Chapter 4

As dusk surrendered once more to the relentless cycle of the siblings’ days, the sun slipped beneath the horizon, draping the world in a velvet shroud of darkness. Insects stirred in the undergrowth, their rhythmic chirring rising like a living veil over the silent compound.

For Eloise, however, night arrived not as a burden but as a quiet, paradoxical uplift—an intimate promise that the long, watchful hours ahead would belong to her alone. She knew, with weary certainty, that true rest would remain elusive, stolen away by the shadows that always returned at midnight.

Before she lay down, Eloise performed her nightly ritual with deliberate care. She tore small tufts of clean cotton and gently pressed them into her ear canals, sealing herself against the unearthly noises that inevitably crept through the dark.

Then she stretched out on the thin mat, drawing the threadbare blanket over her shoulders. Her eyes closed. Her breathing slowed. Yet sleep refused to claim her. A deep yawn pulled at her jaw, then another, her body craving oblivion while her mind remained painfully, electrically awake—every sense sharpened, every instinct humming.

A sudden draft slipped through the room, cold and deliberate, brushing across her exposed skin like ghostly fingers. Beneath it, her fur rose in a slow, involuntary wave, each hair standing on end as though charged by unseen electricity. She felt it then: the unmistakable presence of a soul—weightless, watchful, ancient.

It hovered just beyond the edge of sight, pressing against the fragile boundary between worlds. Eloise forced herself to remain motionless, limbs heavy, breathing shallow and even, pretending the deep, even sleep of the innocent even as her heart hammered against her ribs.

A low creak fractured the silence. The bamboo door—woven tightly from dried stalks, hinged with nothing more than simple rope loops—had no right to make such a sound. Yet the noise came again, sharper this time, a dry, protesting groan that lifted the fine down along her spine. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, biting just hard enough to anchor herself in place, refusing to open her eyes or betray the terror blooming in her chest.

Then the slam came—violent, deafening, as if an invisible fist had driven the door against its frame with all the fury of the living. Eloise bolted upright before she could stop herself, gasping, lungs seizing in the sudden rush of air.

For several frantic heartbeats she could not breathe at all; the world narrowed to the thunder of her pulse and the stinging pressure behind her eyes. When the gasp finally tore free, it sounded far too loud in the stifling room.

She reached for the small oil lamp beside her mat, its wick trimmed low, casting a trembling amber circle that barely reached the walls. Shadows clung stubbornly to every corner.

Her wide eyes swept the space—over the woven sleeping mats of her siblings, the simple wooden chest, the thatched walls—searching for any shape that did not belong. Nothing. Only the dim, dancing light and the heavy, expectant silence.

Yet the door continued to groan, louder now, the sound rising and falling like mocking laughter. The bamboo panels shuddered visibly, though no wind stirred outside and no hand touched the rope hinges.

 Eloise’s breath came in shallow bursts as she stared, fur still bristling, the cotton plugs forgotten in her ears. Whatever walked these nights had returned, and this time it no longer bothered to hide behind the dark.

The rattling of the door grew sharper, more unnatural—a brittle, metallic scraping that bore no resemblance to the soft groan of their rope-hinged bamboo panels.

It clawed at the edges of Eloise’s sanity, echoing inside her skull like something trying to force its way in. She clapped both hands over her cotton-plugged ears, pressing hard, as if she could physically crush the sound before it devoured her.

It’s only my imagination, she told herself, the thought fracturing under the weight of rising panic. Just hallucinations… nothing more. Yet the visions fed on her fear, twisting it into something sharper, flooding her veins with a wild, electric intensity that made every heartbeat feel like a blow.

“That’s enough!” she cried, voice cracking. “Stay away from me! What have I ever done to you?”

Her hands trembled violently as the words tumbled out, slurred and broken, laced with raw desperation. Each breath came in ragged gasps, her chest heaving. Beads of cold sweat prickled across her forehead and upper lip, tracing icy paths down her temples.

