Breathing Bones.
The whisper came from beneath the earth.
Not a sound, exactly more like a shiver inside Lucy's bones. It happened while she sat by the grave that no longer held Robert The dirt hadn't shifted.
The flowers hadn't wilted. But she felt it. Something moving below. Something... waking up. She pressed her palm to the soil. It was warm. The chapel bell rang out three slow chimes though no one had pulled the rope.
The sound echoed hollow and wrong, like it had traveled too far to get here. Lucy stood, brushing dirt from her knees, and looked toward the old woods behind the orphanage.
The trees bent strangely tonight. Not in the wind, but away from something. As if something unseen passed among them, and the branches recoiled like frightened hands. Then she heard it again.
A breath, coming from below. That night, in the attic where no children were allowed, Lucy laid out her old sketchbooks.
The ones she'd drawn in long ago full of monsters and broken clocks and shadow people with mouths stitched shut. But there, on the last page, was something she didn't remember drawing. A boy made of bone,
Not a skeleton. Not quite. He had ribs, but they were laced with veins of light. His skull was cracked but glowing. His hands were long, knotted like tree roots.
And from his hollow chest, something misty and golden rose with each breath. He was breathing. The ink pulsed faintly on the page.
Lucy touched it. And the boy turned his head on the page.
He looked at her. The wind howled suddenly through the attic slats. The candles blew out. And when Lucy looked up..He was standing there. Not fully not solid. More echo than flesh. But he was there, and he was breathing.
Every inhale was a dry rattle, like wind through graveyard grass. Every exhale left a shimmer in the air, like heat off summer pavement He did not speak. He only raised one trembling, gleaming hand and pointed at Lucy's heart.
Not at her chest.
Her Heat it began to ache You brought me back, the boy whispered finally. His voice was bone on bone soft, scraping, ancient. Not just me. You broke something. Or opened it. Or both. Lucy tried to ask how, but her voice caught.
The boy didn't wait for questions. They remember now. The ones who were buried wrong. The ones whose names were forgotten. They're waking. He stepped backward, into shadow, and vanished.
But not before whispering one more thing. you'll hear them breathe soon too. All of them. Later that night, the walls of the orphanage seemed to exhale.
A long, low breath that made the floorboards trembleAnd from the cracks beneath Lucy s bed, a faint, rattling sigh rose up like lungs remembering how to work after centuries of stillness. And in the silence that followed, she whispered to herself, breathing bones...the dead don't sleep anymore.
Not a sound, exactly more like a shiver inside Lucy's bones. It happened while she sat by the grave that no longer held Robert. The dirt hadn't shifted. The flowers hadn't wilted. But she felt it. Something moving below. Something... waking up.
She pressed her palm to the soil. It was warm, The dead don't leave warmth behind. The chapel bell rang out three slow chimes though no one had pulled the rope.
The sound echoed hollow and wrong, like it had traveled too far to get here. Birds scattered from the trees in complete silence. The air hung like wet cloth.
Lucy stood, brushing dirt from her knees, and looked toward the forest beyond the graves.
The trees bent unnaturally tonight. Not in the wind, but away from something. As if something unseen moved through them, and the forest itself recoiled.
Then she heard it again. A breath. Coming from below. That night, she climbed to the attic the forbidden attic, where the ceiling pressed close and time had curled like old paper. Dust clung to everything. Broken toys. Old portraits with scratched-out faces. Forgotten dreams.
There, beneath a cracked window, she opened her old sketchbook. Monsters. Shadows. Clockwork hearts. She'd drawn them all before she could speak, But the last page chilled her.
A boy made of bone. Not quite dead. Not quite living. Ribs laced with veins of gold. A skull with a glowing crack. Hollow eyes. And something shimmering in his chest..like breath trapped in a jar.
Lucy didn't remember drawing him...But his ink eyes looked at her. And then he blinked..On the page.
The wind slammed the attic door shut, Candles snuffed out one by one.And when Lucy looked up…He was there. Not solid. Not ghost..A memory wearing a body made of echoes.he breathed.
Each inhale: a sound like dry leaves crumbling..Each exhale: a shimmer in the air, like cold stars falling, You brought me back.
he rasped. His voice was soft but ancient like secrets spoken in a tomb. Not just me. You opened something. The veil. The rhythm.
