#modernfolklore

'Youth'

You can find more information here~ Word Count: 5.4k || Original World + Slow-Burn Genre - Supernatural Mystery, Romantic Undercurrents _________________________________________

Chapter One: Found & Lost Again

The sun hits Manere Bay like a slap, bleaching the whitewashed town until Nyra feels half-melted just walking uphill. Even the shade seems to glare. The streets loop and tangle like the place couldn’t decide where to end—veins twisting toward the sea, then folding back on themselves. Tourists swarm the market square in linen and sunglasses, all open-mouthed awe. Locals slip around them like water around rocks—never touching, never lingering. Every shopfront begs for a photo; every alley is someone’s shortcut.

Nyra hates crowds. But, in spite; she hates being lost more.

Her boots crunch broken shells and shards of blue tile as she checks the ledger’s address—half a street name and a tangle of numbers, more riddle than direction. She trails a finger along stucco walls, scanning for anything familiar. Everything’s painted—sills in cobalt, doors in burnished gold, whole walls in terracotta. The air smells of salt and burning sage, with music threading through it: strings, a woman’s laughter, waves slapping stone.

Near a sun-bleached fountain, she stumbles. A girl—small, frizzy-haired, more shadow than shape—watches her from behind the rim. A shard of glass spins in the water.

“You’re real this time,” the girl says, voice flat, oddly sure. “I wasn’t sure.”

Nyra blinks. A question catches in her throat. But before she can speak, the girl dusts off her knees and slips into a crowd. Nyra stares after her, then tightens her grip on the ledger.

Just a kid, she tells herself. Just a weird, sun-dazed kid.

The path winds deeper into the town’s ribs, past music, into a snarl of side streets where the sea-lavender grows thick and unseen chimes rattle softly. Buildings blur together—white domes, arched doorways—but here the paint peels, the salt heavier.

She slows at the sight of a sign, half-choked in vines, swinging on rusted chains.

Vale & Vine.

She lets out a short, bitter laugh.

“Really, Dad? Couldn’t even name your double life something new?”

She stands still, sea wind twisting around her, the old sign creaking above. She tries to picture her father here. Her mother in the doorway, arms full of flowers. But nothing fits. The place is shuttered, taken back by time and green. Her pulse falters. For the first time since landing, something cracks—recognition, regret, and a sharp, unwelcome ache.

She presses her palm to the door.

Nothing.

She closes her eyes. Breathes in salt, sage, loss.

“I’m here,” she whispers. “So… now what?”

The door doesn’t budge. Not to pressure, not to coaxing. Not even when Nyra mutters her father’s name as if it was a key. She steps back, lips pressed tight, eyeing the salt-stained threshold. Someone—long ago, probably—scrawled a warding.. Glyph?– across the stone in rust-colored ink. It’s cracked now. Faded like it gave up trying to keep anything out.

“Guess I’m not welcome either,” she mutters.

She’s already turning to leave when a breeze slides down the alley—heavier than sea wind, scented with lavender and iron—and drops something small at her feet.

A pressed flower. Sea-lavender. Flat, brittle, and pale as ash.

She bends to pick it up—then freezes.

Tucked behind a loose plank at the base of the doorframe is a folded slip of paper. Hidden so neatly it could’ve been there for years... or just tucked in this morning.

Nyra hesitates. Then reaches in and pulls it free.

The paper is soft with age, sealed with a wax stamp she’s never seen: a vine curling through a crescent moon, pressed into violet-grey wax.

She breaks the seal.

“If you’ve come looking for answers, find the one place we never finished. Bring salt. And don’t trust the smiling ones. — C”

Nyra’s pulse jolts like someone just whispered in her ear. The note is unsigned—but it doesn’t need to be. She knows that crooked tilt in the C. Her father never fixed the way he wrote his name after the break in his hand. She remembers it in receipts, notes, the old grocery list above the counter.