Then she felt it—a presence behind her. An unearthly chill seeped through the thin fabric of her nightclothes as spectral fingers, impossibly cold, crawled slowly up her spine.

They traced the ridge of her backbone with deliberate, mocking tenderness before sliding around to her cheek, pressing against her fur like frozen bone. The touch burned and numbed at once.

Eloise froze, every muscle locked in place. She did not dare turn. Her breathing grew frantic, shallow, almost panting. Gradually the tremor began—in her shoulders first, then spreading through her arms and down her legs until her entire body shook with uncontrollable spasms.

“Ely…”

The voice was hoarse, ancient, like dry leaves scraping across stone—intimate and wrong, brushing directly against her ear.

“Ely… What is it?”

A sob tore from her throat, not born of terror alone but of utter exhaustion. The relentless interruptions, night after night, had worn her spirit raw. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she squeezed her eyes shut tighter.

Without warning, a firm hand shoved her shoulder—solid, warm, real.

Eloise jolted upright with a sharp gasp, the hallucination shattering like brittle glass. The cold touch vanished. The rattling door fell silent. She was back in the dim glow of the oil lamp, the familiar thatched walls closing around her, the sleeping forms of her siblings nearby.

“Elena!” she whispered hoarsely, reaching out.

Her younger sister knelt beside her, eyes wide with concern. Eloise’s face had drained of all color, pale as moonlit rice paper. Her lips, usually soft and full, were now bloodless, tinged with an unhealthy bluish-black hue, and cracked with dryness. Even in the feeble amber light, the signs of her ordeal were unmistakable—hollow cheeks, dilated pupils, the sheen of sweat still glistening on her fur.

“Again?” Elena murmured, her voice gentle but edged with worry. She brushed a damp strand of fur away from Eloise’s forehead. “You were dreaming again. Or… whatever this is. You have to calm your mind, Sister. Stop thinking about anything. Let it go. Nothing is here. It’s only in your head.”

Eloise stared at her sister, chest still heaving, the boundary between nightmare and waking life blurring dangerously. She wanted to believe Elena’s words. She wanted to believe it was only a dream.

But deep down, in the marrow of her bones, she knew the truth: the soul had not been dreaming with her. It had been waiting.

Elena drew her sister into a warm, steady embrace, wrapping her arms tightly around Eloise’s trembling shoulders. The hug was firm and grounding, a silent promise that she was not alone.

With gentle, practiced movements, Elena wiped the tear-streaked fur on Eloise’s cheeks and the cold sweat from her brow, her fingers discreetly brushing away every trace of distress before pulling back. She knew—perhaps better than Eloise herself—that this had not been a mere dream. The fear in the room still lingered like smoke.

“Try to rest now,” Elena whispered, pressing one last reassuring touch to her sister’s arm. She slipped back to her own mat, the woven bamboo creaking softly beneath her weight, and the room fell into fragile quiet once more.

Eloise remained sitting upright for several long minutes, shoulders hunched, drawing slow, deliberate breaths to steady the wild rhythm of her heart.

 Each exhale carried a fragment of tension, yet the exhaustion pressed down on her like a physical weight—the relentless nightly siege by forces that had no place in the human world. Finally, she lowered herself onto the thin mat, curling inward, willing her body to surrender.

For a few blessed minutes, silence reigned. She dared to hope that sleep might finally claim her.

Then it began again.

A sharp, dry crackling sound slithered along the thatched walls—slow, deliberate scratches, as though long, razor-sharp nails were dragging across the woven reeds and bamboo supports.

The noise circled the small room with eerie patience, sometimes pausing, sometimes intensifying, like something searching for a way inside.

Eloise clenched her jaw and refused to open her eyes. It’s only in my head, she repeated silently, a desperate mantra. Fantasies. Nothing more. Even when faint, sibilant whispers brushed against the edges of her hearing—wordless, insidious murmurs that seemed to coil around her name—she forced herself to remain perfectly still, breathing evenly, willing her racing mind to quiet. Calm. She only needed calm.

