Chapter Text
the cellular reception had died three miles before the asphalt gave way to gravel, dropping from a weak two bars to a hollow, definitive No Service.
por kept his thumb pressed against the glass of his phone anyway. on the screen, a static screenshot of a map application showed a single, glowing dot pinned to a jagged coordinate in the northern valley. it was the last ping his brother's phone had broadcast before vanishing into the ether four weeks ago.
aster.
the town wasn't on most commercial maps. when por had asked the clerk at the highway gas station forty miles back for directions, the man's eyes had drifted, his scrubbing brush pausing mid-stroke on the counter. "take the logging road past the gorge," he'd said, his voice dropping into a flat, rhythmic drone. "keep driving until you smell the pine. you'll find it. everyone finds it if they're meant to."
now, the pine was thick enough to choke the air, sweet and heavy with sap.
por shifted his battered sedan into lower gear as the road sloped sharply downward into a mist-shrouded basin. the canopy of towering, ancient trees leaned inward, weaving together like fingers to block out the late afternoon sun.
then, the trees cleared.
por tapped his brakes, the car coming to a soft half at the crest of a ridge. nestled in the valley below lay aster.
it didn't look like a dying mountain village. if anything, it looked impossibly pristine. rows of identical, whitewashed wooden houses with sharp gray roofs sat arraged in perfect, concentric circles around a central square. there were no power lines marring the skyline, no rusted trucks parked in overgrown lawns, no gravel-lot dive bars. everything was immaculate. the lawns were manicured to an identical, uniform height, and the gravel paths winding between the homes were bone-white, swept clean of stray leaves.
from this distance, the people looked like small, pale brushstrokes. they moved unhurriedly along the pathways.
and they were all dressed in white.
por's chest tightened, a familiar, cold knot of anxiety twisting in his gut. he reached over to the passenger sea, picking up a crumpled, glossy photograph of his younger brother, pim. in it, pim was laughing, a smudge of charcoal on his cheek from a university art project.
"i'm here, pim," por whispered to the empty car. he tucked the photo into his breast pocket, right over his heartbeat, and let the sedan coast down the final incline into the valley.
the moment por's tires crunched onto the main thoroughfare of aster, the rhythm of the town shifted.
it didn't stop, but rather… harmonized.
a man sweeping a porch paused, leaning on his broom, a serene smile spreading across his face. a group of women washing linens in a communal wooden trough turned in unison. no one looked angry. no one looked suspicious of the dusty, dented outsider car invading their sanctuary.
they just looked incredibly, profoundly glad he was there.
por parked near the central square, where a massive, ancient stone church stood like a sentinel over the village. its bell tower pierced the misty sky, devoid of a cross, boasting instead a stark, circular iron emblem at its peak.
as he stepped out of the car, the mountain air hit him — crisp, freezing, and oddly devoid of the usual sounds of nature. no birds chirping. no distant hum of an engine. only the gentle crunch-crunch of gravel beneath approaching footsteps.
"you've had a long journey," a soft, reedy voice called out.
por flinched, turning quickly. an elderly woman was walking toward him from the nearest house. her hair was spun silver, pinned back neatly, and her linen dress was a spotless, blinding white. she carried a heavy stoneware pitcker, condensation beading on its surface.
"i… yes," por said, his voice sounding raspy and harsh against the quiet of the town. "i'm looking for someone. my brother."
the woman reached him, offering a warm, maternal smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. she didn't look at the missing-person flyer por was clumsily pulling from his pocket. instead, she poured a glass of clear, ice-cold water from her pitcher and extended it toward him.
"drink first, child. the mountain roads drain the spirit. you are safe here in aster."
por hesitated, the warmth of her gaze almost suffocating. "thank you, but i really need to find—"
"pim," she finished softly.
por froze. his fingers clenched around the paper flyer. "how do you know his name?"
"we know all our children," she replied, her voice as smooth as river stones. she reached out, her hand surprisingly firm as she patted his forearm. her skin was unnaturally warm. "he is resting. he was tired when he arrived, just as you are now. you will see him when the time is right. the family does not keep secrets, but we do keep the peace."
a wave of relief, so violent it made his knees weak, crashed over por, immediately followed by a sharp, ringing alarm bell in his mind. they have him. he's alive.
"where is he?" por demanded, stepping forward, his polite facade cracking. "take me to him."
the old woman didn't flinch at his sudden aggression. her smile remained perfectly intact, etched onto her face with terrifying permanence.
"all in good time, por," she whispered, knowing his name before he could even offer it. she stepped back, tilting her head toward a small, charming cottage at the edge of the square. its door stood slightly ajar, a welcoming amber light glowing from the window. "your cottage is prepared. rest. wash the dust from your eyes."
por looked from the cottage back to the woman. the sheer hospitality felt like a physical weight, pressing down on his chest. it was too much, too fast.
as she turned to walk away, she paused, her silver head pivoting back over her shoulder. the warmth in her eyes suddenly vanished, replaced by a flat, dark intensity that chilled por to the bone.
"there is only one rule in aster, child," she said, her voice dropping an octave, losing its melodic lilt.