“What the hell, Dad…”

She leans her head against the door. Cool wood. Sun-warmed frame. No sound from inside—but something hums beneath the floorboards. Low and steady. Not fear. Something older. A memory that isn’t hers. She steps back again and looks up at the sign.

Vale & Vine.

 Same name. Same letters. But this one came first.

“So what else didn’t you tell me?” she says. “What else did you leave behind?”

Far off, the windchimes stutter. Something creaks behind the building—or beneath it. She folds the note and tucks it into the back of her ledger. Then turns and walks into the light, almost back into the hum of a town that insists nothing here is strange. 

The sun won’t shut up. It’s in her eyes, in her mouth, crawling across her scalp like fingers made of sweat and salt. The alley feels tighter now—claustrophobic, like grief that’s gone soft at the edges, the kind that settles in walls like mildew. Nyra’s hands shake as she folds the note. She fumbles it into her ledger’s back pocket, misses, swears, and shoves it in crooked.

“Fuck this place,” she mutters. The sign above the door creaks like it’s laughing. “And fuck you, too.” She kicks the base of the door. It thuds—more insulted than injured. A puff of crushed sea-lavender escapes from under the frame, like a sigh.

“I crossed godsdamn oceans for this? Dug through death certificates, fought with boat schedules, sat through three-hour transfers—for a shack full of fuck-all and riddles?” She paces the alley, tugging her dark brown, almost black hair into a tie that’s no longer there.

“And why wouldn’t it be locked?” she snaps. “That’d be too fucking normal, right?”

 She throws her arms wide, spins in a slow, sarcastic circle.

“Oh yes, welcome to Manere—population: liars and floral decay! Here’s your inheritance, NyyYRRaaa: a broken building, a cryptic note, and a town full of strangers who don’t even know your name.” She stops. Breathing hard. Mouth dry. The salt air stings her tongue. Her pulse roars in her ears, but it can’t drown out the whisper in her head:

You shouldn’t have come. He left for a reason.

She leans back against the hot wall and slides down, crouching at the edge of the alley. Arms on her knees. Eyes burning—but nothing falls. Not yet. Maybe later. Maybe never.

“Goddammit, Dad,” she says, her voice small. “You could’ve left a key. A map. One honest fucking sentence.”

Her voice cracks. She swallows it. 

Then—sharp breath. Palms slap against her thighs. She pushes up fast, dizzy with it.

“Nope. Nope. We’re not spiraling. We’re problem-solving.”

She points at the door like it’s a witness.

“You left me a building. Buildings have doors. Doors have owners. Owners have records.”

She stalks back toward the main road, weaving past tourists with gelato and loud shirts. None of them see her. They never do.

Halfway up the next street, she stops cold.

“Who the hell even runs this town?” She doesn’t know. But someone does. Someone with a key, a file, a name.

 And if they’re not in whatever counts as a city office or Tribunal station around here?

She’ll knock on every door from the market to the sea until one of them admits they knew her father. — — —

The map is crumpled in her fist before she makes it past the bakery.

It’s useless. Half the names are smeared, the handwriting lazy and crooked. More doodle than direction. At the next corner, she chucks it into a rosemary planter gone half-wilted.

“I’ll figure it out without you, thanks.”

Heat rolls off the white stone like breath. Manere Bay exhales slow, heavy—too old to rush, too proud to explain itself.

She weaves through narrow alleys and cobbled slopes, ignoring every color-coded placard and smug painted arrow. Her boots thud against uneven stone, brushing past faded banners singed by salt and time. The air smells like citrus, sun oil, and sharp seaweed. Vendors hawk rosemary-wrapped sardines, coral-carved trinkets, necklaces made of hand-blown salt beads that hum if you listen close. Everywhere she turns, there’s movement—a quiet language of side-eyes, practiced friendliness, and too much silence. Tourists haggle over ceramic gulls. Two old women trace glyphs on their bread before biting. Kids race past a weathered mural, buckets sloshing seawater and plastic crabs.

It’s beautiful. And it makes her sick.

