The hospital's early morning hush was broken only by the low voices in the corridor outside Annabelle's room. Dr. Abrams stood with Anna's friends—Riley, Priya, Emma, and Ben—her expression grave but gentle as she explained the events of the previous night.
"She had an acute emotional outburst," Dr. Abrams said, glancing through the window at Anna, who lay sleeping, her brow furrowed even in rest. "Frankly, it was severe. She was disoriented, extremely agitated, and exhibiting what we'd call a dissociative episode. We had to sedate her for her own safety."
Riley's eyes were wide, her voice barely above a whisper. "She… she tried to fight the nurses? Anna's never even raised her voice before. Are you sure it wasn't a reaction to the medication or something?"
Priya stepped forward, concern etched deep in her features. "Doctor, is this… normal?"
Dr. Abrams nodded, her tone reassuring but honest. "It's not unheard of. After major surgeries—especially organ or tissue transplants—patients can experience something called 'postoperative delirium.' The anesthesia, pain medications, and the body's stress response can all contribute. There's also something called 'transplant psychosis,' though it's rare. Sometimes, the psychological impact of receiving a donor organ—especially something as personal as eyes—can trigger intense emotional or even psychotic episodes."
She paused, letting the information settle. "We're monitoring her closely. There are also reports in medical literature of 'cellular memory'—where recipients feel as though they've inherited memories or feelings from their donors. While there's no scientific consensus, the experience can be very real for the patient."
Emma, who had been quiet, spoke up, her voice tentative. "Doctor… Anna mentioned a man she saw, right before the accident. She was really shaken by it. Is there any way that could be connected? Was the donor… could it have been the same person?"
Dr. Abrams hesitated. "I can't say for sure. The donor's identity is confidential, but I'll look into the records. Ultimately, only Annabelle would know if she recognizes the donor, since none of you saw the man yourself, correct?"
Emma nodded, glancing at the others. "No, I didn't see him. She just told me about him. He… frightened her."
The doctor made a note on her clipboard. "If Anna remembers anything more, please let us know. Sometimes, the mind tries to make sense of trauma by attaching it to faces or memories."
Dr. Abrams looked back at Emma. "One more thing—last night, Anna kept insisting there was a boy who needed help, that someone was taking him. Do any of you know what she might have meant?"
Emma shook her head, uncertain. "I… I don't really know. I couldn't make sense of it. Maybe she was confused, or dreaming."
Dr. Abrams offered a gentle smile. "That's not uncommon, especially after anesthesia and trauma
Ben looked down, twisting his hands. "So… she'll be okay? This is just temporary?"
"We hope so," Dr. Abrams replied. "But to be safe, we'll keep Annabelle under observation for at least two or three more days. We'll adjust her medications, monitor her neurological responses, and provide support if she has another episode. If anything like last night happens again, we'll be ready to intervene immediately."
Emma squeezed Riley's hand, her voice trembling. "She's not alone, right? We can see her?"
"Of course," Dr. Abrams said gently. "Your support is important. But please—if she seems confused or agitated, call for help. Don't try to restrain her yourselves."
The friends nodded, exchanging anxious glances. Through the glass, Anna's chest rose and fell, her sleep deep but uneasy. Shadows lingered under her eyes, and even in repose, she seemed caught between worlds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As the group stood in the corridor, the weight of uncertainty pressed down on them all—each of them wondering what, exactly, Anna had brought back from the darkness, and if she would ever truly return.
The group lingered in the corridor, the weight of the doctor's words pressing down on them. For a moment, no one spoke.
Priya, trying to break the tension, forced a small smile. "Well, at least Anna's getting the full VIP treatment. I mean, how many people can say they've had their brain, their eyes, and their patience tested all in one hospital stay? Maybe she'll get a punch card—nine more visits and the tenth one's a free eye exam."
No one laughed. Riley just stared at the floor, Emma's hands twisted in her sleeves, and Ben's jaw was tight with worry.
Priya's smile faded. "Okay, that was a humorously failed attempt at lightening the mood. Sorry, guys."
Ben finally spoke, his voice low. "I just keep thinking about that boy Anna was talking about. Who was he? Why did she see him?"
Emma glanced up, her brow furrowed. "She was acting really strange the day of the accident. Distant. Like she was seeing something the rest of us couldn't. I thought maybe it was just nerves, but now…"
Riley, who had been quietly listening, added, "Maybe it was her consciousness warning her. You know, like some sixth sense that something bad was about to happen. If you think about it, a lot happened that day. Maybe it was all connected."