"when the bell rings, stay inside. lock your door. extinguish your lights. no matter what you hear, do not look out the window. do you understand?"
por swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the glass of water still sweating in his hand. "why? what happens when the bell rings?"
the elderly woman's smile snapped back into place, bright and vacant.
"the night belongs to the valley," she whispered. "and we are a family that respects boundaries."
she walked away, her white skirts rustling softly against the stones, leaving por alone in the deepening twilight as the shadows of the mountains began to swallow the perfect little town.
the inside of the cottage felt less like a temporary rental and more like trap lined with velvet.
por stood just past the threshold, his duffel bag hanging heavily from his shoulder. the air inside smelled faintly of beeswax and dried lavender. a small hearth was already swept clean, a neat stack of birch logs resting beside it. on the wooden kitchen table sat a loaf of braided bread, still radiating warmth, next to a jar of pale yellow honey.
there were no locks on the windows. there were no deadbolt on the heavy oak door — only a siple, hand-carved wooden latch.
por dropped his bag onto the floor and paced to the window. outside, the twilight was deepening into a bruised purple. the immaculate gravel paths were empty now, the townspeople having slipped into their respective homes with the silent efficiency of ghosts. no television screens flickered behind the windows. no muffled arguments drifted through the walls.
the silence was a physical pressure, thrumming against his eardrums.
"he is resting," the old woman had said. "he was very tired when he arrived."
por clutched his stomach, a bitter mix of adrenaline and nausea twisting his gut. he couldn't just sit here and eat bread while pim was being kept somewhere in this twilight zone. if the old woman wouldn't give him answers, he would find them himself.
he slipped out of the cottage, the wooden latch clicking shut behind him with agonizing loudness.
away from the central square, aster quickly lost its geometric perfection.
por hurried down a narrow path that sloped upward toward the dense pine forest hugging the eastern ridge. he reasoned that if they were hiding someone, it wouldn't be in the neat, whitewashed houses in plain sight; it would be in the old structures, the outbuildings, or the jagged terrain where the town met the wild.
within ten minutes, the manicured gravel gave way to damp earth and twisted roots. the canopy closed overhead, plunging him into near-total darkness. the sweet, choking scent of pine grew heavier, accompanied now by the sharp, metallic tang of ozone.
"pim!" por called out, his voice instantly swallowed by the dense undergrowth. "pim! are you out here?"
only the wind answered, whistling through the high branched like a low vibrating sigh.
por pressed on, using the weak flashlight on his phone to illuminate the path. the battery icon flickered wildly — 74%, then suddenly dropping into 12%. the screen strobed twice and went black.
"damn it," he muttered, shaking the useless piece of metal.
he turned to head back, but the path had vanished. in the darkness, every towering trunk looking identical. the mist had rolled in from the valley floor, thick and gray, swallowing his footprints and distorting the shapes of the trees. he walked forward, tripped over a hidden root, and went down hard on his hands and knees, the sharp gravel of the upper ridge cutting into his palms.
panic, cold and sharp, finally broke through his anger. he was lost in the dark, in a forest that felt actively hostile, miles from anything resembling civilization.
"need some help?"
por gasped, scrambling backward on his elbows.
standing a few feet away, right at the edge of his blurred vision, was a figure. they hadn't made a sound — no rustling leaves, no snapping twigs. they had simply materialized out of the fog.
the figure stepped forward, and the faint, filtered moonlight caught him.
por's breath hitched.
the young man was dressed entirely in loose, flowing white linen, unbothered by the damp mud or the encroaching briars. he looked to be around por's age, with pale, flawless skin and dark eyes that seemed to reflect the moonlight like still water. his hair was jet-back, falling softly over his forehead, and his features possessed a delicate, almost ethereal beauty that felt entirely out of place in the rugged mountain wilderness.
he didn't look dangerous. he looked like an oasis.
"you shouldn't be wandering up here after dusk," the young man said. his voice was beautiful — low, melodic, and layered with an effortless familiarity, as if he were greeting an old friend rather than a trespassing stranger. "the mountain likes to play tricks on those who don't know her steps."
por pushed himself to his feet, wiping his bloody palms on his jeans, trying to regain his composure. "i was… looking for someone. i got turned around."
"i know," the man smiled. it wasn't the vacant, eerie smile of the elderly woman. this mile was warm, genuine, and deeply disarming. he stepped closer, reaching out to gently touch por's elbow.
the moment his fingers made contact, a strange sensation washed over por. the frantic, racing beat of his heart instantly slowed. the cold air suddenly felt manageable. it was an overwhelming, terrifying sense of relief, radiating directly from this stranger's touch.
"come," the man whispered, gently guiding por back toward a hidden break in the trees. "let's get you home before the chill sets in."
as they walked around the mountain, the path magically reappeared beneath their feet. the stranger walked with an easy grace, never once stumbling, his white clothes remaining impeccably clean despite the terrain.
"i'm por," por said, breaking the silence, desperate to anchor himself to something concrete.
"i know," the man replied smoothly, not turning back. "i'm tee."