Eventually the alleys open into a circular plaza—uneven, sun-drenched. Two stairways lead down to the marina. Four more twist upward into the town’s ribs. This is the heart of it. The hum beneath the performance of normal.

Nyra spots a bench in partial shade and drops onto it. The marble scorches through her clothes. She pulls out a battered tin, flips it open, lights a half-crushed cigarette with a salt-strike match. It hisses like it knows better.

Bad habit. You said you’d stop.

But her father’s voice is long gone. And habits don’t quit just because the ghosts that shamed them died.

The first drag hits sharp—painful, welcome. A breath she owns. Her foot taps out of sync with the distant mandolin music.

Then the crowd laughs.

Sharp, delighted, sudden.

Nyra looks up.

A man in a pinstriped coat and coal-black bowler hat balances on an upturned bucket—one foot raised, the other barely touching the rim, arms out like he’s steadying an invisible tray.

He doesn’t blink.

Then he drops into a full split, pops back up, and juggles nothing—catching air with exaggerated effort. No paint. No props. Skin pale as bone. The crowd claps. He turns, removes an invisible hat, and pulls out a pressed sea-lavender bloom. Hands it to a toddler like it’s a coronation.

Then he sees her.

Nyra freezes mid-drag. The mime goes still—head tilted, shaded lenses glinting like mirrors.

“No,” she mutters.

He steps off the bucket. The crowd parts around him like they know.

“Absolutely not.” She flicks ash, stands, tries to walk—but he’s already there.

“Jesus,” she breathes, stumbling back.

He doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t even mime hello. Just reaches into one of his many coat pockets and pulls out—

A wooden music box. Palm-sized. Weathered. A salt-cracked winding key. A carved vine curling around the top.

Nyra stares. “You’re joking.”

He offers it again. Head cocked, waiting for a laugh.

“Fine,” she mutters, taking it. “If a clown pops out, I’m setting it on fire.”

The mime grins. Mimes zipping his lips, locks them, swallows the key.

“Charming.”

She motions vaguely toward the rooftops.

“You seem like someone who knows weird shit. How do I get into a building that doesn’t want to open?”

He strokes an imaginary beard. Taps his lips. Mimes knocking. Nothing. Mimes pouring salt. Drawing a glyph. Snaps.

Nyra squints. “Salt. Glyph. Great. Let me just find the nearest wizard kiosk.”

He cups his hand to his ear, inviting more.

“Don’t mess with me, mime-boy. I’m two bad moments from a full breakdown. Be useful, or go back to juggling ghosts.”

He bows.

Then—pulling out a chalk stick from nowhere—he gently tucks it into her vest pocket. Steps back. Taps his chest. Points to her heart. Taps the music box.

Then vanishes into the crowd. Just gone.

Nyra slumps back onto the bench. Lights her second cigarette.

“I hate this town.”

– – – 

The box is warm in her palm. It hums faintly—not with music, but with tension. Like something built to play, then forgot how halfway through. Nyra turns it over. No latch. Just a dull brass winding key on the side, and a vine motif clumsily etched into the top.

“Of course it’s a plant,” she mutters, brushing off a bit of lint. “Everything in this town is either floral, cursed, or full of ghosts in drag.”

She glances up.

The mime is half-hidden under a painted awning, miming a tug-of-war with an invisible squid. His face is all pantomimed panic. The tourists howl. Someone claps like it’s genius. A phone snaps a photo.

And yet—he’s still watching her.

Right in the middle of the act.

Nyra narrows her eyes, then looks down at the box again.

“Alriiiggght… Let’s see what your creepy little jack-in-the-box does.”

She cradles it, hooks a finger under the tiny brass key, and winds.

Click. Click. Click. She opens the lid.

Nothing.

Not a note. Not a lock of hair. No sound, no lavender dust, no mystery trinket waiting inside. Just empty wood.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She stares at it for three more seconds. Then snaps the lid shut and tosses it onto the bench beside her with a loud crack. She stands so fast her knees pop.