Gradually the scratching faded. The whispers dissolved into the night. A heavy, almost expectant silence settled over the room, broken only by the distant chorus of insects. Eloise allowed herself a small, weary sigh of relief. Finally. This was her moment. Her tired body could rest.

She reached for her old, threadbare blanket and drew it slowly over herself, tucking the frayed edges around her shoulders. The familiar weight should have brought comfort.

Instead, a foul odor assaulted her nostrils—thick, rancid, and unnaturally close. It carried the stench of rot and damp earth, of something long dead left to fester in the dark. She wrinkled her nose and turned sharply onto her left side, pressing her face into the mat in an attempt to escape it.

The smell followed.

Stronger now, it clung to the air directly beside her, invading her lungs with every breath. Eloise hesitated, then cautiously lifted a corner of the blanket to her nose. The odor hit her like a physical blow—cloying, stomach-turning, unmistakably wrong.

She sniffed again, disbelief flooding through her. This was her blanket. She had washed it herself only two days earlier, scrubbing it thoroughly in the river before hanging it in the bright, cleansing sunlight until it smelled of nothing but warm fabric and fresh air.

Yet now it reeked as though it had been dragged through a grave.

Her pulse quickened once more. She lay motionless beneath the tainted blanket, eyes wide in the dim lamplight, the comforting illusion of safety shattering around her. The soul had not left. It had simply changed its tactics—slipping from sound into scent, from shadow into the very thing meant to protect her.

And it was lying right beside her.

Elena flung the foul-smelling blanket away with a sharp, disgusted motion. It landed in a crumpled heap on the earthen floor, releasing one final waft of decay into the air. Desperate for any barrier between herself and the lingering stench, she reached across the narrow space and tugged her sister’s blanket toward her. Elena stirred with a soft murmur, shifting in her sleep as the fabric slid away, but Eloise could not stop herself.

She pulled the clean blanket over her body and pressed close, wrapping her arms around Elena’s sleeping form in a tight, almost desperate embrace. The warmth of her sister’s back against her chest anchored her, a fragile shield of living flesh and familiar heartbeat. Only then, curled against Elena like a frightened child, did she dare close her eyes again.

Beyond the usual nightly symphony of insects—crickets pulsing, geckos chirping, distant frogs calling—new and far more sinister sounds pierced the darkness. Low, wet scraping. Hollow knocks against the bamboo supports. A faint, childlike giggle that dissolved into a sigh.

Each one jolted through her like electricity. Eloise clenched her jaw, muscles rigid, willing the disturbances to cease. She wanted nothing more than to scream at the unseen presence, to demand it leave her in peace, yet she had no idea where to begin or how to fight something that had no body, no name, and no mercy.

Morning light filtered weakly through the gaps in the thatched roof, pale and unforgiving. The joyful spark that once brightened Eloise’s face had vanished, replaced by the stark toll of endless haunted nights. Heavy, purplish-black bags hung beneath her bloodshot eyes, the whites now threaded with red veins from exhaustion.

Her cheeks sagged with fatigue and stress, giving her usually vibrant features a hollow, defeated cast. Even her nose seemed pinched, the delicate lines around it etched with quiet sorrow.

Still, when Elena began to stir, Eloise forced a smile onto her lips—thin, fragile, and unconvincing. She needed her sister. She needed someone to help her carry this burden before it crushed her completely.

“Good morning, Ely,” Elena greeted softly, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Eloise nodded and slowly pushed herself upright. The moment she rose, her vision tunneled and darkened at the edges. The room tilted violently. She swayed, catching herself on one arm as dizziness crashed over her like a wave. Sleep had been little more than a series of broken fragments for nearly a week now, and her body was beginning to rebel.

She knew what this meant. Today, she would have to seek help—someone who understood these things: the village healer, perhaps, or the old doctor who lived beyond the rice fields.