They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, the pieces of Anna's mystery swirling in the air between them. For a moment, it felt like they were on the edge of understanding something important—if only they could see it clearly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The conversation faded, their worries unspoken but shared, as the scene gently shifted back to Anna, still sleeping, caught between worlds.
Annabelle was swept away by her sleep, untethering her from the beeping monitors and antiseptic hush of the hospital. The world around her softened, colors blooming, until she was standing behind the counter at Scoops of Joy. The shop was alive with the golden glow of late afternoon, sunlight slanting through the windows and painting rainbows on the glass jars of candy. The air was thick with the scent of caramel, toasted waffle cones, and the faintest hint of vanilla.
But Anna's day felt anything but sweet. Her apron was askew, her hands sticky with melting chocolate, and a splatter of raspberry sauce streaked her sleeve. Every scoop she served seemed to tumble to the floor, and the laughter of children felt distant, muffled by a low, persistent ache in her chest.
The bell above the door chimed, a bright, brassy note that cut through her gloom. Ms. Liza swept in like a summer storm—tall, radiant, wrapped in a neon-pink headwrap and a bomber jacket sequined with musical notes. Her sneakers sparkled, and she moved with a swagger that made the whole shop feel like a stage. She hummed along to the Motown track playing overhead, hips swaying, snapping her fingers in time.
"Anna, baby, what's that face for?" Ms. Liza called, her voice rolling out in a melody of concern and sass. "You look like someone just told you sprinkles are illegal. And you know we don't do dull in this house."
Anna tried to smile, but it came out crooked. "It's just… one of those days, Ms. Liza. I can't seem to get anything right."
Ms. Liza leaned across the counter, her eyes bright with mischief and wisdom. "Honey, let me tell you—life is messier than a triple-scoop sundae in July. But you don't throw out the sundae. You grab a bigger napkin and keep on eating. You hear me?" She grinned, gold hoops catching the light. "You got too much flavor to let a little drip steal your joy. Now, chin up, shoulders back—show this day who's boss!"
Anna laughed, the sound bubbling up despite herself. Ms. Liza winked, then spun away, singing along to the music, her laughter ringing out like a promise that things would get better.
The memory shimmered, colors bleeding into gray. The warmth of the shop faded, replaced by a bone-deep chill.
Anna blinked, and the world transformed.
She was barefoot, her hospital gown fluttering around her knees, walking down a corridor that floated in a starless void. The floor was a mosaic of broken marble slabs, each piece hovering over nothingness, edges glowing faintly blue as if stitched together by lightning. The air was sharp, electric, and every step Anna took echoed into infinity.
Ahead, a door stood alone—ancient, splintered, its surface painted with strange, looping symbols that pulsed with a dull, violet light. The silence pressed in, thick and humming, broken only by the distant, ragged sound of someone crying.
Anna's heart hammered. She hesitated, but curiosity—and something deeper, a pull she couldn't name—drew her forward. She leapt the last gap, landing with a soft thud before the door. Her reflection shimmered in the tarnished brass knob: pale skin, wild hair, and eyes that glowed an uncanny lilac.
She reached out. The door creaked open, the sound echoing like thunder.
Beyond was a void, endless and cold, humming with a faint, sorrowful blue. In the center, three figures huddled in the darkness: a woman, a child, and the slumped form of a man. The mother's arms were wrapped tightly around the boy, her hand pressed over his mouth to stifle his sobs. The father's body was still, his face turned away, skin waxen and gray in the dim light.
"Don't worry, she won't find us," the mother whispered, her voice trembling, eyes darting to the shadows. "They won't find us. She won't find us. Shhh, baby, shhh…"
The boy's eyes were wide, shining with tears, his small body shaking in his mother's grip. The mother's own eyes were wild, haunted, as if she could see monsters lurking just beyond the edge of the void.
Annabelle's heart twisted. She wanted to comfort them, but her voice was lost in the hush. Then, as if the void itself responded to her longing, a tingling warmth bloomed behind her eyes. Lilac light spilled softly from her gaze, illuminating the darkness with a ghostly glow.
The mother's head snapped up, her gaze locking onto Annabelle at last. Her face transformed—fear, shock, and a pleading desperation all at once.
"No… no, please, no!" she whispered, voice trembling. "Please, Ksenia, please! Leave us alone! We believe you, we'll never speak about you to anyone! Please, Ksenia!"
The name struck Annabelle like a cold wave. Ksenia?
She looked down, and her breath caught. Gone was her hospital gown. Instead, she wore a pale blue frock, soft cotton brushing her knees, a faded ribbon tied at her waist. Her hands were small, her feet bare and dusted with the shimmer of the void. She was a child here—a memory, a ghost, or something else entirely.
