Carved Truth, Hidden Lies

Chapter 2

"I really thought it was a bad guy or a ghost. I just didn’t see her because she was so small," I muttered to myself while making tea.

“Here’s your tea, Mrs. White,” I said, serving it to her carefully.

“It’s already midnight—why didn’t you go home and come back tomorrow?” I asked.

She took a sip of the tea before replying.

“It’s just… Ms. Dayana, I have something important to tell you. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but it couldn’t wait.” My eyebrows knitted in curiosity and concern.

“Is there an emergency, Mrs. White? Please, just tell me,” I said worriedly.

“Ms. Dayana, I want you to be careful. After I left earlier, I noticed a man dressed in all black lurking outside your house. I didn’t confront him, but I waited until he was gone,” she said, visibly nervous.

“Please, Ms. Dayana, protect yourself. I’m truly scared for you. This might sound strange, but if you see any carvings or words on your walls, consider it a warning. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about the Guardian of Vigilant.” she added'

“Yes, if I’m not mistaken, her name is Sentinelia, right?” I replied.

Mrs. White’s eyes were red; she must not have been sleeping well lately, and now she likely wouldn’t sleep peacefully tonight either. She reached out and held my hand tightly, as if she were genuinely afraid for my safety.

She was so kind—I wished she were my mother.

“I should go now, Ms. Dayana, but don’t forget what I’ve told you,” she said as she stood, giving me a tight hug before leaving and closing the door behind her.

The Guardian of Vigilant… Yes, I had heard about her. Since I arrived here, people have spoken of her, of how her warnings have helped them prepare for danger. She must be an angel.

My curiosity got the best of me, so I looked her up online.

"Wow… she's amazing," I murmured.

Sentinelia was an artist who loved reading, though I read that she resented her ability to predict the future. Yet, she used it for good, warning people in unique ways—by carving images into walls.

Apparently, she had been sent here with a mission to protect the area. But a part of me still found it hard to believe.

"She must be sick and tired of a life with no excitement,” I thought. “Maybe that’s why she travels. And yet, of all places, she chose to be here." There had to be a reason behind it.

But then Mrs. White’s warning about the man outside my house crept back into my mind. I hadn’t paid much attention to it earlier, but the more I thought about it, the more unsettled I felt.

I really needed to start locking the door more often. “Oh, Dayana, don’t overthink it. It’s probably just a thief,” I whispered to myself.

I was downstairs, drinking coffee, when Lilia came down the stairs. “You’re up? It’s only 1 a.m. Go back to sleep,” I said. She must have woken up from all the commotion.

“Sis, I’m hungry,” she replied.

I went to the kitchen to make her some cereal—her favorite. “Here, eat up,” I said as I handed her the bowl.

“Thank you, sis,” she murmured, starting to eat.

Lilia is only eight, and we’re ten years apart. I was sent to the orphanage first, and she came later.

They told me she was my sister, but I knew it the moment I saw her—we looked so much alike.

She was three when she arrived, just as I had been, so neither of us remembers what our parents looked like.

The nuns told us that our parents were working hard to ensure we wouldn’t have to struggle in the future.

They sacrificed seeing their daughters for our future, sending money to the orphanage as payment for our care. It felt painful, almost bitter, remembering those days.

“Sis, who were the visitors earlier?” Lilia asked suddenly.

I looked at her, confused. “There was only one visitor, the housekeeper,” I replied.

“But, sis, I looked out the window earlier and saw a man holding something sharp outside the door,” she said. A chill ran through me. “Tell me more, Lilia.”

“I woke up because I was thirsty, and I thought the moon was so pretty, so I looked out the window and saw the man holding something sharp. And, sis, I loved his boots! They were blue—my favorite color. But then I went back to bed because I was really sleepy,” she said innocently.

A man holding a knife, wearing blue boots… That description stirred something deep within me, bringing up memories I’d tried to bury.

A tear slipped down my cheek.

“He’s here. He’s back. And he’s going to try to hurt me again.”