"everyone seems to know my name here," por muttered, a hint of defensive edge returning. "and everyone seems to know my brother, pim. do you know where he is?"
tee paused at the edge of the tree line, looking don at the glowing lights of the valley. "pim is safe, por. he's finding his peace. just as you will. aster gives everyone exactly what they need, eventually."
"i don't need peace," por snapped, stepping around to face him. "i need my brother. and then we're leaving."
tee didn't look angered by the outburst. instead, his dark eyes softened with a profound, almost tragic empathy that made por feel entirely exposed. "we'll talk about it tomorrow. for now, let's just get you to bed."
they stepped back into the central square, and the strangeness of aster hit por with renewed force.
windows were open now, just a crack. as tee walked past, the curtains parted. por expected the townspeople to look suspicious of him, the rogue outsider. instead, every face that appeared at a window looked past por, their eyes locking onto tee with a terrifying, unadulterated reverence.
an old man on a porch bowed his head deeply as tee walked by. a young mother holding a baby pressed her hand to her heart, her lips moving in a silent prayer or greeting.
the entire town adored him. it wasn't just respect; it was devotion. it was the way people looked at a savior, or a god.
por glanced at the beautiful young man walking beside him. tee's expression remained perfectly serene, accepting the adoration as naturally as one accepts the air they breathe. he didn't ask for it, yet he radiated an invisible, magnetic authority that drew every soul in the valley toward him.
they reached por's cottage. tee turned, his gaze dropping to por's scraped, bleeding palms.
before por could pull away, tee took his hand. his fingers were warm, his touch incredibly gentle as he traced the edge of the cut.
"Get some sleep, por," tee whispered, his dark eyes holding por captive. "you've had a very long journey. let the town take care of you tonight."
por opened his mouth to demand more answers, to ask who tee really was, why everyone looked at him that way, where pim was hidden — but the words died in his throat. the warmth from tee's hand seemed to seep into his veins, heavy and sedating.
"okay," por found himself whispering against his own will.
tee smiled, a soft, private expression just for him, and stepped back into the shadows of the square.
por stood at the doorway, watching the white figure recede into the darkness, his mind a chaotic blur of suspicion, fear, and a sudden, toxic pull toward the very man he knew he should be running from.
por did not eat the braided bread. he sat at the wooden edge of the mattress, his hands tightly clasped between his knees, listening to the suffocating quiet of his cottage.
the heat from tee's touch still lingered on his palms like a faint, ghostly burn. it irritated him how easily he had succumbed to that gentle, rhythmic voice. he was an outsider here; he was supposed to be the rational one, the intruder uncovering a crime. yet, the moment tee had looked at him, the urgency of his search had felt… distant. muffled. like radio station slipping out of range.
he pulled his phone from his pocket. the screen remained stubbornly black. dead.
he glanced up at the small grandfather clock standing in the corner of the living room. its pendulum swung back and forth with a heavy, mechanical tock… tock… tock…
10:05 PM.
the elderly woman's warning echoed in his mind, sharp and jagged. "when the bell rings, stay inside. look your door. extinguish your lights."
por stood up, his jaw tightening. he wasn't going to play along with their ghost stories. if the town went on lockdown, it meant they were hiding something. if everyone stayed inside, the streets would be clear for him to look for whatever structure they were keeping pim in.
he moved to the front door, testing the wooden latch. it lifted silently.
tock… tock… tock…
10:12 PM.
por held his breath, standing by the window, peering through a slit, in the linen curtains. the town square was bathed in the eerie, blue-white glow of a full moon. the whitewashed houses looked like rows of bleached skulls jutting out from the valley floor. nothing moved. not a single leaf.
then, the minute hand clicked.
10:13 PM.
a sudden, violent vibration tore through the air.
GONNNG!
the sound didn't just ring; it boomed, vibrating deep within por's chest cavity. it emanated from the massive stone church at the center of the square, a heavy, metallic wail that felt impossibly loud for a standard church bell. it sounded ancient, rusted, and heavy with a strange dissonant resonance that made his teeth ache.
GONNNG!
instantly, as if a single master switch had been thrown, every light in aster vanished.
the golden glows behind the windows of the neighboring cottages snapped out simultaneously. the faint lanterns illuminating the gravel paths died. the entire valley was plunged into pitch-black shadow, illuminated only by the cold, unforgiving moonlight.
por instinctively took a step back from the window.
GONNNG!
a heavy, oppressive silence followed the third strike. it was a dead silence, the kind that follows an explosion.
por waited, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. he pressed his face closer to the glass, his eyes straining against the shadows. he expected to hear footsteps, or perhaps the heavy rustle of a patrol, or the frantic movement of people hiding.
instead, the streets remained completely empty. the town was a graveyard.
he was just about to pull away from the window, convinced that the curfew was nothing more than a psychological tactic to keep the townspeople compliant, when he saw it.
a flash of movement near the edge of the square.
por’s breath caught in his throat. he froze, barely blinking.
out from the shadow of the colossal stone church, a single figure stepped into the stark, silver moonlight.
it was tee.
he was still dressed entirely in white, the clean linen practically glowing against the dark stones of the square. he wasn't rushing. he wasn't hiding. he walked with the same slow, fluid grace he had displayed in the forest, his hands resting loosely at his sides.