The boy's sobs grew frantic, the mother clamping her hand tighter over his mouth. "Please, Ksenia, please! We treated you as our own, you know we did. You've already done enough to him, to your father—please, just let us go. Let us be safe."
Annabelle—Ksenia, in this place—lifted her hand, wanting to reach out, to explain, to say she didn't understand. But the gesture sent a jolt of terror through the mother. She shrank back, pressing her child so tightly it seemed she might disappear into him.
"Please, Ksenia, no more. We'll never speak of you to anyone. Please, just leave us."
The man beside them remained slumped and silent, a shadow of accusation at the edge of the light.
Annabelle's hand hovered in the air, trembling, her mind a storm of confusion and guilt. She stood in the blue void, a child in a frock with lilac eyes blazing, caught between the urge to comfort and the fear that she was the very thing they needed to hide from
The void behind the family began to tremble, a ripple in the fabric of nothingness. At first, it was just a shimmer, a distortion in the blue-black air, but then it widened—slowly, hungrily—into a swirling vortex, a black hole that pulsed with silent menace.
Ksenia—Annabelle—felt the shift, saw the shadows stretching, the light bending. She tried to warn them, panic sharpening her voice. "You have to move! There's something behind you, please, you have to get away—"
But the mother only clung tighter to the boy, her words tumbling out in a frantic, tear-choked ramble. "We loved you, Ksenia. I treated you as my own. I gave you everything, everything—why would you do this to us? Why would you take him from me? You were my child too, Ksenia, my child—"
The man's body slumped, unmoving, a shadow of accusation. The boy's sobs grew wild, but none of them seemed to hear Annabelle's desperate cries. The void behind them yawned wider, a howling wind spiraling from its depths, tugging at hair, clothes, memories.
Annabelle's mind raced. She lunged forward, arms outstretched, determined to save them. But the wind was too strong. The black hole opened with a roar, swallowing the family in a rush of shrieking air and swirling darkness. The mother's voice vanished in a single, shattering scream. The boy's small hand disappeared last, fingers reaching for a help that never came.
Annabelle was thrown to her knees, crawling toward the edge of the void, the wind tearing at her frock and hair. She forced herself closer, peering into the swirling blackness.
And there, reflected in the shifting dark, she saw herself.
A child's face—her own, but impossibly young, cheeks round and soft, lips parted in shock. The eyes were unmistakable: wide, luminous, the same shape as her adult self's, but filled with a pure, searching innocence. The features were all Annabelle—porcelain skin, a delicate nose, the faintest dimple in her chin.
Annabelle's curls tumbling around her face, the same stubborn tilt to her jaw.
She stared, transfixed, as the reflection's eyes began to change. The lilac faded, replaced by a deep, burning red—eyes that glowed with unnatural light, pupils impossibly dark, rimmed with a halo of crimson. The gaze was magnetic, ancient, and hungry. The eyes widened, pinning Annabelle in place, and she felt her thoughts begin to slip away, as if the void itself was reaching through her reflection to claim her.
The world narrowed to those eyes—red, hypnotic, endless. Annabelle's mind blurred, her limbs heavy, her voice lost. She heard herself speaking, but it was as if from far away, her words slow and dreamlike: "I am Ksenia. I am the void. I am—"
A new sound sliced through the trance—a smooth, deep voice, velvet and urgent, echoing like a secret in the dark. It was a man's voice, rich and resonant, with a warmth that cut through the cold.
"Run," he commanded, the syllable curling around her like a lifeline.
His tone was unmistakable: gentle but firm
its timbre low and magnetic, threaded with both danger and comfort.
"Run, Annabelle Run to the door. Now."
The spell shattered. Annabelle's eyes snapped wide, the red glow breaking, the void's pull weakening. She staggered to her feet, heart pounding, and ran—her bare feet slapping the marble, the wind clawing at her back. As she sprinted, her body shifted, limbs lengthening, the blue frock melting away into hospital cotton. She was growing, transforming, each stride bringing her closer to herself—Annabelle, not Ksenia, not the child in the void.
She dove for the door, flinging it open, the world behind her howling with loss. As she tumbled through, she risked a glance back—
The red eyes still watched her, burning in the darkness, their hypnotic pull reaching for her across the chasm.
Again, the voice—smooth, urgent, unmistakable—cut through the storm:
"Wake up, Annabelle. Wake up—now."
Annabelle jolted upright in her hospital bed, heart hammering, breath ragged, the echo of red eyes and velvet words still burning in her mind.
Anna jolted awake, her body snapping upright as if yanked from the depths of a nightmare. The monitors beside her bed exploded into a chorus of frantic beeps—heart rate spiking, blood pressure surging, oxygen alarms blaring. The harsh fluorescent light seemed to pulse in time with her pounding pulse.