She blinked hard, forcing her eyes open again. For a long moment she simply lay there, staring at the woven pattern of the ceiling, willing the dizziness to pass. Then, with gritted teeth, she pushed herself up once more. The world steadied. She felt almost normal.

As she sat on the edge of the mat, smoothing her rumpled clothes, her gaze drifted across the room and locked onto the far wall. There, perfectly still against the pale bamboo, perched a single butterfly.

Its wings were a deep, velvety black edged with iridescent blue, opening and closing slowly in the gentle morning light. It did not flutter or fly away. It simply waited, beautiful and unnaturally calm, as though watching her with silent, knowing patience.

Eloise’s forced smile faded. A fresh chill traced down her spine. Even in daylight, the soul had found a new messenger.

Eloise’s gaze locked onto the butterfly with hypnotic intensity. She could not look away. Its wings, once a shimmering velvet black edged in electric blue, began to quiver unnaturally. One by one, they detached and drifted downward like dying leaves, revealing a soft, pulsating body beneath.

In seconds the delicate creature had transformed into something grotesque: a fat, glistening worm the length of her forearm, its pale, segmented flesh slick with viscous fluid. It writhed slowly against the bamboo wall, leaving a faint, iridescent trail behind it.

Then came the others.

Dozens more worms erupted from hidden crevices in the thatch and bamboo, spilling forth like a living infestation. They crawled with deliberate, rippling motion—some thick and pale, others dark and glistening—descending the wall in obscene waves, their tiny hooked bristles scraping softly against the woven surface. They moved straight toward her.

Eloise’s eyes widened in raw horror. Her entire body stiffened, every muscle locking into rigid paralysis. Air seized in her throat; she could barely draw breath. Her chest tightened as though an invisible hand had clamped around her lungs. The worms continued their inexorable advance, some already dropping onto the floor with soft, wet plops, inching closer across the earthen ground.

The worst terror was the certainty that they were coming for her—aimed with unnatural purpose at her bare feet, her legs, her face. She tried to scream, but her jaw remained clenched, throat paralyzed.

A strange, heavy hypnosis had settled over her, dulling her will even as her mind shrieked in silent panic. In the depths of her consciousness, her muscles twitched and trembled violently, yet her limbs refused every command to move.

She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners. Desperation drove her inward. With every fragment of remaining strength, she turned to the only refuge she had left.

Her hands shook uncontrollably as she forced her palms together in a trembling prayer. She pressed them tightly against her chest, knuckles white, whispering the words with ferocious intensity inside her fracturing mind.

Almighty God, I trust in You. Help me escape this nightmare. Lord… please… deliver me… Amen.

Even as she prayed, she felt it—the first cold, slimy touch. A thick worm brushed against her ankle, then another crawled slowly up her calf. One reached her neck and began probing the delicate fur behind her ear. She could sense another forcing its way toward her nostril, its segmented body contracting and expanding with wet, obscene rhythm.

The sensations were sickeningly vivid—clammy, writhing, invasive—yet she remained frozen, trapped between faith and terror, her silent prayer growing more frantic with every passing second.

Lord… help me…

The words echoed desperately through the darkness behind her closed eyes, the only weapon she still possessed.

Panting heavily, Eloise doubled forward on the edge of the mat, hands braced against her knees as she fought to reclaim her breath. Each inhale came sharp and ragged, her chest heaving with the aftermath of terror. The grotesque vision of the worms finally dissolved, peeling away from her sight like a malignant film lifted from her eyes.

She knew—rationally, painfully—that it had all been an illusion, another cruel trick woven by whatever haunted her. Yet knowing the truth offered little comfort. Escaping its grip grew harder with every passing night; the boundary between reality and torment had begun to fray.

Elena’s voice broke the heavy silence, soft with confusion and rising worry.

 “Ely… what’s wrong with you?” She sat up fully now, eyes searching her sister’s face. “Your strange behavior is happening more and more often lately. Is something bothering you? Please tell me.”

