FORGOTTEN SPELLS

The soft orange glow of the setting sun seeped through a window, casting long, warm rays across the room. Dust particles danced in the beams of light, moving slowly in the stillness of the evening. A cool breeze drifted through the open window, bringing with it the scent of autumn leaves and a hint of smoke from distant chimneys. The air felt both fresh and nostalgic, carrying a quiet whisper of memories, as if the room itself were holding its breath.

Lena sat on the edge of a bed, her legs dangling above the floor, lost in thought. She stared out the window, her gaze far away, beyond the horizon where the sun dipped lower, casting the sky in a brilliant palette of pinks and purples. Her auburn hair caught the light, glowing softly, but her expression was clouded, a mixture of hope and frustration etched across her features. The room was silent, save for the faint rustling of leaves outside and the occasional creak of the house settling into the coolness of the evening.

Jarin sat on the floor beside her, his back against the bed frame. He had been rifling through a drawer, its contents now scattered around him—old clothes, a few faded letters, and trinkets that seemed to have lost their significance over time. The dresser stood with all its drawers pulled open, as if it had surrendered its secrets, but nothing they found seemed of any real importance. It was as though the room was hiding something, or perhaps had nothing left to give.

A closet door stood ajar on the other side of the room. Inside, a few garments hung limply on their hangers, which swayed slightly with each gust of wind that blew through the window. Clothes lay on the floor in a disordered pile, tossed aside in a frantic search for clues. The room had been turned over thoroughly, its few belongings now scattered and disheveled.

Lena's father's room, once a place of comfort and familiarity, now felt almost like a stranger's. The few pieces of furniture were heavy and wooden, sturdy but worn with age, each one telling a story of its own. There was a sense of absence that permeated the air, a lingering feeling that something important had once lived here but was now missing. The room was sparse, the walls bare save for a small painting that hung crookedly above the bed—a painting of a landscape, serene and untouched by the chaos that seemed to be creeping into their lives.

Lena let out a quiet sigh, her eyes still focused on the view outside, where the last rays of sunlight were fading. The weight of their search hung heavily on her shoulders. They had spent hours in this room, sifting through the remnants of her father's life, hoping to find something—anything—that might give them answers. But all they had discovered were old memories, scattered and faded like the clothes on the floor.

Jarin, sensing the chill of the evening air, got up from the floor and moved to close the window. As he pushed the frame shut, the room seemed to exhale, settling into an even deeper silence. He turned to Lena, his face a mix of determination and quiet resignation.

"Looks like there's nothing else," he said softly, breaking the stillness.

Lena nodded, her eyes finally shifting from the window to her hands, which rested in her lap. She fidgeted with a loose thread on her dress, her frustration evident in the small, anxious movements. She had hoped for so much more—hoped to find a clue, a hidden message, anything that might explain her father's mysterious action or give insight into the significance of the necklace he had left behind. But the room, like the rest of the house, had offered them nothing.

Jarin walked back over to the bed, sitting down beside her. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "We'll figure it out, Lena."

Lena looked into Jarin's eyes, trying not to cry again. She could see the concern etched into his features, the softness in his gaze that always made her feel understood, even when words failed her. For a moment, she felt herself getting lost in his eyes, the warmth they held pulling her in, offering a fleeting sense of comfort amidst her swirling emotions.

As she struggled to hold back her tears, she felt a strange sensation—a warmth spreading from the necklace around her neck, growing slowly but steadily. Her mother's necklace, was glowing faintly, a soft golden light that pulsed gently, in time with her heartbeat. The warmth from the necklace seemed to seep into her skin, filling her with a strange sense of calm, almost like an embrace.

Jarin's gaze moved from her eyes to the necklace, his brow furrowing slightly as he noticed the light. "Lena…" he began, but his voice trailed off as they both stared at the gentle glow emanating from the pendant.

Suddenly, Lena heard a faint sound, distant yet clear—a soft giggling, a woman's laughter echoing through the room. She tore her eyes away from the necklace and looked towards the doorway, her heart beginning to race. The laughter grew louder, closer until a figure appeared in the doorway. Lena's breath caught in her throat. A woman stepped into the room, holding a small baby wrapped in a soft, white blanket.

