Under The Hills

They found her body just before dawn, curled beneath the folds of the lower hills like she’d gone there to sleep. But her neck had snapped clean—too clean for a fall, too cruel for mercy. Everyone in the village had questions. But I already knew the answer.

Because I saw it happen.

I’d gone walking that night, sleepless again, chasing moonlight and thoughts that wouldn’t sit still. She passed me near the old oak by the ridge—her copper hair catching fire in the wind, the silk scarf floating like breath in the air. She looked no older than twenty-five, glowing, almost too vivid to be real.

But I knew who she was. Everyone did.

Maya Sen—forty, twice divorced, no children, and barely aging a day since her twenties. Whispers said she had a secret, something old, something given. A boon, they called it. Others called it a curse.

I should’ve gone home.

I didn’t.

I watched as she met him in the clearing—he was waiting, cloaked in shadow, his hands shaking. I couldn’t hear what was said, but I saw the look on her face shift. From curious to cautious. Then to cold.

She turned to leave.

That’s when he struck.

It happened fast—one shove, a scream, then silence as her body tumbled into the hollow below. I should have screamed, too. I should have run. But my feet stayed planted and my throat locked with ice.

The police called it an accident. No signs of struggle. No fingerprints. No suspects.

I kept the truth like a stone in my mouth.

Until tonight.

I felt her before I saw her. The room grew heavy, air thick like rain about to fall. And then the mirror shimmered. Fog rolled across the glass. And she stepped through.

Not as she was when I saw her last—dead, broken. But whole. Radiant. Her copper hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes burning with something ancient and wild.

“Maya,” I whispered. But I already knew it wasn’t truly her.

Not anymore.

“You saw,” she said, her voice low, like wind slipping through cracks. “You knew. And you said nothing.”

I opened my mouth, but guilt clogged my throat.

“I need the truth,” she said, stepping closer. “Before I finish what he started.”

Fear clawed at my spine, but I forced myself to look into her eyes. “It wasn’t just a murder,” I said. “He knew about your gift. He was sent—by someone who wanted it stolen, or stopped.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Who?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But I remember his ring. Black stone. Inscribed. I—”

She vanished before I could finish.

Only the scent of roses and blood lingered in the air.

And I knew this wasn’t over.

Not yet.