Alice's beautiful face was hidden behind a wall of flowers. She had always taken care of the grand florist shop at the circus, memorizing exactly what each plant needed to survive. Every bloom held a secret, a whisper of life that only she understood.
Birds chirped overhead as she arranged the flowers, her fingers delicately placing them into a large pot. Lost in the rhythm of her work, memories from her childhood surfaced like ghosts. When she was a little girl, she used to put a birdcage on her head and mimic the sounds of the birds trapped inside. Back then, she truly believed cages were homes—because the only birds she had ever seen were the ones locked behind bars at the circus.
Unlike other children, Alice never flapped her arms, pretending to fly. She believed she could become a bird simply by wearing its prison.
The thought sent a strange shiver through her. A stray lock of golden hair fell into her eyes, snapping her back to the present. And then, she saw him.
He stood just beyond the flowers, unaware that she was watching. His straight black hair was short at the sides, his thick eyebrows shadowing piercing light-green eyes. Even from a distance, his presence was magnetic. She would have given up this entire shop just to stand a little closer, just to watch those eyes.
But no matter how much she looked at him, Damon's gaze never once met hers.
One Month Later
Gazelle woke to the sound of rain drumming against the earth. She walked to the nearest stream to bathe, ignoring the downpour. When you have nothing left, what is a little rain?
She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering as lightning split the sky. One hand reached for the back of her neck, tracing an old ache. Tears mixed with the rain, her sobs drowned out by the growl of the storm.
Hours passed before the storm finally stopped. She stood up, brushing the tears away with the back of her hand. Though her body was drenched, she didn't feel cold. The forest had toughened her. Wading through the stream, water lapping at her waist, she tilted her face toward the sky. When the clouds finally parted, and the sun kissed her skin, she smiled—a raw, unpracticed smile, as if she were doing it for the very first time.
After dressing in her freshly washed clothes, she gathered her few belongings and set off for the hut deep in the forest. Along the way, she picked daisies and sunflowers, cradling them gently in her hands. She never brushed away the spiderwebs woven between the petals. Unlike others, she understood nature's delicate balance and refused to disturb it.
She rarely picked flowers—believing they were happiest in the wild. But there were days, unbearable days, when the pain clawed too deep, and only the act of uprooting something could soothe the ache inside her. A small attempt to silence the chaos within.
Near the spot where she had left the old man's horse, hunger gnawed at her stomach. She sighed, drawing the bow and arrow from her back, squinting against the sunlight. She loosed an arrow, and moments later, a large bird fell from the sky. Gazelle approached the lifeless creature, gripping it by the legs before pulling the arrow free. She tied a rope around its feet and slung it over her shoulder. She was ready to go home.
The shot had been perfect. It came naturally to her, the first clean shot she had made since childhood. Her father had once forced her into survival training, dragging her into the woods, making her practice until her fingers bled. She had hated it. Hated his voice, his relentless expectations. She had sworn she would never master the bow. And yet, here she was, the very daughter he had shaped.
She climbed onto the horse and rode through the forest. Branches clawed at her arms, leaving thin scratches on her skin. She didn't flinch. Only two silent tears fell, trailing down her face. She didn't wipe them away.
For a month, she had searched for him. For a month, she had begged, pleaded, and questioned every soul she met, but they only looked at her as if she were mad. They avoided her. They ran.
The previous owner of the hut must have been an artist. The storage room was filled with paintings. Gazelle rummaged through the forgotten supplies, finally digging out a canvas and some paints. She painted to keep herself sane, to silence the screams in her head.
Kneeling on the wooden floor, surrounded by splashes of color, she let her brush move on its own. Her hands knew what to do before her mind did. When she finally took a step back, her breath caught in her throat.
The raven-haired man stared back at her from the canvas. Again.
Fury surged through her. With a single motion, she flung the painting across the room, sending it crashing against the wall. But it wasn't enough. She stormed outside, slamming the hut's door behind her. Her hands clenched at her sides, shaking.
"Give me a reason," she whispered, her voice trembling. The wind tangled her dark brown hair as she bowed her head, biting back a sob.
"How do you know who I am?"
Sleep. That was what she needed. To escape his face. But even in her dreams, he found her.
Sharp brown eyes pinned her in place. They held no warmth, only something deeper, something that made her chest tighten.
Her heart twisted. Why wasn't he smiling? Why did he look at her as if she were his enemy? And most terrifying of all—why had she only just realized it?
He had regained consciousness.
The man who should have remained a mere figment of ink and paper.
"I didn't create you," she whispered in horror.
"You created your own story, and I have no place in it."
But the dream didn't end. His voice reached her, sharp as steel and soft as shadows.
"I was always there. You just never saw me."
And then she woke up, gasping. Coughing.
Someone stood over her, their presence dark and undeniable.
She knew him.
She had spent a month chasing ghosts, only to finally find him standing right before her.
The raven-haired man. The way out of this world.