"Mom?" Lena whispered, disbelief flooding her voice. She felt her body move on its own, standing up from the bed, her legs trembling beneath her. She recognized the woman instantly—her mother, looking just as she had in the faded photographs Lena kept in a box under her bed. Her hair was long and flowing, her eyes bright with life. The baby in her arms gurgled softly, unaware of the strange scene unfolding around them.

Lena watched, frozen in shock and confusion, as her mother walked over to the bed and gently placed the baby down, smiling tenderly. Lena instinctively moved aside, not wanting to be in the way, her mind struggling to comprehend what she was seeing. Her mother leaned down, kissing the baby's forehead with a softness that made Lena's heart ache. Then, without a word, she turned and walked out of the room.

Lena's eyes remained fixed on the doorway long after her mother had passed through it. She felt as though she were in a dream, or perhaps a memory, though she knew this wasn't anything she remembered. The air in the room felt different—heavy with something she couldn't quite place, a blend of nostalgia and yearning. Compelled by a force she didn't understand, Lena followed her mother out of the room.

She moved quickly, her feet carrying her down the hall and towards her father's workshop. As she entered, she saw her father standing there, just as she remembered from the old photos when her mother was still alive—young, vibrant, and strong. He was closing a cabinet she had never seen before, its dark wood contrasting sharply with the familiar clutter of the workshop.

Lena's heart swelled with emotion, a mix of grief and a strange, inexplicable joy. Tears welled up in her eyes as she watched her mother approach her father, her movements graceful and full of love. Her father looked up, a smile breaking across his face as he saw her. He embraced her mother, pulling her close and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Lena wanted to call out, to ask them what was happening, but her voice seemed trapped in her throat. Her feet felt rooted to the spot, her body refusing to move. The couple turned and began to walk towards her, or rather, towards the doorway behind her. Lena's lips trembled as she whispered, "Mother… Father…" but they continued their path as if they hadn't heard her.

And then, to Lena's astonishment, they passed right through her as if she were made of mist. A gasp escaped her lips as she felt a cold shiver run through her body, a strange, bone-deep chill that made her knees buckle. She collapsed to the floor, her hands hitting the cold stone with a soft thud, her breaths coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

"Lena," she heard someone calling her name, the voice distant at first but growing clearer, more insistent. Her hands were trembling on the floor, tears streaming down her face as she tried to process what she had just seen. The voice called out again, closer now, cutting through the fog of her thoughts. "Lena!"

A pair of strong hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her, pulling her back from the edge of whatever strange reality she had just slipped into. She looked up, her vision blurry with tears, and saw Jarin's face hovering above her, his eyes wide with concern.

She wanted to respond, to tell him everything she had seen, but her voice wouldn't come. Her body felt heavy, unresponsive, and soon the room around her began to fade, the edges blurring into darkness. Jarin's voice was the last thing she heard before everything went black, a distant echo in a world that was quickly slipping away.

It was already the next morning when Lena woke up in her own room. The soft light of dawn filtered through the thin curtains, casting a gentle glow across the space. Her room was small but cozy, with a single bed tucked against the wall, its wooden frame sturdy and familiar. The walls were painted a soft shade of blue, calming and serene, with a few sketches and paintings she had done over the years hanging neatly. A small desk sat by the window, cluttered with books, a few sheets of parchment, and an inkwell. The air was cool, and there was a faint scent of lavender from the dried flowers hanging by her bedside.

Lena pushed herself up, her head feeling a bit heavy as if she had been in a deep sleep for hours. She rubbed her eyes, trying to shake off the lingering remnants of a strange dream. Was it just a dream? She vaguely remembered the events of the previous night, the eerie glow of her mother's necklace, the vision of her parents, and the overwhelming sense of loss and confusion. It must have been a dream, she thought, trying to reassure herself. Maybe she had fallen asleep in her father's room, and Jarin had brought her back to her own bed.