There was a mixture of deep concern and quiet fear in Elena’s touch as she reached out and gently caressed Eloise’s back in slow, soothing circles. Her fingers trembled slightly. In the back of her mind, Elena wondered whether the mounting troubles weighing on their family—the quiet hardships, the unspoken tensions—were slowly unraveling her older sister’s sanity.

Eloise remained still for a moment, gathering herself, then turned to face her sister.

“Elena… there are things I can’t speak about yet,” she said, her voice low and measured. “I need to see a doctor first. Someone who can help us understand what this is.”

Elena’s eyes widened, glistening with sudden tears.

 “What do you mean? Are you sick?” Her voice cracked, fragile and afraid, as fresh worry etched itself across her young features.

Eloise turned fully toward her, summoning the gentlest smile she could manage. It was sweet, tender, and deliberately reassuring. She reached out and took Elena’s hand in both of hers, squeezing it warmly, her thumbs stroking the back of her sister’s palm in a calming rhythm. The simple contact seemed to ease some of the tension in the air.

“No, Elena, I’m not sick,” she said softly, her tone steady and full of quiet strength. “Don’t worry, little sister. I’m always here for you—no matter what. I just… I’m facing something right now. Something I can’t fully explain until I have a clearer answer. I promise I’ll tell you everything once I understand it myself. For now, trust me. I’m going to be okay.”

Elena searched her sister’s eyes for a long moment, the tears still threatening to spill. Though the words offered some comfort, the shadow of uncertainty lingered between them, heavy and unspoken. Outside, the morning light continued to strengthen, yet inside the modest room, the weight of unseen forces pressed on, waiting patiently for nightfall once again.

“Okay,” Elena said softly, her voice steady despite the worry clouding her eyes. “But if you need help—any kind of help—just tell me. I’m right here, and I’m ready.”

Eloise managed a faint nod. “Thank you. But George and I will handle this together. We’ll drop you off at his mother’s house first so I can see the doctor without worrying about you being alone.”

Elena’s small face brightened with quiet resolve. “No problem, Ely. I promise I’ll pray for you the whole time.”

Eloise pulled her sister into a tight embrace, wrapping her arms around Elena’s slender shoulders and pressing her cheek to the soft fur on top of her head. For a long moment they simply held each other, drawing strength from the warmth and familiar scent of family. Though the world around them felt increasingly unstable, the two of them—against all odds—could still be each other’s anchor.

An hour later, the low rumble of a motorbike engine broke the morning quiet. George arrived, his weathered vehicle kicking up a light trail of dust as he pulled up outside their modest bamboo home. After a brief, gentle explanation, they helped Elena gather a few belongings and set off together.

The journey began early, the sun still low and golden over the rice paddies. They first rode to George’s family home on the far side of the village, where his mother waited with open arms and a kind smile. Elena gripped Eloise’s hand tightly before stepping down from the motorbike, her small fingers squeezing with surprising strength, offering one final pulse of stability and love.

Eloise returned the grip, then leaned down and gave her sister a warm, reassuring smile. “I’ll be back soon,” she whispered. With that, she turned away, climbing back onto the bike behind George. She did not look back as they pulled onto the narrow dirt path, though her heart ached at the separation.

The road ahead wound through lush green fields and thickening forest before descending toward the wide, slow-moving river that separated their village from the nearest town. George drove carefully, the motorbike’s engine humming steadily beneath them. Wind rushed past, carrying the scent of damp earth, blooming wildflowers, and distant water.

Yet Eloise could not relax. Her arms remained wrapped around George’s waist, but her mind churned with nervous anticipation. Every bump in the road sent a fresh ripple of unease through her.

 What would the doctor say? Would he dismiss her visions as mere stress or exhaustion? Or would he recognize something darker—something that no medicine could cure?

The mystery that had haunted her nights now sat heavily on her shoulders, pressing down with every kilometer they traveled. As the river came into view, its broad surface glittering under the morning sun, Eloise closed her eyes for a moment and whispered a silent prayer—the same one that had failed to save her the night before.