Within seconds, the door burst open. Nurses and ward boys crowded in, tense and wary, eyes darting from Anna to the machines and back. Their hands hovered near restraints, ready for another outburst or escape attempt.
But Anna didn't move. She sat hunched in the bed, fists tangled in the sheets, breath coming in ragged bursts. Her vision swam with afterimages of darkness and red, hypnotic eyes. She blinked, trying to ground herself, but the world felt thin and unreal.
"Why are you all staring at me?" she gasped, voice raw. "I'm not—I'm not going anywhere. I just… I have a headache. A massive headache."
The staff exchanged uneasy glances, still poised for chaos. Anna pressed her palms to her temples, rocking gently, as if she could squeeze the pain out.
Dr. Abrams swept in, her presence calm but commanding. "Anna, you're all right. You're safe. You just woke up suddenly—that's all. Try to breathe. You're on your way to sleep."
But Anna's panic only sharpened. Her voice rose, wild and desperate, echoing off the sterile walls. "No! No, I'm not all right! I don't want these eyes! I never wanted them!" She clawed at her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Ever since I saw that old man with these lilac eyes—ever since they put them in me—everything's been wrong! My world's upside down! Please, take them out! I want them gone—right now!"
She sobbed, voice breaking. "You don't understand. I'm seeing things—visions, dreams. I see myself hurting people. I see death. I see things that aren't real, but they feel real. Please, Dr. Abrams, please, I can't take it anymore!"
Dr. Abrams knelt by the bed, her face softening with concern. "Anna, listen to me. Headaches, vivid dreams, even hallucinations can happen after major surgery—especially after an eye transplant. The anesthesia, the medications, the stress on your nervous system—it can all cause confusion and these kinds of experiences. I promise, we'll run some tests tomorrow to make sure everything is all right. But right now, your brain and body need rest. You need to sleep."
Anna shook her head violently, trying to scramble off the bed. The nurses moved in, ready to restrain her, but she fought them, screaming. "No! Don't make me sleep! I don't want to dream again! Please, Dr. Abrams, please—something's wrong with me! I'm scared—"
Dr. Abrams nodded to the nurses. "Sedate her, gently. She needs to sleep. We'll take care of her."
Anna thrashed, her cries echoing down the corridor as the sedative burned into her veins. "Please, I don't want to go back! Don't let me dream—don't let me—"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Her world blurred, the room dissolving into shadows and flickering light.
Anna stood alone, barefoot, her hospital gown whispering around her ankles. The corridor stretched on and on, impossibly long, the doors lining it all slightly ajar. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the faint sound of weeping—a woman's sobs, a child's wail, the low, hopeless moan of someone lost.
She moved forward, each step echoing in the empty hall. The lights flickered harder, plunging her into momentary darkness, then snapping back on with a harsh, electric buzz. The crying grew louder, closer, as if the walls themselves were mourning.
Shapes darted at the edge of her vision—people running, shadows slipping through the doors, hands reaching out and vanishing before she could focus on them. Anna's breath quickened. The hospital felt haunted, alive with memories and regrets, every corner hiding something she couldn't see.
She pressed on, heart pounding, the sense of dread growing with every step. The air grew colder, the lights dimmer, and the cries more desperate. Anna realized, with a chill, that she was not alone—and whatever haunted these halls was waiting for her
Anna wandered deeper into the corridor, the echo of her own footsteps swallowed by the oppressive silence. The cries and whispers faded, replaced by a new sound—her name, drifting through the gloom, soft and urgent.
"Anna… Anna…"
The voice was distant, yet unmistakably hers. It curled through the air like a ribbon of smoke, tugging at her heart, pulling her forward. Anna's skin prickled. She knew—deep in her bones—that she shouldn't follow, that whatever waited at the end of this hall was dangerous. Every instinct screamed for her to turn back, to hide, to wait for that mysterious, gentle voice—the one that had saved her before—to call her home.
But the pull was relentless. Her feet moved of their own accord, gliding over the cold linoleum, drawn toward a door at the far end of the corridor. The door was different from the others: old, heavy, its surface warped and stained. Her name was scrawled across it, not in ink or paint, but in dark, glistening spots—almost as if the door itself was bleeding her name into the wood.
A cold wind seemed to breathe from the crack beneath the door. The air shimmered, and Anna felt her pulse flutter in her throat. The door called to her, not with words but with a silent, magnetic promise—open me, come inside, find out who you really are.
She hesitated, every muscle tensed, silently begging for the secret voice to return, to save her again. But the corridor remained empty, the only sound her own ragged breathing and the soft, insistent whisper of her name.
