Monstrum

Chapter 5: Nightfall

The candles sputtered in the suffocating dark, casting twisted, fleeting shapes that stretched and quivered along the walls. Shadows without form, restless and hungry, like memories clawing for a place in the present. Chante's movements mirrored them-driven by a need she couldn't name, she paced endlessly, her footfalls dragging like the slow tick of a dying clock. Every step dug deeper into the floorboards, wearing them down as if the house itself was trying to swallow her grief, as though the foundation might break and spill her into some unseen abyss. Her thoughts echoed within the hollow walls, each one returning, unanswered, like the haunting of something long dead but not yet buried.

Again, she wandered to the window. The glass was cold under her fingers, but it wasn't just the chill of autumn's creeping hand. It was a cold that sank deeper, as if the very soul of the house had withdrawn into the stone, abandoning warmth altogether. She pressed her forehead to the pane, as if trying to melt through the barrier between her and the outside, her breath briefly clouding the view before vanishing into the stillness. Her eyes strained into the thick gloom beyond the iron gate, hoping for movement. But the night stretched before her like a desolate painting, frozen in its melancholy hues-colors bled dry, the world beyond trapped in a lifeless stasis.

"Come home, Papa." The words swirled within her chest, stuck like ash at the back of her throat. She didn't dare let them escape, for fear they'd dissolve into the air, as fragile as the hope she clung to. She could almost see him there, beyond the edge of her vision-a figure moving through the mist, his cane tapping softly against the stones, his smile breaking the world open with warmth. For a fleeting moment, she saw it, felt it-believed it. But the moment passed, and the road remained empty. The mist remained unbroken.

The rain had begun to fall, soft and indifferent, the only sound in a world that had forgotten its own voice. No footsteps stirred the dirt. No shadows shifted behind the gate. The lamplight at the entrance glowed weakly, like a heartbeat that was fading, its flame a solitary thing drowning in the cold weight of the night.

Chante pulled back from the window, her breath leaving ghostly trails across the glass before disappearing entirely. For a moment, the past rose like a phantom, unbidden but relentless. She was no longer in this house but another-one filled with laughter and the scent of wildflowers. She was chasing her father down a dirt path, her small hands clutching crushed petals and her heart soaring in the simple joy of it. His figure was always just a step ahead, his hand reaching back, strong, warm, pulling her forward into the light.

But the image collapsed too soon, like brittle paper disintegrating in her hands. The small girl faded, and with her, the warmth-the memory slipping through her fingers, swallowed by the unforgiving present. And yet, in the quiet stillness of the room, the echo of that child lingered. Chante felt her presence like a weight on her shoulders, pulling her down into herself, dragging her beneath the surface of her own grief. The strength she had always tried to hold onto crumbled like so much dust. Her heart, once bright and full, now felt hollow, heavy as stone. She was drowning in the stillness, each breath pulling her deeper into a sea of loss that had no shore. Mercy was a language she no longer knew how to speak.

Her hand dropped from the glass, her body shaking with the effort to hold herself together. She turned slowly, eyes sweeping over the room that had once been a home. Now, it was a mausoleum-its cold emptiness pressing in on her, the air thick with the weight of things left undone, unsaid. Where a bright fire once danced, there lay nothing but bitter ash, a scent permated every corner. The walls themselves seemed to sag with grief, as if they, too, had given up, their memories collapsing in on themselves like rooms forgotten.

The clock, ancient and dignified, stood silent and still, its hands frozen in place. Time had abandoned this house, as if it knew there was nothing left to count. Her father's chair by the fire, empty now, sat in eternal vigil beside it. The mantle above, once adorned with life, had become a shrine to the abandoned.