Whatever awaited her in the town beyond the water, she hoped it would finally bring answers.

Exhaustion clawed at Eloise with every passing minute. The relentless barrage of visions had worn her spirit thin, leaving her nerves frayed and her body heavy despite the bright morning light. Even the steady, low rumble of the motorbike beneath her offered no comfort. The wind whipping past her face only heightened her unease, carrying faint, phantom whispers she could no longer trust.

Then, without warning, a figure materialized on the road ahead.

A woman in a flowing white dress stepped out from the dense foliage lining the narrow path, moving with eerie, deliberate calm directly into their lane. Her long hair drifted as though suspended in water, and her face remained hidden in shadow.

Eloise’s heart slammed against her ribs like a caged animal desperate to escape. For one terrifying second, she was certain George would strike the apparition head-on.

“George, stop!” she screamed, her voice raw with panic.

She seized his shoulders from behind, shaking him violently. Startled by the sudden cry and the desperate grip, George slammed on the brakes. The motorbike skidded sharply on the loose gravel, rear wheel fishtailing before the entire vehicle lost balance. In a chaotic blur of motion, it overturned, throwing both of them onto the dusty roadside.

The impact rattled Eloise’s bones. She tumbled across the dirt, scraping her elbows and knees, but felt no real pain—only the overwhelming surge of adrenaline and terror. George was on his feet in an instant, rushing to her side. He crouched beside her, strong hands gently helping her sit up.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice tight with worry. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Eloise’s knees trembled uncontrollably as she tried to stand. Her legs refused to support her weight, quivering like reeds in a storm. She clung desperately to George’s arm, fingers digging into his sleeve, before sinking back down onto the grassy edge of the road. Her chest heaved with shallow, frantic breaths that bordered on suffocation.

“N-nothing, George,” she stammered, forcing the words out. “I’m… I’m fine.”

But she was far from fine. Even in the harsh daylight, the hallucinations had found her. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one laced with the lingering grip of fear. Cold sweat beaded along her spine and dampened the fur at her temples.

George knelt in front of her, searching her face.

“Did you see something strange?” he asked quietly, his tone careful, as if afraid of the answer.

Eloise nodded slowly, eyes darting back toward the empty road. She blinked hard—once, twice, a hundred times—willing the vision to reappear so she could prove to herself it had been real. Nothing. The path stretched ahead, barren and sunlit, bordered only by swaying grasses and silent trees. No woman. No white dress. No footprints in the dust.

It had been another cruel trick of her mind.

She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, fighting the rising wave of despair. The soul—no, whatever this was—had followed her into the daylight. There was no escape, not even here, miles from home, beneath a clear and open sky.

George righted the overturned motorbike with a grunt, brushing dust from the handlebars and inspecting it quickly. Miraculously, neither of them had been seriously injured—only a few scrapes and bruises. The engine sputtered back to life on the second kick. He glanced once more down the empty road, then climbed back on, offering Eloise a steady hand.

They resumed their journey in tense silence, the wheels humming over the rutted path toward the old doctor’s home on the far side of the river. Yet Eloise could no longer pretend everything was normal.

A cold, creeping certainty settled in her chest: traveling like this was dangerous. The presence haunting her had already followed her into daylight. If another vision struck at the wrong moment—while crossing the river, on a narrow bridge, or along a steep ravine—her panic could kill them both.

She sighed shakily and tightened her grip on George’s shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as though he were the only solid thing left in her fracturing world.

She longed to close her eyes and shut out the passing scenery, but the fear of what her mind might conjure in the darkness behind her lids was even greater.

What if the next hallucination was worse? What if she opened her eyes to something already inside her thoughts, already touching her?

The road gradually widened as they approached the boundary between their quiet village and the larger town beyond. Ahead rose the long, weathered wooden bridge that spanned the wide river, its thick planks worn smooth by years of foot traffic, bicycles, and the occasional motorbike. Sunlight glinted off the slow-moving water far below. The structure swayed ever so slightly in the breeze, cables creaking like old bones.