por watched, transfixed, as tee walked a slow, deliberate circle around the perimeter of the square.
the curfew wasn't for him. the rule didn't apply to him.
as tee reached the center of the square, beneath the towering shadow of the bell tower, he stopped. he stood perfectly still under the moonlight, his head tilted back, staring up at the empty sky as if listening to a frequency only he could hear.
then, slowly, smoothly, tee turned his head.
he didn't look randomly around the square. his dark eyes locked directly onto the window of por’s cottage.
por gasped, pulling back behind the curtain, his back slamming against the wooden wall. his chest heaved. there was no way tee could see him through the slit in the heavy linen, in a pitch-black room, from fifty yards away. it was impossible.
yet, the certainty of that gaze burned through the wood.
por slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold floorboards, his hands trembling slightly. he closed his eyes, trying to force his racing mind into order.
outside, beneath the moon, he could hear the faint, terrifyingly rhythmic crunch... crunch... crunch... of footsteps on the bone-white gravel, moving slowly, unhurriedly, away from the square.
the morning sun did not bring clarity; it only illuminated the impossible.
when por finally stirred from his restless, hyper-vigilant sleep on the floorboards, the grandfather clock was chiming 8:00 AM. sunlight streamed through the windows, bright and blindingly cheerful, erasing the terrifying, blue-shadowed graveyard the town had been hours before.
he pushed himself up, his muscles aching, and unlatched the front door.
sitting perfectly in the center of the clean welcome mat was a heavy, woven wicker basket. por looked up and down the gravel path. a few neighbors were already out, tending to their gardens or sweeping their porches, completely unbothered by the blazing sun. when they saw him, they offered the same serene, synchronized nods.
por looked back down at the basket. he knelt and pulled back the linen cloth.
inside ssat a small stoneware bowl filled with steaming, fragrant rice porridge topped with ginger and soft-boiled eggs, a flask of hot herbal tea, and a small, wooden bowl filled with fresh, dark mountain berries. beside the food lay a neatly folded piece of paper.
por snatched the paper, expecting a threat or a warning.
eat well, por. the valley provides for those who seek. — T.
por's stomach growled violently, betraying his terror. he hadn't eaten a proper meal since the highway gas station. he carried the basket inside, staring at the porridge with deep suspicion. was it drugged? sedated? "he was very tired when he arrived," the old woman had said of pim. was this how they kept everyone so terrifyingly docile?
he pushed the food away, his paranoia winning.
he marched into the small bathroom to wash the cold sweat from his face. he twisted the handles of the rusted iron sink. a harsh, metallic screech echoed through the pipes, followed by a pathetic, brown trickle of water that choked and died entirely.
"perfect," por muttered, slamming his hand against the basin. "just perfect."
leaving the broken sink, he grabbed his dirty, mud-stained clothes from his trek into the forest the night before. he threw them into a wicker hamper in the corner of the bedroom, resolved to find a stream or a communal well later. right now, he needed to investigate the town while the sun was high and the terrifying bell was silent.
por spent the next six hours walking the perimeter of aster.
he kept his ears open, searching for any sound of a struggle, a hidden basement, or a locked facility. but the town ran like a swiss watch. he passed a communal kitchen where women sang low, haunting harmonies while chopping vegetables. he passed a carpentry workshop where men carved smooth, wooden furniture without the aid of loud power tools, their movements rhythmic and unhurried.
every conversation he tried to start was gently, expertly deflected.
"have you seen my brother? pim? he's about my height, has a smudge of ink on his jaw sometimes—"
"the young painter?" a man smoothing a sheet of wood replied, smiling warmly. "he is resting his mind, friend. he speaks very highly of you."
"where is he resting?" por pressed, stepping closer. "tell me the house."
the man simply shook his head, his chisel continuing its smooth, perfect stroke. "the family moves together. you will see him when your spirit settles."
by late afternoon, frustrated, exhausted, and dizzy from hunger, por returned to his cottage. he braced himself to face the broken sink, the dead phone, and the mounting walls of his own psychological prison.
he pushed the door open, and stopped dead.
the cottage had been altered.
the heavy wicker hamper in the bedroom was completely empty. standing on the edge of the neatly made bed was his dirty outfit from the night before. it had been washed, dried, and folded with geometric, razor-sharp precision. it smelled intensely of lavender and sunshine.
por's heart leaped into his throat. he spun around, looking at the kitchen table.
the cold porridge and withered berries were gone. in their place sat a fresh, piping-hot beef stew, thick with root vegetables, casting a rich, savory aroma through the small house.
slowly, backup pacing into the bathroom, por stared at the sink.
he reached out a trembling hand and twisted the iron handle. it turned smoothly, silently, without a single creak. instantly, a steady, pressurized stream of crystal-clear, ice-cold mountain water gushed into the basin.
someone had been inside his house.
someone had walked through his rooms while he was gone, folded his clothes, fixed his plumbing, and cooked his dinner. there were no signs of forced entry. no dirt tracked onto the pristine floors.
por bolted out the front door, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
the silver-haired woman from the day before was standing just a few yards away, carrying a bundle of fresh firewood. seeing his panicked expression, she paused, her eyes widening with that same suffocating maternal warmth.