She decided it was best to shake off the lingering thoughts and get on with the day. Sliding out of bed, Lena padded over to her small wardrobe and opened it, picking out a fresh set of clothes. She chose a simple green dress that flowed down to her ankles, its fabric soft and familiar against her skin. As she changed, she glanced at herself in the small mirror on her desk, trying to push away the strange feeling that something had changed, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Once dressed, Lena made her way downstairs, following the soft sounds of movement coming from the kitchen. As she descended the wooden staircase, she could hear the clinking of dishes and the faint hum of a familiar tune. The warm, inviting scent of something cooking filled the air, drawing her toward the source.

When Lena entered the kitchen, she found Jarin moving about, his back turned to her as he worked over the stone hearth. The medieval stove, a large brick structure with an iron grate, was built into the wall, its dark, sooty bricks bearing the marks of countless fires. A small flame crackled beneath a heavy iron pot. Jarin was stirring something in the pot, his movements careful and precise, his face illuminated by the soft, amber light of the fire. The sight of him there, so at ease in her home, brought a small smile to her lips.

"Hey," Lena said softly, making her presence known.

Jarin turned around, a welcoming smile spreading across his face as he spotted her. He set the bowl he was holding onto a nearby shelf and wiped his hands on a cloth. "Hey, good morning," he replied warmly.

Lena smiled back, feeling a comforting sense of normalcy wash over her. She wanted to ask him about what had happened last night, but before she could, her stomach grumbled loudly, betraying her hunger. Jarin let out a soft chuckle at the sound, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Have a seat," he said, nodding toward the small wooden table in the center of the kitchen. "Breakfast is ready."

Lena happily followed his instructions and took a seat at the table, her mouth watering at the smell of food. Jarin moved around the kitchen with a practiced ease, gathering up plates and bowls before placing them on the table in front of her.

He had prepared a simple but hearty breakfast—a plate of scrambled eggs, golden and fluffy; a small loaf of freshly baked bread, still warm and steaming; and a bowl of sliced apples and berries, their colors bright and inviting. There was also a small pot of honey, its amber hue glistening in the morning light.

As Jarin set down the last dish, he took a seat across from her, watching as she eagerly reached for the food. "I thought we could use a good meal to start the day," he said with a grin.

Lena nodded, grateful for the familiar comfort of a home-cooked breakfast. She picked up a piece of bread and spread a little honey on it, taking a bite and savouring the sweet, rich flavour. "Thank you, Jarin," she said between bites. "This is perfect."

Jarin smiled, pleased to see her enjoying the meal. He had many questions about what had happened last night, but he decided to let them wait. For now, sharing this quiet moment over breakfast felt like the right thing to do.

As they finished their breakfast, Lena and Jarin sat back in their chairs, both feeling a little more relaxed. Lena sipped the last of her tea while Jarin cleared the plates, stacking them neatly on the wooden table. The morning light streamed in through the small kitchen window, casting a soft glow over everything, and the warmth from the fire in the hearth made the room feel cozy and safe. For a few moments, there was a comfortable silence between them, each lost in their own thoughts.

Jarin finally broke the silence. "Lena, what happened yesterday?" he asked, his voice gentle but filled with concern. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her feel as though he could see right through her.

Lena looked up from her tea, a crease forming between her brows. Confusion clouded her thoughts. "What do you mean?" she asked, her tone uncertain, as she tried to grasp what he was referring to.

Jarin pointed towards her chest, where the necklace rested. "Your necklace," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not glowing anymore."

Lena glanced down at the necklace, her hand instinctively moving to touch it. "Glowing?" she repeated, trying to recall the events of the previous night. Then the memories came flooding back—the warmth, the soft light, the strange vision of her mother and father. "It was glowing…" she murmured, more to herself than to Jarin."Did I not fall asleep in my father's room?"

Jarin shook his head slowly, his expression serious, his lips pressed into a thin line. "No, Lena. You didn't. After your necklace started glowing, you started acting really strange. You stood up and walked out, like you were in some kind of trance. I kept calling your name, but you wouldn't answer."