The breath of bone. he raised one finger and pointed to her heart. Hot her chest, Her soul. They're waking, he said. "Those who were buried wrong. The ones who never got to rest. And just before he vanished, the attic whispered a name Lucy had never heard. That night, as Lucy lay awake, the walls seemed to exhale. And from beneath her bed, a brittle breath rose up like lungs remembering how to work. She whispered, Breathing bones..the dead don't sleep anymore
The forgotten Name.
Lucy couldn't focus. Not in class. during chores. Not even when Miss Halley gave her extra kitchen duty for skipping school again. The world felt thinner. Like it might peel away if she touched it too hard. She found herself scribbling names in the margins of her notebook But none of them were hers. At least, not the one she'd always known.That night, she returned to the graveyard. Not to see Robert he hadn't shown up since yesterday but because the air in her room buzzed like static, and the whispers had become unbearable. They whispered things she didn't understand things like she's not one of them. She was found, not born. She opened the door before. She wandered through the mist, past Robert's now-empty grave. No stone. No name. No sign he'd ever been buried there. then she heard her name. Not Lucy. Something older. Heavier. It sounded like bone snapping and wind shrieking through a keyhole.She turned slowly. A shadow stood near the old chapel. Not a person not quite. Tall, hollow-eyed, its body shifting like smoke wearing a robe.Who are you?" she asked, her voice shaking. It didn't answer. Instead, it held out something.
A necklace. Small. Rusted. A tiny hourglass on a silver chain. She didn't recognize it but her body did. When her fingers brushed it, her vision exploded Memory. A different graveyard. A different time. She was younger. Or older?
Standing in a circle of six figures in white, each with their hands joined. The sky was red, The air was fire. In her hand, she held this very hourglass. And she was chanting. She woke on the chapel floor, face cold with dew.The hourglass lay beside her, pulsing faintly with dark light. And carved into the dirt around her were words she couldn't read but understood anyway: your name was not Lucy You were born between breaths. You were the first to kiss death and the last to hold it back. Later that night, Robert returned. His skin was gray again, his eyes dim. I remember her, he said, breath shallow. "The girl who killed me. Lucy stared at him, gripping the hourglass in her pocket. Who was she He looked straight at her, you. the name that shouldn't be spoken
Lucy didn't mean to say it out loud. But she did. Belladore. The name tasted like rot and honey. the walls heard her. The shadows listened. And something answered. The air inside the orphanage changed the moment she said it. The lights flickered not off, but inside-out, as if the world had blinked. Paint peeled from the corners of the ceiling in spirals. The smell of damp roses filled the hall, choking and sweet.Down the hallway, the old mirror cracked. No sound. No impact.
Just a clean, perfect crack straight through the center, like a splitting skull. Lucy walked toward it. And as she passed by the bedrooms, the children didn't stir. Not even the loud ones.Not even Jessa, who kicked in her sleep.They all lay still too still. Like dolls. Like posed puppets She reached the mirror It no longer showed her reflection. Instead, it showed a different hallway one deeper, darker, older. Lined with doors that dripped shadow and keys hanging from the ceiling like metal fruit. And then she saw something in the mirror. A figure.tall. Veiled. Wearing a crown of thorns and ash. Its hands were too long. Its face, blank But it breathed, and every breath fogged the mirror from inside, then it moved.Not toward her. But toward one of the children's doors in the mirrored hallway.
Lucy heart slammed against her ribs.
Lucy sprinted back through the real orphanage, bare feet slapping wood.
She burst into Jessa's room and stopped cold.
The bed was full...But it wasn't Jessa lying there. It was a bundle of flowers. Dead ones. Woven to look like a girl. Lucy screamed, from the hallway, footsteps came. Slow. Wet. Deliberate.She turned toward the sound and saw the mirror walking. It wasn't glass anymore. It was a doorway. And from it, the veiled thing stepped out.
The smell of old prayers and burned hands followed it. Lucy didn't run. She reached into her chest inside herself and felt the crown again. Cold. Heavy. Waiting.
You want me?" she whispered. "Then come through me, the creature paused. And then it knelt.
It did not attack. It bowed. It bowed, And it's hollow voice it said.
Gatekeeper..Belladore has returned Lucy didn't understand but she understood this. She wasn't the only one who could kiss the dead awake.