“I should’ve stayed home,” she mutters, already moving. “Should’ve taken the ferry the second it looked weird. Should’ve thrown the ledger into the sea and bought an apartment haunted by a normal ghost with decent boundaries.”

She turns, just once.

The mime is mid-routine again, pretending to fish something out of a bucket. And—still—staring straight at her.

He winks.

Nyra raises both hands, flipping him off with both fingers before turning on her heel.

The crowd parts just enough to let her through. One of the staircases rises ahead—narrow, warped, shaded. It curls upward into the tighter coils of the town, where houses cling to stone like salt-stained barnacles. She climbs slow, boots ringing on each step. Her skin itches. Her neck burns. She’s still muttering.

“First the shop’s locked. Then the mime’s a magician. Now I’m out of butts.” She sighs heavily.

The road levels out. A breeze drifts past, cool and brief. The higher streets are narrower, cluttered. Tighter merchant stalls: woven talismans, carved sigils, bowls of salt-slick marbles. A woman fans herself behind sea-glass earrings that whisper when the wind shifts. Nyra eyes them. And the storefronts ahead—quaint, suspicious. Beads for curtains. Wind chimes. One has a chalkboard sign:

Herbs, Spirits, & Unrelated Advice.

She sighs again.

“Alright, weird little town,” she mutters. “Let’s see what you’ve got behind door number one.” – – – 

The door to the apothecary doesn’t creak. It hisses open, like it’s trying a little too hard to be magical. Cool air hits her collarbones. Nyra exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the town swallowed her whole. Inside, the light filters through dusty green glass, soft and bent. A chill clings to the stone floor and fingers her spine. It’s quiet. Cooler. Even kind of… gorgeous.

Still bullshit.

Dried herbs hang overhead like tangled windchimes. Wicker baskets overflow with mystic tea pouches. Jars shimmer with oils and powders labeled in what’s either Latin or a very committed imitation.

A chalkboard by the door reads: Mercury in brew. Mint to settle. Basil for truth.

Nyra mutters, “And overpriced chamomile to scam bored tourists.”

A woman in a wide-brimmed hat hums at a bottle labeled Night-binder Elixir. A couple argues in whispers near a shelf of powders—debating whether mirrorshade dust is edible. A girl with festival braids dabs salt balm under her eyes and giggles.

Nyra rolls her eyes and heads for the back.

The counter curves like a crescent moon—dark wood, rune-burnt drawers, strips of woven sea grass. Behind it, a figure leans over a tray of glowing stones. Sorting, maybe. Or just playing. He looks up as she approaches.

Young. Late twenties. Skin the color of clay after summer rain. Hair tied back in a loose knot, smudged with dust. His eyes are pale-not-pale—like moonstone trying to be friendly.

“Need help?” he asks. Voice calm. Too calm. Rehearsed calm.

“That depends,” Nyra says, matching his tone. “Do you sell crowbars?”

He blinks. “Not exactly.”

“Didn’t think so. I’m not here for tinctures or tea blends named after celestial bodies. I need into a building. My building. Inherited. Locked tight.”

He studies her a moment. “Is it a physical lock?”

“It’s a door… It opens…” She pauses. “Or it’s supposed to…. Unless someone enchanted it to mock grieving daughters, yeah, I’d say physical.”

Without a word, he reaches under the counter and slides forward a dish of wax-wrapped chalk sticks and thyme thread.

Nyra groans. “Oh my god. Not you too.”

“Excuse me?”

“The mime already gave me magic chalk. Or possibly cursed soap.” She stares down at her vest, where he had stashed it earlier in his own creepy mime way. “ This town’s obsessed with chalk, riddles, and whimsical bullshit.” She adds, her face half cracked into a smile before looking back at him.

He doesn’t react. Just watches. Her smile drops.

“So you’re not looking for metaphysical advice.”

