rosarin-der

[rosarin-der]

When the ground opens

It was nighttime.

The forest she was walking through was dangerous. Her grandmother always warned her about this forest. According to her, the reason her aunt went missing was because she had entered this forest. This forest carried many misfortunes within it.

Milya rolled her eyes. For about two weeks, she had been stuck in this boring town, listening to her grandmother and the townspeople’s stupid stories, suffering from terrible internet, and constantly being disturbed by curious stares. She didn’t think she looked down on the people around her. It was just that people constantly trying to socialize with her made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t used to it, and to be honest, this kind of behavior felt insincere to her.

She had left the house before her grandmother’s guests arrived, just to get some air. She just wanted to be alone, even if only for one night.

Soft music played in her headphones as she took in the fresh air. And in her mind, her grandmother’s words echoed once more:

“The forest is not a place for us. The spirits have claimed it as their domain. No one who enters can have a bright fate.”

But the girl always found her mother’s words nonsense. She believed that the era she lived in no longer had room for superstitions. And she couldn’t tie herself to some ridiculous paranormal belief like spirits.

Milya didn’t remember her aunt’s face. In fact, she didn’t remember her at all. According to what was said, her aunt had gone missing just two years after she was born. And she didn’t feel anything for the woman who had disappeared. Maybe the poor woman had spread the rumor and vanished just to escape all this nonsense?

Milya smiled at the thought. She wished her own ending could be like that.

The moon barely filtered through the hazy branches; the sound of rotting leaves crunching under her feet made Milya turn to look behind her more than once. There was a strange unease she couldn’t quite place. Even the air smelled different—like dampness, burnt wood, and an old corpse.

As much as she liked the atmosphere, something was off, and she knew it. Her breathing had grown heavier, and her muscles had started to ache. Yet it had only been fifteen minutes since she started walking. She leaned against a tree trunk to catch her breath.

Just then, her ears rang, and with a slight scream, she covered them. A scraping noise came from around her. It was too strange to belong to any animal. Milya muttered a curse and tried to gather herself to go back home, but when she looked around, all she could see were trees. She could’ve sworn she had been walking on a path just a minute ago.

The girl flinched. The scraping sound came again. It wasn’t footsteps; it was more like something dragging itself—long and wet. Milya stared into the darkness, but saw nothing. The sound wasn’t getting closer. It wasn’t moving away either. It was as if… it was all around her.

Suddenly, the ground beneath Milya’s feet gave way.

She lost her balance and fell into a pit. She wanted to scream, but something swallowed her voice. Her ears rang, and darkness drowned her surroundings. The longer she fell, the more the darkness changed colors—black turned to deep purples, red glows, and golden hues. The wind was replaced by the sound of something murmuring.

Then…

As if someone had opened her eyelids, light filled her world. But this place looked like nothing she had ever known.

The trees didn’t reach for the sky; they stretched toward the ground. The sky was purple, and the stars were beneath the earth. In the air, instead of wind, there were whispers. And right in front of her… stood a boy with glowing eyes. He was looking at her, smiling.

“You finally arrived,” said the boy. His voice was both soft and unsettling. His eyes were unrealistically pink, his freckles white. His ears were pointed. His nose was tiny. He wore a white cloak. A constant smile was on his face. The boy’s expression unnerved Milya.

“Lady Faraway has been waiting for you, my lady.”

[rosarin-der]

Every Year, the Window Closes Itself.

Her room remains untouched. But I’m the one haunted.

Today, I returned. Just like I always do.

The door to her room creaked open under my fingers, as if protesting the years of silence. The air inside was colder than the hallway, and it carried something else—something softer. Lavender. Or maybe memory.

Nothing had changed. Her bed remained untouched. The mirror was still angled slightly to the left, the way she used to leave it. Her books rested in uneven piles. Her brush still held strands of her dark hair. It looked like she had only just stepped out.

Five years. And yet this room feels closer to her than any of my memories.

I stepped inside slowly, as though I might disturb her shadow. There are days when I almost convince myself she’ll come back. That I’ll turn, and she’ll be there—smiling, real, whole.

But she doesn’t come.

I lit a candle and placed it on the vanity, in front of the mirror. It’s always the same candle. Always the same spot. Every year, on this day.

I stared at the flame. My reflection looked older now—tired eyes, shorter hair. She used to say she loved my long hair. I cut it last winter. It felt like letting go of a thread I had no right to hold.

Sometimes, I feel her.

Not in dreams. Not in stories I tell myself at night. But in this room. In the quiet flicker of candlelight. In the sudden chill near my shoulder. In the way the window is always open, no matter how many times I close it.

Sometimes, I hear things.

A breath. A whisper. My name, spoken like a memory.

Tonight, as I whispered the same words I say every year, I thought I saw the candle move.

“...Till death do us part.”

The flame swayed slightly to the left. The mirror shimmered. And though there was no voice—no sound—something inside me stirred. A thought that was not mine. A feeling I couldn’t place.

"...And till birth brings us back together."

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But my hands trembled, and my eyes burned with tears I thought I had run out of.

She’s not here. Not really.

But maybe she never left.

And maybe—just maybe—she’s waiting. Just like I am.

Maybe one day.

✨ S.