Lena stared at him, her heart beginning to race. She could feel her pulse quickening, the room suddenly feeling too small, too confining. "But… you didn't see anything?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, as if she was afraid to hear his answer. "You didn't see my mother? Or my father?"

Jarin's brows furrowed in confusion and concern. He shifted slightly, his chair creaking under the weight of his movement. "No, Lena," he said softly, his voice steady and sure. "They weren't there. It was just us. You were moving around, touching things, like you were seeing something I couldn't. And then you just collapsed in your father's workshop. I tried to wake you up, but you were out cold. I had to carry you back to your room."

A cold shiver ran down Lena's spine. She could feel goosebumps rising on her skin, her hands trembling slightly as she gripped the edge of the table. Her mind was spinning, trying to make sense of what Jarin was telling her. It felt like the ground beneath her was slipping away, leaving her grasping for something, anything, to hold onto. "But… I saw them," she insisted, her voice trembling, her eyes wide and filled with a desperate need for him to understand. "I saw them, Jarin. They were right there, in front of me.

Jarin's eyes softened with sympathy. He leaned closer, reaching out to touch her arm, his grip firm but gentle, grounding her in that moment. "Lena," he said gently, his voice filled with a tenderness that made her chest ache, "they aren't here anymore."

Tears welled up in Lena's eyes, blurring her vision. She felt her breath catch in her throat, a tightness constricting her chest. The words felt like a punch to her gut, knocking the wind out of her. "Am I going crazy?" she whispered, her voice breaking, raw with emotion. "I swear, I saw them. It felt so real…"

Jarin reached out and took her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in slow, soothing circles. "No, Lena, you're not crazy," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the fear he felt for her. "I didn't see your parents, but I saw your necklace glowing. There's something happening, something we don't understand. But I believe you."

Lena looked into Jarin's eyes, searching for comfort, for some kind of anchor in this sea of confusion. She saw the worry there, the genuine concern, but also a flicker of something else—belief. He believed her, even when everything felt so surreal and impossible. Her lip quivered as she tried to hold back her tears, her shoulders shaking with the effort. 

Jarin noticed the way Lena's shoulders trembled, her breath coming in short, shaky bursts as she tried to hold herself together. He could see the panic setting in, her mind spiraling deeper into confusion and fear. He knew he needed to do something to calm her down, to bring her back to the present.

"Hey," he said softly, squeezing her hand gently to get her attention. "How about we do something different today? Something to take our minds off things for a bit. How about we paint the kitchen? It could use a bit of freshening up, don't you think?"

Lena looked up at him, blinking through her tears, her brow furrowing slightly. Painting the kitchen was such an ordinary, simple suggestion. The idea of doing something so mundane, so normal, felt like a lifeline in the storm of her emotions. She nodded slowly, still feeling the weight of everything that had happened, but grateful for the distraction. "Yeah… that sounds nice," she whispered, her voice still shaky but steadier than before.

Jarin gave her a reassuring smile, glad to see a hint of calm returning to her eyes. "Great. I'll go get the paint and brushes," he said, standing up from the table. "You finish up with the dishes, and we'll get started." Lena nodded again.

A few minutes later, Jarin returned to the kitchen, his arms full of paint cans and brushes. He set them down on the kitchen table with a soft thud, grinning at her as if they were about to embark on a grand adventure. "Remember how my mother used to teach us how to paint?" he asked, a nostalgic smile crossing his face. "She'd always say the key to a good painting is to let your heart guide the brush."

Lena smiled faintly at the memory. Jarin's mother had been a kind woman, always encouraging them to express themselves, whether through art, music, or storytelling. Lena could still picture her standing in the garden, a paintbrush in hand, her face alight with joy as she showed them how to mix colors on the palette. She hadn't thought about those days in a long time, and the memory brought a small, comforting warmth to her chest.

"Yeah, I remember," Lena said softly, her voice steadier now. She dried her hands on a towel and joined Jarin at the table, looking over the supplies he had brought. "She was always so patient with us. I think she was the first person who ever told me I had a good eye for color."