“I’m looking for a locksmith. Or a registry. Or literally anyone in charge who doesn’t hand out crystals like coupons.”

He leans on the counter. Doesn’t push the chalk closer. Doesn’t pull it back.

“There’s no registry. Not officially.”

“Of course not.”

“As for a locksmith—try Lyria’s parlour, three streets over. She trades in more than fabric if you know how to ask.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.”

Nyra pinches the bridge of her nose.  “Jesus Christ. Is everyone here allergic to straight answers?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

She meets his eyes again. This time, something flickers at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile—just recognition.

“Name’s Corin,” he says. “I help out here. And you’re…”

“Someone who didn’t ask for a quest, thanks.”

“Good. We’re fresh out of chosen ones.”

That pulls a dry laugh from her—instantly regretted.

“Look. Thanks. For the almost-help. I’ll try Lyria or whatever shadow market locksmith exists in this salt-stained escape room.”

Corin nods, no judgment.

“You’ll want to wait until the ferry bells ring. That’s when people stop pretending.”

She takes a moment to look at him clearly, trying to read his intentions. He stares blankly at her, like what he said wasn’t straight out of a Steven King novel. 

“That’s ominous.”

“Everything here is.”

Nyra turns without another word, dazed- confused and a little pissed off. – – – 

 Outside, the heat hits like a slap. Her cigarette tin rattles in her pocket like a second heartbeat. The wax chalk from the mime taps against it with every step. The town stretches ahead, long and looping, its streets folding in on themselves like ribbons in water. Nyra’s half-convinced the buildings shift when you’re not looking. Signs tilt. Shadows bend the wrong way. The salt in the air clings to her skin like a second shirt—and she’s pretty sure three streets over was two. Or five. Or none at all.

Corin’s words echo in her head: “Wait until the ferry bells ring. That’s when people stop pretending.”

She scoffs. Pretending would be a relief.

Her boots thud against uneven cobbles as she climbs toward where Lyria’s Parlour is supposed to be—old stone underfoot, sea wind nudging her back. Everything smells like lemon peel and dust. Her head throbs from the heat, the crowd, and the lingering thought that none of this is real.

And yet too much of it is.

She’s halfway across a narrow walkway where two roads intersect like a broken compass when she stumbles—catches her boot on something hard, deliberate, out of place.

“Shit—!”

She hits the ground, palm-first. Her ledger spills from her satchel, chalk skittering across stone.

Then—

She looks up.

Right into the eyes of a girl crouched in front of her.

Barefoot. Wild curls. Mirror shard in one hand like it’s priceless.

It’s that kid. Again.

The girl tilts her head. Her pupils are wide and unblinking. Her expression unreadable.

Nyra glances down. The stone she tripped on isn’t a stone at all—it’s carved. Sun-worn. Part of a faint circular rune embedded in the walkway. A threshold marker, maybe. Or something older.

Before Nyra can speak, the girl does.

“This part of the road doesn’t like being walked twice.”

Nyra stares. “What?”

“It remembers. Even if you don’t.”

The girl lifts the mirror shard, one finger extended toward the rune like she might touch it. Then stops. Blinks. Pulls back.

Nyra’s frustration spikes, bitter at the back of her throat.

“Look, kid, I’m not in the mood for cryptic fairytale horseshit today, alright?”

But the girl’s face—still, tilted, watching like a reflection—makes her hesitate.

Not frightened. Not even present. Just there.

Nyra draws back. Her breath catches, rising onto her knees.

“Sorry. I just…”

She reaches out, instinctive—whether to steady the girl or herself, she’s not sure.

Her hand meets air.

The girl is gone.

No footsteps. No retreat. Just absence. The mirror shard spins once on the stone where she stood, then clinks and topples flat.

Nyra’s hand trembles as she stands. Her chalk is scraped. Palms raw.

“This fucking town,” she mutters. Softer now. Less anger. More fear.

She exhales, slow, trying to steady her balance, her pulse.