"who was in my house?" por demanded, his voice cracking with rising hysteria. "who fixed my sink? who took my clothes?"
the old man let out a soft, tinkling laugh, a sound that made the hairs on the back of por's neck stand up. she stepped closer, placing a comforting, heavy hand on his arm.
"do not twist your spirit into knots, child," she murmured softly. "whenever you need something, it will be done. whenever you hunger, you will be fed."
"i didn't ask for any of this!" por yelled, pulling his arm away from her touch. "i don't want your food! i don't want you in my space! why are you doing this?"
the woman didn't look offended. her smile remained perfectly, horrifyingly static, reflecting the bright afternoon sun.
"that's what family does, por," she whispered. "we don't wait to be asked. we simply take care of our own."
she turned and continued down the path, leaving por standing in the middle of the bright, beautiful square, realizing with a sickening jolt that in aster, kindness wasn't a gift.
it was a cage.
the realization that his privacy was an illusion kept por awake until dawn. if aster was a cage, it was one built out of smiles and clean linen. he couldn't trust the food, he couldn't trust the water, and he certainly couldn't trust the terrifying, smothering hospitality of the townspeople.
but a town this organized, this perfectly synchronized, had to keep records. cults relied on bureaucracy, on some form of structure, to maintain their illusions.
when the sun finally climbed over the ridge, por headed toward the largest municipal structure he had seen besides the church: a low-slung, stone building near the edge of the square labeled the repository.
the door was unlocked. it didn't even have a latch.
inside, the air was cool and smelled of old parchment and damp stone. tall, open-faced wooden shelves lined the walls, stacked high with leather-bound ledgers and neatly organized boxes of photographs. there was no clerk behind the desk, no computer, no humming server. just the quiet rustle of the wind outside.
por immediately went to work. he pulled down the thickest ledger from the nearest shelf, expecting to find property deeds, tax records, or a registry of residents.
he opened it.
the pages were filled with beautiful, hand-calligraphed ink. but there were no numbers. no legal descriptions.
may 14th — the frost broke. we shared the remaining winter squash. billy gave thanks.
may 15th — a boy was born to the weaver's house. we named him joy.
por flipped the pages frantically. there were no surnames. no birth certificates. no legal stamps from the provincial government. he pulled down another book, then another. no records of a police station, no land ownership disputes, no emergency medical logs. aster barely existed on paper. it was as if the town had completely severed itself from the modern world, rewriting the concept of history into a collective diary of feelings and chores.
"looking for something specific?"
por jumped, nearly dropping a heavy leather volume.
tee was standing in the doorway. he was dressed in a soft, white knit sweater today, his dark hair slightly damo as if he had just washed. he leaned against the frame, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, looking at por with an expression of mild, affectionate amusement.
"you shouldn't sneak up on people," por said, his voice tense as he shoved the ledger back into its slot.
"i didn't sneak," tee said softly, walking into the room. his footsteps made no sound on the stone floor. "you were just very focused. are you interested in our history?"
"i'm interested in facts," por snapped, turning to face him. "where are the birth certificates? the cemetery records? what happens when someone dies here, tee? do they just vanish into the mountain like my brother?"
tee's expression didn't change. he stepped closer, stopping just inches away from por. the subtle scent of pine and rain radiated from him, an intoxicating, grounded presence that threatened to break through por's rigid defenses.
"nobody vanishes here, por," tee said, his voice dropping into that low, hypnotic cadence. he reached past por, his arm brushing against por's shoulder, sending a sharp spark of awareness down por's spine. tee pulled a heavy wooden box from the bottom shelf. "we don't keep certificates because we don't believe a piece of paper defines a life. we keep memories."
tee set the box on the central table and lifted the lid. it was filled with hundreds of loose, monochromatic photographs.
"go ahead," tee whispered, gesturing to the box. "see for yourself."
por hesitated, then reached into the box. he pulled out a handful of sepia-toned photographs. they were old — cleary taken decades ago, judging by the grain of the film and the outdated style of the clothing.
the first photo showed a group of townspeople gathered around a massive bonfire. por's eyes scanned the faces, searching for anything unusual.
then, his heart stopped.
standing right in the center of the crowd, laughing as the firelight caught his face, was tee.
por's breath caught. he quickly dropped the photo and grabbed another. this one was a faded, black-and-white portrait of a family standing in front of a half-built cottage. the edge of the paper were frayed, and yellowed with age.
there, standing next to an elderly man with a long beard, was tee. he looked exactly the same. the same flawless skin, the same dark, mesmerizing eyes, the same delicate, youthful features.
por grabbed a third photo. a fourth. a fifth.
every single old photograph included tee. photos from the 1990s, the 1970s, perhaps even earlier. the clothes changed, the people around him aged, withered, and disappeared from the timeline — but tee remained entirely, horrifyingly unchanged. a timeless, beautiful fixture in a shifting sea of ghosts.
the paper slipped from por's trembling fingers, fluttering onto the table. he stumbled backward, his knees hitting the edge of the shelf. he looked from the ancient, faded photographs to the young man standing right in front of him.
