Pov Author (past)
The rain began before sunset.
Not the gentle kind that taps against windows like a lullaby. This rain fell with purpose — hard, unrelenting, as if the sky were trying to wash something away.
Cars crawled through the city in long streaks of red light. Water pooled along pavements, swallowing reflections of billboards and street lamps. Thunder rolled low, distant but patient.
Anna laughed.
She loved rain.
Her small shoes splashed through puddles as she ran ahead of her father toward the tall marble steps of the Museum of Ancient History.
"Papa! We're going to get soaked!"
"We already are," Mr. Brown replied, pretending to sound stern, though a smile tugged at his lips.
Lightning split the sky just as they reached the entrance. The heavy glass doors opened, and they slipped inside together, leaving the storm clawing uselessly at the windows.
The museum was warm.
Golden ceiling lights reflected softly against polished floors. The air smelled faintly of varnished wood, old paper, and something older still — preserved time.
Anna turned in a slow circle, eyes wide.
It felt like stepping into a different century.
Mr. Brown knelt and gently brushed wet strands of hair from her forehead.
"Well," he said softly, "since the world outside wants to drown us, shall we explore the worlds inside?"
Anna nodded seriously.
They began with the British gallery.
Large oil paintings lined the walls — monarchs in elaborate robes, generals on horseback, women in lace gowns standing beside velvet curtains. The frames were gilded, ornate, almost theatrical.
"See this man?" Mr. Brown said, pointing at a portrait of a king. "He ruled an empire that stretched across oceans."
Anna tilted her head. "Did he rule kindly?"
Mr. Brown paused.
"History doesn't always give us that answer," he said gently. "But it does teach us that power without kindness doesn't last."
She seemed to think about that carefully.
They moved slowly through centuries. Ancient coins. Rusted swords. Fragments of broken statues recovered from excavations. Anna didn't rush. She listened. She asked small questions, the kind children ask when they're trying to understand something bigger than themselves.
Eventually, they reached a quieter wing of the museum.
The lighting here was softer. Shadows lingered longer along the walls. The air felt still — almost watchful.
Japanese Ancient History.
At the center of the wall hung a tall painting.
The nameplate beneath it read:
Kiyoshi hitoko
The man in the painting stood composed, dressed in traditional robes that seemed to move even in stillness. His expression was calm — but not empty. There was depth in his eyes. A story.
Before the painting, encased in glass, lay a silver flute.
It was delicate. Intricate carvings spiraled along its body, catching the light faintly. It didn't look like an instrument meant for sound. It looked ceremonial. Significant.
Anna stepped closer.
She pressed her small hand gently against the glass.
"He looks like he's waiting," she whispered.
Mr. Brown studied the painting more carefully.
Waiting.
The word felt heavier than it should have.
That's when he noticed her.
A woman stood several feet away — but far closer to another painting than museum etiquette allowed. Her black dress fell straight to the floor. Her white hair hung loose down her back, unnaturally pale against the dark fabric.
She was standing almost close enough to touch the canvas.
Too close.
Mr. Brown glanced at Anna. She was still absorbed in Kiyoshi's face.
"Stay here," he said quietly.
He approached the woman politely, lowering his voice out of courtesy.
"Excuse me, Ms. You're standing a bit too close to the painting. The guards might misunderstand. It would be better to step back."
The woman turned slowly.
Her face was young — younger than he expected. Her eyes were clear. Bright.
She smiled.
"Thank you for the advice… Mr. Brown."
The smile didn't reach her eyes.
He blinked.
"I don't recall telling you my name."
"You didn't."
A small silence opened between them.
"I'm Zara," she added gently.
He nodded, unsettled but unwilling to make it awkward.
As he turned to leave, his gaze fell briefly upon the painting she had been standing near.
The name beneath it read:
Shou feng.
This painting felt different.
The man depicted here stood in darker robes, a blade partially visible at his side. His posture carried tension — readiness. His gaze was sharp, almost piercing.
"He is gorgeous, isn't he?"
Zara's voice came softly from behind him.
Mr. Brown hesitated, then gave a polite nod.
"You know what's more gorgeous?" she continued.
He sighed slightly. "I don't."
"You are."
He stiffened.
"Most men," she said lightly, "would have returned the compliment."
Her gaze shifted.
Past him.
Toward Anna.
"Is that your daughter?"
"Yes," he replied immediately, a faint smile returning. "She's my heart."
Something in Zara's expression shifted.
Almost imperceptibly.
"A girl loved by her father," she murmured. "How fortunate."