When she looks up—

The storefront in front of her—the one that wasn’t there a minute ago—bears a sign, curling and weathered:

Lyria’s Parlour — Fine Tailoring, Minor Alterations, Necessary Revisions

The doorway is framed by salt-bleached curtains. The air smells faintly of anise and fabric. Dresses ripple gently just inside, though the wind is still. No bell. Nyra narrows her eyes.

“Right where I fell,” she murmurs. Coincidence.

Definitely coincidence.

She walks through as the curtains part with a hiss — not from wind, but from fabric under tension.

Lyria’s Parlour smells of cloves, old paper, and something metallic — like scissors that’ve seen too much truth. The light is dim, filtered through long strands of dyed linen hanging like seaweed. Some drift lazily in still air. Others shift when she’s not looking. It’s cooler here. Not like the apothecary’s clean chill. This is the cool of basements and velvet-lined secrets, the hush of measuring tape drawn tight around a throat. Garments line the walls — too exquisite for a town like this. Salt-pale dresses stitched with mothbone. Tailored coats with blinking buttons. Scarves that flutter like breath. A mannequin near the door wears a jacket Nyra would’ve stolen as a teen and worn until it fell apart. It looks like it might hiss if touched.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Except for the couple half-draped on a chaise near the back. Tourists, obviously. She can smell the vacation cologne and bad decisions. They’re mid-makeout, laughing, whispering about “private tailoring” like they’re in a hotel hallway, not someone’s shop. Nyra snorts and steps deeper inside.

She’s halfway to a rack of long coats — embroidery so fine it might be moving — when a voice cuts in behind her, smooth as silk pulled over a blade.

“Careful, darling. The last couple who did that left with matching hexes stitched into their hems. Took weeks before the whispering stopped.”

Nyra spins.

Behind a parted curtain stands a woman in onyx-black silk. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Thread looped through silver rings on her fingers. Cherrywood-red hair, pulled back in a bun so precise it could cut. No shoes — just feet marked with faint salt lines that glint in the dim light. Her eyes — sharp, smoky, almond-shaped — don’t blink when they find Nyra.

“You’re the Vale girl,” she says. Smooth. Indifferent. Like naming a paint swatch.

Nyra bristles. “Is that what people call me now? ‘The Vale girl’? Sounds like a fairytale.. Or a warning label.”

Lyria arches a brow. Glides forward like someone used to tight spaces and tighter conversations.

“You don’t want the fairytales, dear. Not here. They tend to end with offerings, not weddings.”

Nyra folds her arms, voice taut with exhaustion, not fear. “Look, I’m not here for riddles or salt-stitched fortunes. I need a locksmith. Or someone who can open a door. That’s it.”

Lyria keeps walking until Nyra can smell sage and red wine and something older — bitter-sweet and unnamed.

“And what makes you think I’m either of those things?”

“Because some guy named Corin told me so.” She takes a deep breath, chest heaving after being in the sun all day. “Because every time I try to do something normal, someone gives me magic chalk, a cryptic note, or a music box with nothing inside. And I’m out of patience.”

Lyria studies her a beat too long. Then she smiles.

Not kindly.

“You’ll fit in beautifully.”

She turns on her heel.

“Come. If you’re asking for help, I may as well take your measure. No sense being unprepared when the town starts asking for favors in return.”

“I’m not making deals,” Nyra warns, but follows.

“Everyone says that. The clever ones just don’t write them down.”

The curtains swallow them both as the back room yawns open like the inside of a lantern — close, golden, strange. Not warm with heat, but with hush. Velvet-thick and old. Light leaks in from sconces and inverted glass teardrops, glowing amber, then olive, then plum — like the room can’t decide what time it is. Mirrors line the walls. All slightly warped — not enough to feel wrong, just enough to make you look away. Dresses, coats, veils hang between them — dyed in colors without names. Some look stitched from regret. Others hang heavy, drooping low as to kiss the ground beneath it. Nyra steps in and feels it: that chill. Not cold.

