Rushing home along the street, she literally rushed into the bus and, barely catching her breath, gave up her seat to an elderly woman wearing a headscarf. The woman nodded gratefully and carefully sat down, slightly brushing the girl’s hand.
At that very moment, a gallery of images seemed to explode before her eyes: a forest under the cover of night, crimson stains on someone’s palms, a trembling fear… Her heart pounded like a frightened bird. She felt foreign thoughts, foreign pain — as if she had lived someone else’s life in a split second. The old woman lifted her gaze, full of hidden meanings, and quietly said:
“It’s still not over. He is waiting for you.”
The bus doors opened at the next stop, and the woman vanished as if she had never been there. The girl remained seated, clutching her gloves tightly in her cold fingers.
She knew — now she had to go. But not home.
Getting off at her usual stop, she felt her feet moving on their own. In the rain, among the gray streets soaked in fog, she walked as if spellbound — toward where the strange flash in her mind was calling.
The visions that appeared after the old woman’s touch became clearer. An abandoned house on the edge of the forest. The creak of floorboards. A man with dark, almost black eyes, whose voice sent shivers down her spine.
She stopped at a familiar gate. Here was where her childhood had passed — if those years could even be called that. Her aunt’s house, where she was sent after the trial over her father. The place where it all began. And where he… disappeared.
Her hand reached out to the rusty latch by itself. A click. The door yielded easily. Inside, a dampness reigned, familiar and long-standing, but now mixed with something unsettling.
“You came,” came a voice from the darkness.
Her heart froze. It was him. Her father. Not dead. Not forgotten. Just waiting.
“The fortune teller said you would return,” he said. “We need to finish what was started.”
“Finish?” Her voice trembled, but fear did not stop her. “What do you mean?”
From the shadows, he stepped forward — aged, with deeply sunken eyes, but the same tense calm in every movement. His face was carved by years, but his gaze… it shimmered with something ancient. Not just sorrow. A thirst for something greater.
“You are not just my daughter,” he said softly. “You are the continuation. The heir of power. And the curse.”
She took a step back, but the door behind her suddenly slammed shut.
“The fortune teller…” the girl whispered. “She did something. Touched me…”
“She opened the way for you,” the father slowly approached. “Now you feel. See. Hear those who came before us. We are the lineage of the old keepers. And our blood is not ordinary. It remembers.”
Voices sounded through the walls — whispering, calling. Fear gripped her, but along with it, an unknown power awakened inside.
“What if I don’t want this?” she asked, staring into her father’s face.
He smirked:
“It doesn’t matter anymore. She chose you. And you have already begun.”
At that moment, needles ran over her skin, as if thousands of ants were crawling into her veins. The world trembled around her. The room melted, the walls began to disappear, revealing another dimension — a world where time loses meaning.
The room vanished. Before her lay a dense fog, alive and thick like smoke. The air became heavy, and every breath demanded effort. She stood on a narrow path, flanked by faceless trees. Somewhere far away, a bell tinkled, as if calling her back.
“This is the Threshold,” her father’s voice sounded now inside her head. “Here it is decided who you are. Whether you accept your destiny — or dissolve into the shadows.”
The shadows moved. Faceless, but each holding a piece of someone else’s pain. One — a child’s cry. Another — the wail of sirens. The third — herself, small, with her mouth taped shut, sitting in a corner.
“I… I don’t want to see this,” she whispered, covering her ears.
But she could not look away.
From the fog stepped the fortune teller — the very same. But now her eyes glowed with white fire, her face had become youthful, and her voice sounded both in reality and in thoughts:
“You are not a victim. You are a passage. Through you dreams will become reality, and truth — a voice. It does not matter if you are ready. What matters is who you will let go of and who you will let in.”
“What should I do?” she shouted desperately.
The fortune teller pointed forward — to the path where the sky parted, revealing a rift into another reality.
“Go. Find the one who was before you. She bore your name. And died so that you could live.”
She stepped onto the path. With each step, the air thickened, and the whispers became clearer. The phrases formed into one:
“Return what belongs.”
“You are an echo. Find the source.”
Before her appeared a stone circle — ancient, moss-covered, but alive. In its center — a mirror. Not ordinary, but fluid, like the surface of water veiled in smoke. In it, she saw the Girl — like her, but different: long hair, old eyes, a gaze — empty yet piercing.
“You came,” said the Girl. “Late, but you came.”
“Who are you?”
“I am the first. The name that should have been mine. I was hidden. Given away. So that you could live instead of me.”
