wrong, strangely cold.

She leans closer, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur that skirts the edge of madness. “I remember other times. Other threads where you existed. Different choices. Different paths. In some, you died quietly with Christian. In others, you ran. In one, you even won Noah’s heart for a time.” She says it like commenting on different styles of gown. “They all broke. In the end. The pressure of knowing, the weight of a story that wasn’t theirs… it always shattered them.”

Staring into me, her gaze looks less for words more for a break in the surface. She leans close, voice low, almost swallowed by silence. The warmth of her exhale brushes my skin like morning mist. A pause settles before she speaks again, soft yet steady. You’re making this harder than it needs to be, aren’t you? That question hangs without needing reply.