Before she could decide, she found herself standing right before the door, her hand already reaching out, fingers trembling as they hovered over the cold, spotted wood. The name "Anna" seemed to pulse beneath her touch, as if the door itself was alive, waiting for her to make the next move.
Anna's heart pounded. She closed her eyes, bracing herself, knowing that whatever lay beyond this door would change everything.
Anna's hand closed around the icy doorknob. The metal seared her palm like frostbite, but she couldn't let go. The door swung open with a groan, and the world beyond was not a room but a chasm—a swirling abyss of shadows and wailing voices.
The air rushed out of her lungs. Dozens of figures crowded the darkness, their forms translucent and twisted, limbs contorted at impossible angles. Their faces were hollow, eyes gouged out or sewn shut, mouths stretched wide in silent screams. They turned toward her as one, sensing her presence, their spectral bodies flickering like corrupted film.
Dead. Wicked. Hungry.
Anna stumbled back, but the corridor behind her had vanished. The door was gone. She was trapped in the void with them.
The souls lunged.
Cold hands clawed at her arms, her throat, her face. Their touch burned like dry ice, searing her skin with phantom wounds. A woman with a neck bent sideways hissed, "Join us," her voice crackling like static. A child, half his face melted away, giggled as he latched onto her leg, his fingers digging into her flesh.
Anna screamed, but no sound came out. The void drank it.
Then, a surge of heat erupted behind her eyes—a molten pressure, a crackle of energy. Her vision blurred, then sharpened, the world washed in hues of violet and silver. The souls recoiled, hissing, as her lilac eyes began to gleam
Use us, the power seemed to whisper. Burn them.
Anna's eyes flickered desperately with lilac light, but no power came—only a tremulous glow, like a candle guttering in a storm. The souls pressed closer, their hollow eyes now blazing red, each one a mirror of the hypnotic gaze that had nearly consumed her. She was hemmed in, breathless, every instinct screaming for her to run, but her legs wouldn't move. The air was thick with dread, the sound of their ragged breaths and low, hungry moans closing in around her.
She knew, in that moment, that this was her end. The souls surged forward, their twisted faces inches from hers. Anna squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for oblivion.
But then—warmth.
A golden, radiant warmth poured over her, gentle and strong, like sunlight breaking through a storm. The wicked souls shrieked, recoiling from the brightness that bloomed behind her. They scattered, clawing at the shadows, their red eyes wide with terror, vanishing into the darkness as if the light itself was burning them away.
Anna turned, drawn by the source of the light.
The world had changed. Gone was the haunted corridor, replaced by a fantastical landscape that seemed conjured from the pages of a storybook. Wildflowers in impossible colors carpeted rolling hills, their petals shimmering with dew that sparkled like gemstones. Trees arched overhead, their trunks twisted into graceful spirals, leaves glowing with an ethereal luminescence. The air was sweet with the scent of jasmine and honey, and a gentle breeze carried the laughter of unseen streams.
In the center of this dreamlike world stood a figure—otherworldly, breathtaking, as if he'd stepped out of legend. He was tall, with a lean, elegant frame that radiated both strength and grace. His posture was effortless, hands relaxed at his sides, every movement fluid and assured.
His hair was a deep, lustrous brown, falling in soft, natural waves that framed his face and brushed the collar of his mythical attire—robes of silver and indigo, embroidered with patterns that caught the light and seemed to shift with every breath. His skin glowed with a flawless, porcelain smoothness, almost translucent in the magical light.
His features were striking—high, defined cheekbones, a sculpted jawline, and a straight, noble nose. His lips were full, curved in a gentle, enigmatic smile that spoke of kindness and secrets. His eyes, when they met Anna's, were mesmerizing: deep, soulful, and dark, with a gaze that seemed to hold galaxies within. There was a softness to his expression, a warmth that made the fantastical world around him feel safe and real.
Anna felt her lilac eyes begin to gleam again, the light reflecting the wonder and awe she felt. The figure took a step closer, his presence calming the last tremors of fear in her chest.
He smiled, and his voice was the same velvet and clear, the same that saved Anna in the corridor from being hypnotized resonant with both welcome and mystery
"It's nice to meet you, Annabelle James."
The world seemed to pause, every flower and leaf leaning in, as if the fairy-tale realm itself was listening to his words.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Haunted by dreams and hospital light,
Anna falls through shadows, chased by red-eyed night.
At the edge of despair, warmth blossoms bright—
A stranger in a world of flowers,
Calling her name,
Turns nightmares into hope's first light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[To be continued]
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- Signing off ;)💋🧿🩷