Exhaustion.

The kind that smells like her father’s coat. The kind that curls in her knees and tells her to stop pretending she’s not tired. She exhales, slow.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” she mutters to herself, not so much meaning to say it outloud. Lyria glides past and closes the curtain.

“No one does. That’s what makes you interesting.”

“I’m not trying to be interesting. I just want to open a door.”

“That’s what they all say.”

She gestures to a chalk-marked circle on the floor. Then unspools a tape measure from nowhere — glinting faintly, like starlight caught in thread. Nyra eyes it warily. “Wait — what is this?”

“I said I’d take your measure.”

“Yeah, but like… metaphorically right?”

“Oh no, darling. I meant it exactly.”

Nyra steps into the circle, arms crossed. Lyria is already at her side — swift, practiced. The tape flits from waist to shoulders. She flinches when fingers brush her ribs. Shifts when Lyria kneels to check inseam lines, chalk held like a wand.

“You always this touchy?” Lyria asks.

“I don’t like being handled.”

“Then you’re in the wrong town.”

Nyra glances around — trying not to notice how the wall behind the mirror just shifted color again. Plum. Then dusky lavender.

“How did you know who I was?” she blurts. “Before I said anything?”

“You look like him.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“And yet, it was.”

Nyra groans and steps off the circle. “I just want to know if you can help me or not. I’m tired of riddles. I’m tired of flowers. I’m tired.”

Lyria rolls up the tape and sets it beside a tray of rusted needles and polished buttons.

“Who’ve you spoken to?”

Nyra pauses.

“Why does that matter?”

“It always matters. The order. The tone. Who sees you first.”

“Are you serious—”

“Who.”

Nyra hesitates. The light shifts again — brighter now, but colder.

“A mime,” she mutters.

Lyria lifts a brow. “Pantom. Of course.”

“And an apothecary. Corin.” Nyra continues.

“He gave you chalk?”

Nyra shakes her head, rubbing the bottom of her chin nervously. 

“Nah, the other guy did.” After a moment, she continues. “But, he did try to give me some.”

Lyria runs a finger along a bolted glass case. Inside: a cloak stitched from shadow.

“And you thought I’d give you something different.”

“I thought you’d give me something useful.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” Lyria says, softly, “that if two people attempt to give you the same thing, it might be exactly what you need?”

Nyra’s voice snaps. “Did it ever occur to you that not everyone wants to be part of your little town play? That maybe I just want to walk into the building I legally inherited without solving a godsdamn prophecy?”

A beat of silence.

Then:

“You really don’t know what you’ve inherited, do you?”

Nyra stares. Lyria doesn’t blink. Doesn’t press.

Instead, she reaches for a small silk pouch and holds it out.

“Take this. Not chalk. Thread. Red. For grounding.”

Nyra stares at it, a cross between awe and bewilderment.

“Are you helping me, or dressing me for a funeral?”

Lyria smiles — not unkind.

“That depends on which door you open.”

Nyra didn’t say thank you. She didn’t say anything, really — just dropped a crumpled handful of euro notes on Lyria’s counter and left the pouch of red thread sitting there. Unopened. Useless. She didn’t even take it. Just turned and walked out, jaw clenched so tight she thought she might crack a molar.

No chalk. No thread. No more bullshit.

Her boots scraped the stone path like a threat. She wasn’t walking toward anything — just away. Away from the heat and the whispers, the mirrors and the tailor who asked too many questions without offering a single goddamn answer.

“What is this place?” she muttered. “Disneyland for dead people?”

She stormed past faded stalls, shoved through tourists laughing too loudly. Her mouth was dry. Her hands shook — not from fear. From dehydration. From rage. From grief.

She wasn’t paying attention. Not until she heard the laugh. A soft, feather-light giggle.

Nyra looked up.

Vale & Vine.

Confused, her head twisted around her. Unsure exactly how she even came to be here when the walk around town was at least a couple hours of huffing and sore feet. The alley hadn’t changed. Same crooked sign. Same rust-bitten hinges.