"what… what are you?" por whispered, horror choking his throat.
tee looked down at the photos, a soft, melancholy smile touching his lips. he didn't deny it. he didn't offer a rational explanation. he simply stepped forward, closing the distance between them until por was pinned against the shelves.
tee reached out, his warm fingers gently cupping por's jaw. the touch so tender, so inherently protective, that por's mind fractured between the absolute terror of what he was seeing and the desperate, toxic urge to lean into the warmth.
"i am whatever the family needs me to be, por," tee whispered, his dark eyes locking onto por's with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. "and right now, i need to be the one who takes care of you."
por's skin burned where tee had touched him. he spent the remainder of the afternoon locked in his cottage, scrubbing his jaw with the cold, pressurized water from his repaired sink until the skin went raw.
he was losing his grip. he had to be. there was a rational explanation for those photographs — a trick of the light, an uncanny family resemblance, a meticulously staged psychological stunt meant to unhinge him. people didn't just stay twenty-something for half a century.
but as the sun began to dip behind the jagged mountain peaks, the quiet of aster shattered.
it wasn't the heavy, terrifying toll of the 10:13 PM bell. it was the sound of voices. dozens of them, rising in a low, resonant harmony that drifted through his open windows.
por peered through the curtains. the townspeople were flooding into the central square. the oppressive isolation of the past few days had evaporated, replaced by an electric, buzzing energy.
everyone was wearing white. not just their casual linens, but heavy, immaculate robes that swept the ground as they moved. men, women, and children walked shoulder to shoulder, their arms laden with woven baskets overflowing with mountain berries, bundles of dried wheat, and pale, waxen floweres that only seemed to grow in the shade of the valley.
they were preparing for the annual harvest festival.
por swallowed the lump of dread in his throat. he couldn't hide in his room forever. if the whole town was gathered, this was his best chance to spot pim in the crowd without drawing suspicious attention. he slipped out into the cooling dusk, blending into the periphery of the square.
the transformation of the town square was breathtaking, and deeply unsettling.
massive wooden tables had been dragged into a great circle around the stone church. they were piled high with food: roasted root vegetables, fresh loavees of braided bread, smoked mountain trout, and platters of honeycomb.
yet, as por drifted through the crowd, the details began to curdle.
nobody was drinking alcohol. there were no bottles of wine, no flagons of cider. only clear, crystal moutain water and pale, steaming herbal teas.
more than that, there was no noise. not really.
in a normal town festival, there would be loud laughter, the clinking of glasses, children screaming as they chased each other, a stray dog barking, vendors shouting. here, the atmosphere was thick with an unnatural, uniform compliance. everyone spoke in the same gentle, modulated tones. everyone smiled with the exact same degree of warmth.
they danced in a perfect, synchronized ring around a central bonfire, their movements fluid and flawlessly rehearsed. nobody stepped out of line. nobody bumped into a neighbor.
it felt less like a celebration and more like a theatrical production where every actor had memorized the script over a lifetime.
"you aren't eating."
por spun around. tee was standing right behind him.
tonight, tee wore a heavily embroidered white robe that fell open at his throat, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone. the fireflight danced across his flawless features, casting long, dramatic shadows that made him look like a statue carved from ivory.
"i'm not hungry," por said, stepping back, his eyes darting through the crowd. "where is he, tee? you said he was resting. is he too tired for a festival?"
tee let out a soft, breathy laugh, stepping closer to close the gap por had made. "pim is exactly where he needs to be. why do you look for the missing when the living are right in front of you?"
"because he's my brother," por said, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper so the passing townspeople wouldn't hear. "and this whole town is insane. look at them. they look like puppets."
tee didn't look offended. he turned his gaze to the swirling ring of dancers, his eyes dark and reflective.
"they are happy, por," tee said softly. "in the world outside, there is chaos. war, poverty, heartbreak, betrayal. people destroy each other for a scrap of power or a handful of paper. here, there is no noise. there is only peace. is it so terrible to want a world that doesn't hurt?"
"it is if it's built on a lie," por retorted.
tee turned back at him, his gaze locking onto por's with an intensity that made the surrounding festival fade into a distant blur. he reached out, his long, elegant fingers brushing against the fabric of por's shirt, right over his heart.
"you are so tense," tee murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic purr that seemed to thrum right through por's ribs. "you spend all your energy fighting a current that only wants to carry you. let go, por. just for tonight."
for a fraction of a second, the temptation was so violent it terrified him. he wanted to lean into that perfect chest, to let the heavy, exhausting weight of his grief and paranoia slide off his shoulders. he wanted to believe the illusion.
suddenly, a loud, sharp shatter broke the spell.
a young man near the food tables had dropped a stoneware platter. it broke into dozens of sharp shards against the gravel, the roasted vegetables spilling into the dirt.
instantly, the singing stopped. the dancing froze.
the entire square went completely, horrifyingly silent. hundreds of eyes snapped to the young man who had broken the rhythm. the silence lasted for three agonizing seconds, heavy with an invisible, suffocating tension.
the young man looked up, his face turning entirely pale. he didn't look at the broken plate. he looked past the crowd, his terrified eyes locking directly onto tee.
por watched tee.