Mr. Brown's expression softened. "I'm sorry if you didn't have that."
She glanced toward the painting of Shou Feng.
"Nor he was," she said quietly.
The sentence didn't make sense.
Before he could respond, her fingers closed around his wrist.
Not gently.
Pain shot through him.
"Ms—"
The museum disappeared.
Not faded.
Not blurred.
Gone.
The air became dry.
Hot.
The sky above him was burning orange. Smoke curled upward from a city reduced to jagged skeletons of buildings. The ground beneath his shoes was cracked earth, stained dark in places that needed no explanation.
The smell hit him next.
Iron.
Ash.
Bodies lay scattered across the wasteland.
He staggered backward.
"Where— where is Anna?"
"She is not here."
Zara stood beside him, completely untouched by the devastation.
"This is a future," she said calmly. "A future I can build."
He turned desperately.
And then he saw her.
Anna.
Not small anymore.
Older.
She was stepping backward across the cracked ground, tears streaking her face.
"Papa!"
The sound tore through him.
Shou Feng approached her slowly.
The same face from the painting.
But alive.
"No…" Mr. Brown breathed.
The blade moved too fast.
Anna's scream split the sky.
He tried to run toward her.
He couldn't move.
"ANNA!"
—
"Papa!"
The museum rushed back into place.
The polished floors. The warm lights. The silence.
Anna was hugging his leg, her arms wrapped tightly around him.
"Papa!"
He was gasping.
Sweat soaked his collar.
Zara crouched slowly to Anna's level.
She brushed a strand of Anna's hair behind her ear with unsettling gentleness.
"You remind me of someone," she whispered.
She pulled a single strand free.
Mr. Brown's phone rang.
The sharp sound startled him.
He glanced down instinctively.
When he looked up—
Zara was several steps away.
In her hands was a thick, dark-covered book bound in metal.
His stomach dropped.
"No…"
She smiled.
And vanished.
Good.
Now we slow down.
We let fear sit in the room. We let silence speak. No rushing. No jumping.
We continue from the moment Zara disappears with the book.
--
For several seconds after she vanished, Mr. Brown did not move.
The museum lights hummed softly above him. Somewhere far in another wing, a child laughed. Footsteps echoed faintly across marble.
Normal sounds.
Normal world.
Anna tugged his coat.
"Papa?"
He looked down at her as if waking from underwater.
Her eyes were wide, innocent, untouched by whatever had just happened.
His breathing was uneven.
"You're shaking," she said quietly.
He forced a smile. It hurt to do it.
"I'm fine," he lied.
But when he glanced toward the painting of Shou Feng again, the warrior's eyes felt different now.
Not painted.
Watching.
---
That night the rain did not stop.
It struck the windows like fingernails. Wind pressed against the house in restless bursts. The streetlights flickered occasionally, casting long distorted shadows across the living room walls.
Anna had fallen asleep easily.
Children always do.
Mr. Brown stood in the doorway of her room for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall. The soft glow of her night lamp illuminated her face. She looked peaceful.
Untouched.
He stepped inside and sat on the edge of her bed.
His fingers hovered over her hair but did not touch it.
In his mind, he saw the vision again.
The cracked earth.
The burning sky.
The blade entering her body.
He shut his eyes tightly.
It was not real.
It couldn't be real.
But the pain in his wrist where Zara had grabbed him still lingered — faint but undeniable.
He rolled up his sleeve.
There were faint bruises forming.
Four fingerprints.
He stared at them for a long time.
---
Midnight passed.
Then one.
Then two.
Sleep refused him.
Each time he closed his eyes, the wasteland returned.
This time, it changed.
He saw Anna older again — but this time she wasn't screaming.
She was staring at him.
Disappointed.
As if asking him why he had failed her.
He jerked awake, heart hammering violently.
Beside him, his wife shifted in her sleep, unaware.
Thunder cracked again.
The lights flickered.
For a brief second, the room went dark.
In that second, he thought he saw someone standing at the foot of his bed.
White hair.
Still.
Watching.
The lights returned.
Nothing was there.
He did not sleep after that.
---
Morning came like an insult.
Too bright. Too normal.
Anna sat before the mirror in the hallway, brushing her hair with her pink princess brush.
He watched from the kitchen doorway, trying to steady himself.
Stroke.
Stroke.
Strands of hair gathered in the brush.
More than usual.
She frowned slightly.
"Papa?"
His throat tightened.
"Yes?"
"My hair feels weird."
He walked over slowly.
On the floor beneath her chair were several loose strands.