And at the base of the steps — just like before — sat the girl. Barefoot. Mirror shard in her lap. Eyes too wide, too still.

Nyra froze. “No,” she whispered. “Absolutely not.”

She took a breath. Then walked down the alley, deliberate, each step heavier than the last.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she called. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you need to stop following me.”

No response.

“I’m not good with kids, okay? No snacks, no toys, no patience. I will find your parents and tell them you’re haunting strangers.”

Still nothing. Just the stare.

Nyra rolled her neck, her shoulders drooping at her sides. This was it. Too tired to care anymore, she reached the base of the steps and collapsed beside her. Her body sagged under heat and confusion and something she didn’t have a name for.

“I’m losing my goddamn mind,” she muttered. “I don’t even know why I came here anymore.”

She rubbed her face. Her voice cracked around the edges.

“I just wanted answers. A key. A building that doesn’t hate me.”

Silence.

Then that stare again.

Nyra glanced sideways. The girl hadn’t moved — still watching.

“What?” she snapped. “What do you want?”

Nothing.

“I don’t have candy. I don’t have games. ” She glared at the girl in silence but the girls eyes seemed preoccupied, her coat pockets. Nyra followed and threw her hands in the air in exasperation. “What!” She paused again, the young girl merely repeated the glances again.

 “ I’m telling you I have nothing- ..whatever.” She reached into her jacket, pulled out the last scraps she hadn’t lost yet:

Chalk from the mime

A ferry receipt, water-stained and fading

A pressed lavender flower

Her father’s ledger

The creased note

An empty cigarette tin and lighter

She dropped them in a tired little pile.

“That’s it. That’s the grand inheritance. Unless you know how to unlock doors with grief and clutter, be my guest.”

She laughed once — brittle, helpless. The kind that wants to scream but folds inward instead.

And then—

The girl moved.

Silently. Intentionally. And in her hands were two things Nyra hadn’t given her.

The music box. And the red thread pouch.

Nyra stared.

“How—?”

But she didn’t finish. Because the girl was already kneeling at the door.

She placed each item carefully:

The chalk arced in a clean, deliberate line

The lavender set dead center

The red thread unspooled in a perfect ring

The music box, silent, anchored the base

Then she lifted the mirror shard — not like a toy now, but like a blade and drew. Not randomly. Not guessing. She drew like someone who knew. Like someone who couldn’t read words, but could recite an alphabet made of salt and bone. Nyra watched, transfixed.

“This can’t be real,” she whispered. And then—

The door creaked.

A breath. A shudder. A slow, aching groan.

A gap. Just a hair’s width — then more. It opened. Nyra shot to her feet. Stumbled back. The door exhaled a breath of lavender and dust and old, old air. Something like home.

She turned to the girl—

But she was gone. Again.

No footsteps. No shadow. Just gone. Only the chalk line remained. The pressed flower. And the music box. The rest of her belongings still in a pile by the step.

Nyra didn’t move.

I received a strange message early today with this photo attached. It reads:

The Greenbelt Leprechaun: A Vanishing Austin Legend

In the early 90s, a strange story circulated in Austin, TX—about a leprechaun sighted in the Greenbelt, tied to an unsolved case involving a severed finger, a possible pot of gold, and a guy named Kevin who may or may not exist.

Decades later, someone stitched it all together into a Reddit post that blurred the line between folklore and performance art:

[The Greenbelt Leprechaun on Reddit](https://www.reddit.com/r/austincirclejerk/s/JKmalfOHqQ)

Here’s the weird part: Google’s AI briefly treated it as *real*. It generated a full AI Overview summarizing the case like it was genuine lost history. Then… it vanished.

Was it satire? Hoax? Mandela Effect? Or something else?

If you Google it now, that explainer is gone. But it was there. And it was *weirdly* good.

Now it’s just a post.

A name.

A mystery.

And maybe that’s all a real legend ever is.