tee didn't yell. he didn't raise his voice. he simply tilted his head and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
the tension in the square vanished like a popped bubble. the singing instantly resumed at the exact note it had stopped. the dancers picked up their steps without missing a beat. two women stepped forward with brooms, sweeping the shards away with terrifying efficiency.
everyone went back to "perfect".
but por had seen the crack in the porcelain. he looked at tee, who was smiling at him again as if nothing had happened, and felt a cold, liquid dread settle into his stomach.
the town wasn't happy. they were terrified of the beautiful man standing right next to him.
as the bonfire dwindled into a mountain of glowing orange embers, the townspeople began to melt back into the shadows of their pristine cottages. the transition was as seamless as everything else in aster — no lingering goodnights, no raucous cleanup. just a quiet, synchronized evacuation.
por didn't go back to his cottage. he hid in the deep, ink-black shadow of the repository, his body pressed flat against the cool stone wall.
he was watching tee.
tee remained at the center of the square long after the embers had faded to gray ash. he stood entirely alone under the silver moonlight, the hem of his embroidered white robe catching the mountain breeze. he didn't move for ten minutes. he didn't look around. he simply waited for the town to go dead.
tock… tock… tock…
por couldn't see the grandfather clock, but he felt the minutes ticking away in his pulse.
then, the air shifted. the heavy metallic vibration began.
GONNNG!
10:13 PM.
the residual lanterns in the square snapped out in unison. the valley plunged into darkness, save for the unforgiving moon.
GONNNG!
tee finally moved. he didn't head toward his own home. instead, he turned sharply on his heel and walked toward the massive, ancient stone church. his steps on the white gravel were light, rhythmic, and entirely devoid of urgency.
GONNNG!
on the third stirke, tee pushed open the heavy iron doors of the church. they swung inward without a single creak, swallowing his white silhouette into the pitch-black maw of the sanctuary. the doors glided shut behind him with a dull, heavy thud.
por counted to sixty, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
this is it, he thought. the curfew isn't just to keep people in. it's to keep them from seeing what he does in there.
por stepped out of the shadows, his sneakers making a tiny, agonizing crunch on the gravel. he winced, waiting for a window to pop open, for a silent neighbor to point a finger. but the houses remained dead, blind eyes staring into the dark.
he hurried across the square, a phantom tearing through a graveyard. he reached the church steps, the cold stone biting through the soles of his shoes. he extended his hands toward the iron handles of the doors, his breath shallow and frantic.
if pim was here, he was in this building. he had to be.
por's fingers were less than an inch from the cold iron when a hand clamped onto his wrist.
por suffocated a scream, his body violently flinching backward. he tried to wrench his arm away, but the grip was shockingly, unnaturally tight, like an iron band compressing his flesh.
he spun around, expecting tee, expecting a monster.
it was the silver-haired elderly woman.
she was standing on the stone steps beneath him, her pale face illuminated by the moon. her eyes weren't warm anymore. they were wide, unblinking, and vacant — two hollow, dark pools reflecting the night sky. she didn't look angry; she looked like a machine executing a command.
"let go of me," por hissed, his voice a ragged whisper as he pulled against his grip. her skin was still burning with that unnatural, feverish heat. "let go1"
the woman didn't let go. instead, she leaned in close, her breath smelling faintly of the pale, waxen festival flowers. she raised her free hand, placing a single, rigid finger against her own pale lips.
"don't interrupt tonight, por," she whispered. her voice wasn't reedy or maternal anymore. it was a flat, vibrating drone that seemed to mirror the resonance of the church bell.
"what is he doing in there?" por demanded, his teeth chattering from a sudden, icy gust of wind that swept down the mountain. "where is my brother?"
the woman didn't answer his question. she simply stared through him, her grip tightening until por's fingers went numb.
"the family does not disturb the shepherd while he tends to the flock," she murmured, her face inches from his.
"go back to your bed, child. the moon is high, and the air is heavy with things you cannot carry. if you open that door tonight, the valley will take what is left of you."
before por could speak, she abruptly released his wrist. the sudden loss of resistance sent him stumbling back a step.
she didn't wait for him to comply. she turned and walked down the steps, her white linen dress rustling softly as she vanished into the shadows between the cottages, moving with a terrifying, silent speed.
por stood alone on the church steps, his wrist throbbing where her fingers had burned into his skin. he looked at the massive iron doors, then back at the empty, silent square.
the silence of aster wasn't peace. it was a held breath.
defeated by the suffocating weight of the dark, por backed away from the doors and retreated to his cottage, the phantom scent of waxen flowers clinging to his clothes all the way home.
the sun had barely cleared the mountain ridge when por returned to the square.
he hadn't slept. he had septn the remaining hours of the night pacing his room, his bruised wrist throbbing in time with the ticking clock. the old woman's warning had intended to terrify him into submission, but it had achieved the exact opposite. it was a confirmation. whatever aster was hiding, it was behind the heavy iron doors of that church.
by 7:00 AM, the square was quiet, but it wasn't the dead, locked-down quiet of the curfew. the townspeople were beginning their morning routines, drifting toward the communal kitchens and fields. they didn't look at him as he crossed the gravel, but por didn't care anymore.