Too many.
His wife noticed too.
"That's strange," she murmured. "Maybe it's the weather."
The television in the background shifted to breaking news.
"Authorities confirm that an important historical manuscript was stolen last evening from the Museum of Ancient History. Despite fingerprints being recovered at the scene, surveillance cameras recorded no visible suspect."
Mr. Brown felt the blood drain from his face.
Fingerprints.
No footage.
Just like she wanted.
Anna turned toward him, unaware.
"Papa, can we go again someday?"
His chest tightened.
"Yes," he whispered.
If someday still existed.
---
He found Zara that afternoon.
Or rather, she found him.
He was sitting alone on a park bench, trying to breathe through the weight in his chest, when her voice slid behind him like silk over glass.
"Looking for me… dear papa?"
He stood immediately.
"Stop calling me that."
She stepped into view from behind a tree.
No rain now.
Just a quiet, overcast sky.
"You look tired," she observed.
"What are you doing to my daughter?"
"Jealousy," she answered lightly. "It's a powerful emotion."
"She is innocent."
Zara's smile thinned.
"So was I."
Silence hung between them.
"I told you," she continued softly, "I was never loved by my father."
"That is not our fault."
She stepped closer.
"But you love yours so much."
He didn't answer.
She tilted her head.
"Do you know what jealousy feels like when you are powerful?"
His voice trembled slightly. "What are you doing to her?"
"I'm thinning her connection."
"To what?"
"To this world."
The words felt like ice.
"If you don't meet me tomorrow," she continued calmly, "the future I showed you won't remain a vision."
His hands clenched.
"Where?"
She smiled.
"The temple in the hills."
Her eyes darkened slightly.
"Come alone."
---
The storm returned the next morning.
Stronger.
He tied his shoes slowly.
Anna stood near the door, hugging a stuffed rabbit.
"Papa… don't go. The weather is scary."
He knelt in front of her.
He memorized her face.
Every detail.
"I'll be back before dinner."
He kissed her forehead.
As he pulled away, a few strands of her hair clung to his coat.
He didn't notice.
She watched him from the window as he walked into the storm.
She didn't know she was watching him for the last time.
---
The temple rose from the mountains like something forgotten by time.
Stone layered with moss and creeping vines. Carvings eroded by centuries. Wind tore violently through the trees, bending them unnaturally toward the structure.
The sky above churned dark gray.
Inside, the air felt heavy.
Candles burned in a circular pattern.
At the center of the stone altar lay a severed deer's head, blood dried dark against the rock.
Above it floated the stolen book.
Metal bindings. Ancient cover.
Pages trembling slightly as if breathing.
Zara stood before it, chanting in a language that scraped against the air.
"You're here," she said without turning.
"Stop this."
She faced him slowly.
"Have you ever killed?"
"No."
"Good."
Before he could react, a blade flashed.
She sliced his palm cleanly.
He gasped.
His blood dripped into a stone bowl already filled with dark liquid.
"Blood of innocence," she murmured, gesturing to the deer.
"Blood of devotion," she nodded toward him.
She sliced her own palm next.
Black-red blood flowed unnaturally thick.
"Blood of the Red Witch and the Dark Lord."
He stared at her.
"You're insane."
She smiled faintly.
"And blood of elf."
She lifted her chin.
"I am the last elven bloodline witch."
Lightning struck outside.
She poured the mixture over the book.
The pages absorbed it.
The air shifted.
The book began to glow.
Purple.
Deep.
Violent.
The title surfaced across the cover as if carved by invisible fire:
The Legend of Shou feng.
He felt the vision returning.
Anna screaming.
"No—"
"I will bring them out," Zara whispered. "Shou Feng. His dragon. Let this world feel something."
Something broke inside him.
He lunged forward.
Grabbed the book.
And struck her across the temple with it.
She stumbled.
He ran.
Wind howled through the mountains.
He slipped down stone steps, nearly falling.
Behind him, Zara screamed — not in pain.
In rage.
He reached the city outskirts.
A mansion gate stood open from the storm.
He stumbled inside.
The wind knocked him to the ground.
The book slid from his hands.
Out of the storm, a fox emerged.
Its fur shimmered faintly gold despite the rain.
Its eyes were not animal.
They were aware.
It approached the book.
The metal lock tore free as if pulled by unseen hands.
"No!" he screamed.
The pages exploded open.
Light burst outward.
Wind stopped.
Sound stopped.
The world folded inward.
And the book swallowed him.
And the fox.
---
To be continued...