Crimson stained the paper. Not paint. Not crayon. A visceral, wet sheen pulsed from the thorny rose Lyra had drawn. Elara's breath hitched, a dry gasp catching in her throat. Her fingers trembled, tracing the outline of the wilting petals, a chilling dampness clinging to the tips.
This wasn't just a child's drawing anymore. It was a wound, fresh and weeping, a direct affront. A knot of ice formed in her stomach, then spread, chilling her veins. The 'Mama, the lady sings to me' scrawled beneath it now twisted into a taunt.
How could it bleed? The paper felt normal, dry beneath the vibrant, almost luminous red. Her eyes darted around the quiet, dust-filled attic, seeking an explanation. There was none. Only the spectral glow of the single lantern, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like mocking spirits.
Lyra's hand, small and innocent, had drawn this. The thorny rose, Lyra's favorite flower, now twisted into something sinister. It wasn't merely a memory. It was a message. A sick, twisted message from the Cradle Witch herself.
Fury coiled in Elara's gut. A raw, burning anger, hotter than any grief she had known. The Witch wasn't just taking children. She was playing. Taunting. Using Lyra's image, Lyra's love, as a weapon against her.
Clenching her jaw, Elara felt the tremor in her hands morph from fear into a fierce resolve. This wasn't about finding Lyra anymore. It was about retribution. The entity had crossed a line, desecrating the last innocent remnant of her child.
She stared at the bleeding rose, its thorns seeming to deepen, to grow sharper, almost as if tearing the very fabric of the paper. A faint, almost imperceptible whisper seemed to emanate from the drawing itself, a sound like rustling dry leaves, or a distant, mournful sigh.
No. Elara shook her head, dispelling the auditory illusion. It was the wind outside, rattling the loose pane. Or her mind, fracturing under the strain.
Still, the urgency gnawed at her. An unseen clock was ticking. Each drop of crimson, real or imagined, felt like a moment lost, a life endangered. The Witch was active. She was here. She was watching.
The drawing, Lyra's innocent creation, had become a conduit. A vile, personal affront. The Witch knew. She knew Lyra was Elara's child. She knew the power that memory held. And she was wielding it, twisting it into a barbed hook meant to tear at Elara's soul.
Pushing to her feet, Elara paced the cramped attic space. The drawing remained on the floor, a malevolent eye fixed upon her. Every instinct screamed at her to destroy it, to erase the image that had become so tainted. But another, more potent urge held her back. This was a link. A direct line to her tormentor.
She needed to understand it. Needed to understand *her*. The Witch. What did the bleeding rose signify? Sacrifice? Pain? A twisted form of beauty? Lyra had loved roses. Had the Witch twisted that innocent love into a symbol of her own dark power?
Memories flooded Elara's mind: Lyra, barely four, giggling as she pressed a thorny wild rose into Elara's palm, proclaiming it the most beautiful flower in the world. Lyra, humming a nonsensical tune, her small fingers smudged with dirt from the garden.
Then, the cold, empty crib. The silence. The overwhelming dread. Elara pressed her palms to her temples, trying to steady the swirling chaos within her.
This rage, this burning need to strike back, it was new. It was dangerous. But it also felt right. It felt like the only way forward. Grief had paralyzed her for years. Fear had kept her cautious. Now, only pure, unadulterated fury remained.
She couldn't let the Witch win this psychological battle. Couldn't let her revel in Elara's pain. The drawing was a challenge. And Elara was ready to accept.
She snatched up the drawing, her fingers brushing against the unnaturally cool paper. The crimson seemed to pulse under her touch. Holding it at arm's length, she narrowed her eyes. There was something else, too. A faint, almost sickly sweet scent. Not of roses. More like...decaying blooms. Withered lilies.
Why lilies? They were funeral flowers. A shiver ran down her spine. The Witch was not just mocking her; she was already mourning Elara's demise. Or Lyra's. Or both.
Elara stalked downstairs, her boots thudding heavily on the wooden steps. Each step was a declaration. The house felt colder, somehow. More watchful. As if the entity had extended its reach, its presence now permeating the very air around her.
In the hearth of her small living room, embers still glowed from her morning fire. A faint warmth, a stark contrast to the glacial dread gripping her heart. Elara knew she needed to think, to plan. But the bleeding rose demanded immediate action. It screamed for defiance.
She stared at the flames, mesmerized by their hungry dance. Fire purified. Fire destroyed. Perhaps it could sever this vile connection. Perhaps it could send a message back.
Grabbing a pair of iron tongs, Elara stood before the hearth. Her hands still shook, but it wasn't from fear now. It was from the sheer, raw force of her burgeoning determination. She would not be a victim. Not anymore.
She held the drawing over the licking flames. The heat radiated, making the paper curl at the edges. The crimson on the rose seemed to deepen, to glow with an inner light, as if resisting the impending destruction. A faint shriek, barely audible, seemed to emanate from the image itself, a whisper of protest.
Elara gritted her teeth. Her gaze remained fixed on the rose, defying its malevolent power. She was done being haunted. Done being played. The time for sorrow was over. It was time for war.
With a swift, decisive motion, she dropped the drawing into the heart of the embers. Flames instantly licked at the edges, devouring the brittle paper. The 'Mama, the lady sings to me' vanished first, swallowed by orange and red.
Then, the rose. The thorny, bleeding rose. As the flames consumed the paper, the thorny rose symbol detached itself from the ashes, hovering in the air as pure, ethereal fire before swirling into a miniature vortex, then vanishing, leaving behind the faint, cloying scent of withered lilies.