he marched straight up the stone steps and pressed his hands against the iron doors.
they yielded easily, swinging inward with a heavy, hollow sigh.
por slipped inside and pulled the doors shut behind him, plunging himself into a cool, cavernous dimness. the interior of the church was massive, built from raw, dark mountain stone. tall, arched windows lined the upper walls, but the glass was frosted and thick, filtering the morning sunlight into a pale, gray haze.
there were no crosses. no statues of saints. no tapestries.
rows of simple, unpainted wooden pews lined the nave, all facing a raised, stone altar at the far end of the hall. the air was thick with the scent of beeswax, damp earth, and a lingering sweetness that por instantly recognized — the pale, waxen festival flowers.
por walked down the center aisle, his sneakers squeaking softly against the stone floor. he kept his eyes locked on the altar. if there was a secret here, it wouldn't be in plain sight.
he climbed the three shallow stone steps to the altar. it was a solid block of dark granite, completely smooth except for a shallow, circular depression carved into the center — matching the emblem atop the bell tower.
por ran his hand along the edge of the granite. nothing. he knelt, chiecking the base where the stone met the floorboards.
on the rear side of the altar, hidden from the view of the pews, he felt a seam in the wood.
he pressed it. with a dull, mechanical click, a section of the wood paneled floor slid backward, revealing a dark, yawning gap. a flight of narrow stone steps spiraled downward into the eart, swallowed by a thick velvety blackness.
por's heart hammered against his ribs. he pulled out his phone, praying the battery would hold. the screen lit up — 42%. he flicked on the flashlight and stepped into the abyss.
the air grew rapidly colder as he descended, smelling heeavily of ancient dust and melting wax. the stone steps were worn smooth in the center, thousands of footprints having trodden them down over decades.
after what felt like eternity, the staircase leveled out. por stepped into a vast, subterranean cavern that opened up beneath the very foundations of the town.
he swept his flashlight beam across the dark.
"oh god…" he whispered, his voice cracking.
it was an underground meeting hall, massive and terrifyingly structured. rows upon rows of identical wooden chairs were arranged in a massive, sweeping semicircle. there were hundreds of them, stretching back into the shadows of the cavern.
on the back of every single chair hung a garment: a heavy, pristine white robe, identical to the ones the townspeople had worn at the festival.
por walked down the central aisle of the underground hall, his flashlight beam shaking. along the perimeter of the cavern wall stood iron sconces, each holding a thick, half-melted white candle. the wax had dripped down the stone walls in long, frozen sheets, looking like skeletal finers reaching for the floor.
he reached the front of the seating arrangement.
there, raised on a wooden dais above the hundreds of chairs, sat a single piece of furniture.
it was an enormous, high-backed throne, hand-carved from a dark, ancient wood that looked almost black in the flashlight beam. the armrests were carved into the likeness of twisting roots, wrapping around the structure as if growing directly out of the subterranean earth.
por stepped onto the dais, his hand trembling as he shone the light onto the seat of the throne.
resting perfectly in the center of the dark wood was a small, silver object.
por knelt, picking it up. it was a delicate, silver charcoal pencil — the exact kind pim used for his sketches. beside it, etched directly into the dark wood of the armrest, was a small, freshly carved drawing of a pale, waxen flower.
pim had been down here. he had sat on these steps.
"do you like it?"
por shrieked, dropping the silver pencil. it clattered against the stone floor, the sound echoing sharply thorugh the massive cavern.
he spun around, his flashlight beam cutting through the dark until it slammed into a figure standing at the base of the dais.
tee was standing there, watching him. he wasn't wearing his white robes today; he wore a simple, dark sweater that seemed to blend completely into the shadows of the basement, making his pale face and dark eyes stand out with terrifying clarity. he didn't look angry that por had broken into his sanctuary. he looked incredibly calm, his head tilted slightly, a soft, untroubled smile on his lips.
"it's quiet down here," tee said softly, his voice echoing smoothly off the cavern walls. "no wind. no mountain chill. just the family, gathered beneath the earth."
por backed away until the dark wood of the throne hit his spine. he held the flashlight like a weapon, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.
"what is this place, tee?" por demanded, his voice trembling violently. "what do you do down here?"
tee stepped onto the dais, unbothered by the light shining directly into his eyes. he stopped just a foot away, reaching out to gently catch top of the flashlight, tilting it downward until the beam illuminated the space between them.
"we listen, por," tee whispered, his dark eyes locking onto por's with that same, intoxicating intensity that made the room spin. he reached out with his other hand, his warm fingers brushing against the cold skin of por's jaw, anchoring him to the spot.
"we listen to the quiet. we decide how to keep the world outside from breaking what we've built. i told you, aster gives everyone what they need."
"pim didn't need a throne in a cave!" por shouted, tears of frustration blurring his vision. "he needed his family! he needed me!"
tee's thumb gently traced the line of por's cheekbone, his touch so devastatingly tender it made por's chest ache with a sudden, toxic confusion.
"he has a family here, por," tee murmured, his face moving closer until por could feel the warmth of his breath. "and so do you. you just haven't learned how to sit still yet."