Jarin nodded, a hint of sadness in his smile. "She was. She saw the beauty in everything and everyone." He picked up a brush, handing it to Lena with a playful grin. "Shall we?"

"How about you start with the cabinet on the right, and I'll do the one on the left?" Jarin suggested, pointing to the cabinets on either side of the kitchen. His voice was light, almost teasing, as he tried to keep the mood cheerful. He nodded toward the left cabinet, which was still open from earlier.

"Sure," Lena agreed, picking up a paintbrush and dipping it into the pale blue paint. Jarin moved toward the cabinet on the left and gently closed the door, preparing to start his work.

As Jarin closed the cabinet door with a soft click, Lena felt a strange sensation ripple through her body, a sudden rush of emotion that caught her off guard. Her mind flashed back to the vision she had the previous night—the sight of her father closing a similar cabinet in his workshop. The memory was so vivid, so sharp, that it felt almost like she was there again, seeing him, feeling the presence of her parents.

The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of nostalgia, grief, and something else she couldn't quite place. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she felt a tightness in her throat, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. The world around her seemed to tilt, and her vision blurred momentarily.

In that instant, her fingers went slack, and the paintbrush slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor with a soft thud. The noise snapped her back to the present, and she blinked rapidly, trying to steady herself, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

Jarin immediately turned to her, concern flooding his face. "Lena? Are you okay?" he asked, stepping closer, his eyes searching hers for any sign of what had just happened.

Lena nodded slowly, though she felt far from okay. "I… I just…" she stammered, trying to find the words to explain the sudden surge of emotion. But before she could finish her sentence, a sense of urgency overcame her. She needed to see the workshop. Without another word, she rushed out of the kitchen, her heart pounding in her chest. Jarin followed closely behind, worry etched on his face.

They moved quickly through the dimly lit hallway until they reached her father's workshop. Lena pushed the door open, and they stepped inside. The only light came from a small, dusty window near the ceiling, casting long, thin beams across the cluttered space. Lena hurriedly grabbed an old lantern from a shelf, her hands trembling as she lit it with a match. The flame flickered to life, casting a warm, amber glow that illuminated the room's shadows.

But the cabinet she had seen in her vision was nowhere to be found. The room looked just as it always had, cluttered with tools and old furniture. Jarin's eyes darted around the room, still trying to understand what had spooked Lena. "Lena, what happened?" he asked gently, keeping his distance but ready to support her.

"Just a minute," Lena replied, holding up a hand to silence him. She moved toward the spot in her vision where she had seen the cabinet, her eyes narrowing as she took in the space. There was a wooden table pushed up against the wall now—a wall that seemed different from the rest of the room. She hadn't paid much attention to it before, but now it struck her as odd.

The stones were newer, less weathered than the rest of the walls, and the entire area seemed deliberately hidden.

Jarin nodded and moved to her side. Together, they pushed the heavy wooden table away from the wall, revealing a section of stonework that looked slightly out of place. Lena stepped closer, her breath catching as she knocked on the stones. The sound was hollow—a deep, empty echo that sent a shiver down her spine.

"There's a space behind this," she said, turning to Jarin with wide eyes. "We have to get through it."

Jarin glanced around the workshop, searching for something they could use. He spotted a sturdy metal crowbar leaning against the workbench and grabbed it. "Stand back," he instructed. With a swift motion, he wedged the crowbar between the stones and began to pry them apart. The stones shifted and groaned under the pressure, and with a few strong pushes, they started to give way.

With one final heave, Jarin dislodged a section of the stonework, surprised by how easily the stones gave way. They weren't as strong as they looked; the mortar between them crumbled under the force, causing several large stones to fall away. A thin cloud of dust erupted from the wall as the stones tumbled to the ground, revealing a hidden hollow space behind it.

Lena held up the lantern, its flickering light spilling into the narrow opening. There, nestled in the shadows, was a cabinet—just like the one she had seen in her vision. The structure was simple but sturdy, made of dark wood with a faintly carved design along the edges. It looked old and forgotten, with layers of dust and cobwebs clinging to its surface, as if it hadn't been touched in years.