Eloise’s breath caught.

There, midway across the bridge, stood a man.

He was dressed in a faded gray shirt and worn trousers, his posture rigid as he gripped the railing and leaned dangerously far outward. His face was turned away, but the intent was unmistakable—he was preparing to jump.

Eloise’s heart slammed violently against her ribs, a surge of adrenaline flooding her veins. The pressure in her chest became unbearable. She could not let another tragedy unfold before her eyes, real or not.

“George… George, please stop for a while!” she cried, her voice cracking with urgency.

The motorbike slowed as George twisted his head slightly.

“Why?” he called back, confusion and concern sharpening his tone. He began easing the bike toward the side of the road just before the bridge’s entrance, the engine’s low rumble mixing with the distant rush of the river below.

Eloise stared past him, eyes locked on the solitary figure balanced on the edge of the railing. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Was he real? Was this another cruel illusion sent to torment her—or was a man truly about to end his life in front of her?

She didn’t know anymore. And that uncertainty terrified her most of all.

Eloise leaned forward, gently but urgently shaking George’s shoulder. “Please, we have to stop him!” Her voice trembled with desperation. “He’s going to jump!”

George pulled the motorbike over immediately, braking at the side of the road just before the bridge’s entrance. The engine died with a soft sputter. Before he could even steady the kickstand, Eloise slid off the seat and broke into a frantic run toward the bridge.

“Eloise, wait!” George called after her, but she was already gone.

Her heart pounded violently as she sprinted across the weathered wooden planks, eyes fixed on the spot where the man had been standing only moments ago. The river churned far below, its dark waters glittering coldly in the sunlight.

Yet when she reached the center of the bridge, the railing was empty. No figure. No sign of struggle. Only the faint creak of cables swaying in the breeze and the endless flow of water beneath.

Stunned, she rushed to the edge and gripped the rough wooden railing, leaning dangerously far out to scan the riverbank and the swirling currents below. Nothing. She spun around, searching the length of the bridge in both directions—upstream, downstream, the opposite shore. The man had vanished as though he had never existed.

“Eloise, be careful! Don’t go near there!” George shouted, his voice sharp with fear as he ran after her.

She heard nothing. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts while she clutched the railing tighter, eyes darting wildly. Once again, her own sight had betrayed her. The cruel illusion had dissolved into empty air, leaving only the mocking emptiness of daylight and the distant call of birds.

A low, broken sound escaped her throat. She pressed both hands to her head, fingers digging into her fur as if trying to hold her fracturing mind together. Her knees buckled. For a terrifying moment, she looked utterly lost—mentally unraveling beneath the weight of visions no one else could see.

Strong arms wrapped around her from behind.

George pulled her gently but firmly away from the railing and into his chest, hugging her tightly. His embrace was warm, solid, and full of quiet pity. He rested his chin on the top of her head, holding her as she trembled against him.

“Come on, love,” he whispered, his voice low and steady against her ear. “Don’t pay attention to the things you see. We’ll only make it worse if you let the emotions take control. Fight back. Don’t surrender to these imaginations. You’re stronger than this.”

Eloise closed her eyes and leaned into his support, drawing in a shaky breath. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her back slowly eased the storm inside her. His words, though simple, anchored her. For the first time in days, she felt a fragile thread of relief.

She couldn’t deny the passion burning inside her—the fierce refusal to let these visions destroy her. Life mattered too much. There was still hope waiting on the other side of this nightmare, no matter how dark the path had become. As long as George stood beside her and Elena waited for her return, she would keep fighting.

She nodded weakly against his chest, voice barely audible.

“I’ll try… I promise I’ll try.”

George held her a moment longer, then gently guided her back toward the waiting motorbike. The bridge stretched ahead—empty, sunlit, and deceptively peaceful. But both of them knew the real battle was only just beginning.