Evelyn had been stuck for days in a downward spiral, a whirlpool of dread that just wouldn’t let her go. The only light she clung to, the single moment she looked forward to every day, was when everyone finally left her house, when she could at last be alone, free to let the pain come pouring out.

  Mrs. Pina, normally the most nosy woman on the block, had shocked her by turning oddly caring, organizing shifts so Evelyn was never left on her own.

  It was crazy how the whole neighborhood had rallied around her, as if her tragedy had cracked something open, awakening an empathy they neven knew they had.

  In those dark days, even Evelyn’s publisher had come by. A man infamous for his hard-nosed, no-compromise attitude, he had stunned everyone, Evelyn most of all, by showing a softer side no one thought existed. With a strangely gentle expression, he told her the deadline for her book had been pushed back.

  “It’s the least I could do, Evelyn,” he had told her, his voice warmer than usual. “If I could, I’d bring Leyla back and erase all this pain. I still can’t believe it really happened.”

  “Thank you,” Evelyn had answered, her voice still soaked in sorrow but carrying a flicker of gratitude. “Right now, words slip through me, as if grief itself has clouded my ability to focus.”

  Evelyn had known her editor for years, but that visit had shown her a side of him she’d never glimpsed before: compassion. A simple gesture, maybe, but one that comforted her, like a breath of cool air on a suffocating summer day.

  And yet, for all the care and attention, Evelyn knew no one could truly understand the storm tearing her apart inside. By day, anxiety gnawed at her, fed by the constant terror that Leyla might already be gone.

  Only at night came fragile relief, the silence of the house letting her slip into meditation, reaching for her daughter.

  Evelyn leaned on her gift, that strange, elusive power that let her track fragments of her daughter’s life, moment by moment, through fleeting visions. And yet she couldn’t understand why Leyla remained trapped in a vegetative state. It felt as if something, or someone, was holding her back, keeping her locked away in a place even Evelyn’s gift couldn’t reach.

  The only silver lining was that since that terrible night, when her daughter had been taken, she hadn’t seen those dark figures in black again.

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  The only person who ever came close to Leyla was a middle-aged woman who appeared every five or six hours, with the unnerving punctuality of a ritual.

  She moved with a tenderness that was almost maternal, wiping Leyla’s pale face with a damp sponge, checking the feeding tube at her nose, recording her vitals in a small notebook tucked into her apron pocket.

  Before leaving, the woman always lingered for a heartbeat, as if it pained her to walk away. She would brush her hand gently across the girl’s face, then press a kiss to her forehead, a small, quiet gesture, but one that carried warmth into that frozen room.

  And still, Evelyn found no peace. The limits of her gift gnawed at her. She ached to push past the visions, to uncover who this woman really was, where she came from, and why she cared for Leyla. But without an object tied to her, every deeper attempt failed.

  Evelyn tormented herself with questions she couldn’t answer: Why isn’t Leyla hooked up to hospital equipment? Why can’t I, no matter how hard I try, pinpoint the place where they’re keeping her?

  Her gift had always let her roam freely through people’s lives, watching from the moment of their birth, to death, and even beyond, when they became spirits. But every attempt to forge a telepathic link with Leyla slammed into a wall of silence. Her daughter’s mind adrift in the dark, slipping further each time Evelyn reached out.

  She knew there was a line she couldn’t cross. The danger was real: if she pushed too far, she risked being trapped in that same darkness with her daughter, lost forever, no way out for either of them.

  Every night, once she was certain no one could disturb her, Evelyn prepared her ritual. She checked the shutters, making sure they were locked tight, then headed for the living room. The chill of the space drove her to stoke the fireplace with the driest wood she could find. She sat by the hearth, bathed in the wavering glow, waiting until the flames roared to life, shattering the silence.

  Then, with trembling hands, she arranged small candles on the carpet, shaping them into a wide circle large enough for her to lie down inside. She lit them one by one, their flickering light throwing dancing shadows across the walls, fragile shields against the crushing solitude pressing in from all sides.

  She lay down, resting Leyla’s diary on her chest, a book heavy with memories and hopes. Until exhaustion finally dragged her under, she poured every ounce of herself into reaching her daughter’s mind, shaking her, pulling her back. But each time, the void swallowed her, devouring even her hope.

  “Still nothing…” she whispered, her voice raw with frustration and the relentless ache tearing her apart. “What did they do to her? Damn it… I feel so helpless.”

  Evelyn stayed there, wrapped in the candlelight’s flicker, until tears blurred her vision and sleep gave her the only reprieve from torment.

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