"Holy moly," Jarin muttered under his breath, eyes wide with amazement.

Lena quickly moved toward the cabinet, her heart racing. She reached for the door and tugged, but it was stuck, the wood swollen and warped from age. She pulled harder, her fingers slipping against the dusty handle, until Jarin stepped in to help. Together, they gave it a final strong pull, and with a creak and a snap, the door gave way, opening to reveal the contents inside.

Dust and spider webs spilled out as the door swung open, and Lena waved her hand in front of her face to clear the air. Inside, there were two shelves, both covered in dust and filled with a jumble of objects that seemed to have been hastily stored away. The air was musty and suffocating, making it hard to breathe in the confined space of the workshop.

"Let's bring this stuff to the living room," Jarin suggested, coughing slightly from the dust. "There's better light there, and it's less suffocating than this place."

Lena nodded, and together they began carefully removing the items from the cabinet, carrying them to the living room. Once there, they spread the objects out on the floor, under the clearer light streaming through the windows.

They began sorting through the cabinet's contents, each item more curious than the last. There were few old journals, their leather covers cracked and worn, filled with yellowed pages that had grown brittle with time. A few small trinkets—an old pocket watch, a set of ornate keys, and a silver locket—lay amidst the clutter, each one covered in a fine layer of dust.

As Jarin continued sorting through the contents of the cabinet, his hand brushed against something folded and thin beneath a stack of old papers. He pulled it out and unfolded it, revealing a map. His eyes lit up with a childish excitement, the kind he hadn't felt in years. "Hey, Lena, check this out," he said, spreading the map out on the floor.

Lena, who had been engrossed in one of the old journals, looked up and moved over to where Jarin was kneeling. She noticed the map was detailed, showing a layout of the surrounding region. The paper looked ancient, the edges frayed and the ink faded with time.

"Look here," Jarin continued, tracing his finger along a series of lines and dots that branched out from the circled town. "These markings… they're not just random. It looks like some kind of route or pathway, but there's more to it. See how the pathways are lined with different colors? And look at this one," he said, pointing to a single path marked in blue that led to a place labeled Drakemoor.

Lena leaned in closer, her eyes following the blue path. Along the same route, there was a single other location circled in blue, its name sending a chill down her spine. "This place… it's connected somehow. But why would Drakemoor and this one other place be highlighted like this?"

 Her eyes scanned over it until something caught her attention—there, right in the center, was their town, circled in red ink.

"Jarin, look at this," she said, pointing to the circle around their town. "Why would this be marked?"

Jarin leaned closer, his earlier excitement fading into curiosity and concern. "I don't know," he replied, his brow furrowing.

 "But it feels... deliberate like someone was planning something. Why would your father have a map like this?" Jarin asked, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and concern. He ran his fingers over the faded parchment, studying it more closely.

"Look here," Jarin continued, tracing his finger along a series of lines and dots that branched out from the circled town. "These markings… they're not just random. It looks like some kind of route or pathway, but why would it be drawn like this? And these symbols around the circle—they seem to point to something, something important."

As Lena continued sorting through the cabinet's contents, her fingers grazed a stack of old letters. all sealed with wax stamps. Each stamp bore a complex, unfamiliar symbol that seemed as ancient as the map they had found. The letters were addressed to the same woman, her mother, Evelyn.

 But like the map, they were written in a language Lena couldn't decipher.

"These are all in the same language as the one on the map," Lena muttered in frustration. She flipped through the letters, her brows furrowed with growing annoyance. "Why did he keep all of these? Why are they all addressed to my mother?"

Jarin, noticing Lena's frustration, held out a small letter he had found among the papers. This one was different—shorter and crumpled, as if it had been hastily shoved aside. The wax seal was slightly broken, but it still bore the same strange symbol.

"Lena," Jarin said, handing her the letter. "This one's in our language, probably the only one."

Lena unfolded the letter with trembling hands. The message was brief but unsettling: "You better take care of her."

Lena stared at the words, feeling a knot tighten in her chest. "What does this mean? Who would leave a note like this for my father."