The fog stirred, and from it emerged figures — women of different times, with one face. Ancestors. Witnesses. Keepers.
“What should I do?” she whispered. “Why me?”
“Because you did not refuse. You allowed yourself to be touched. And by that… you opened.”
The Girl extended her hand from the mirror:
“If you take my memory — you will know everything. But you will no longer be the same.”
Her fingers trembled, but reached forward.
She touched the water.
The world tore inward.
The mirror accepted her. Not swallowed — welcomed, as it had long awaited. Inside there was no darkness. There was light, strange and alive, like the pre-storm wind in the forest.
She was falling and floating at once, flying through other lives — or her own, only in different eras.
A woman in a coarse dress, whispering words before a fire.
A girl in a war basement, hiding a talisman in her palm before gunshots.
A young witch in 19th century Petersburg, writing in a diary:
“I see those who are not yet born.”
In each — herself. One face, different times. One gift, different price.
And suddenly — silence. Space stopped.
Before her appeared the Matron of the Clan. Majestic, with a wreath of rowan berries and a voice like the rustle of grass in the wind:
“You accepted the memory. But not the essence. The power of the clan is not magic. It is a duty. Each has made a choice. Now it is your turn.”
“I don’t know what to choose,” she admitted. “I am afraid.”
“Then you are ready. Only those who are afraid see. And those who see do not serve the darkness.”
The Matron extended a birch bark scroll, tied with a black thread.
“Open it — and it will begin.”
“What exactly?”
“The truth. Yours. Theirs. And perhaps the end.”
Her hands trembled. She took the scroll.
And at that moment everything disappeared.
When the Guardian vanished, the fog began to clear. The space faded as if a veil was lifting from her eyes. She stood on the same stone circle, but now it was breathing. The symbol on her palm pulsed in time with something ancient.
From the center of the circle rose a stone — black as night, cracked with light flowing inside. It opened like a book and showed images. Not just pictures, but memories inherited from the women of her clan.
She saw the first.
A woman from a distant forest, a healer and seer, cast out for the truth. Her name was carved on tree bark and forgotten in songs. She brought knowledge from the world of shadows. She was the first to seal the Rift.
The second.
A woman with burning eyes who survived the Inquisition. Silent under torture, but in her gaze lived a storm. Before execution she whispered:
“The one who comes after will be stronger. And will not burn.”
The third.
St. Petersburg. Under the guise of a doctor, she healed souls, not bodies. She hid an ancient amulet — the symbol now on her palm. Before the revolution, her disappearance remained a mystery. But a diary entry was preserved:
“The world is ready to forget. We are not.”
And now — herself.
The last. The loop closed. Exiled, but returned. Not a bearer of power — but a key.
The Matron’s voice sounded again, no longer a whisper but clear and firm:
“You were chosen not for power. But for your ability to bear the truth.”
“What truth?” she asked, feeling the earth tremble beneath her feet.
“The Rift will open again. And someone must be the first — not a victim, but a wall.”
The words had barely faded when from the center of the stone circle a light began to rise — cold, bluish-white, like moonfire. In its middle appeared a crack, thin but growing with each second.
The Rift was opening.
And with it — footsteps. Countless, measured, as if thousands of invisible feet were marching. From it came those forgotten. Those imprisoned. Those who waited for her.
She took a deep breath. Raised her hand. The symbol on her palm blazed, illuminating the space.
“I am here. And I remember you all.”
The first figures emerged from the rift. Not alive, but not dead. Their existence made of ash. Eyes — reflections of time: in some — tears, in others — rage, in many — fatigue. They were all part of one thing — her blood.
“They are stuck between worlds,” whispered the Matron’s voice. “They were betrayed. Not released. Now they have come for answers.”
One of the figures approached her — a woman. Torn clothes, ash-filled hair, a gaze — so familiar.
“I have waited for you long,” she said. “You breathed while I burned. But I am not angry. Just… so tired.”
“Who are you?” the girl asked, holding back tears.
“One of those forgotten. One of many. But now we are near.”
The woman extended her hand. The touch was neither cold nor painful — it was familiar.
But among the crowd, there was one figure reluctant to appear. She hid, glanced around, afraid to be recognized.
Something inside twitched. That figure was painfully familiar.
“Show yourself,” she said firmly.
The figure froze, then slowly stepped into the light as if surrendering.
It was her aunt. The one she lived with as a child. “Kind,” caring. The one who knew everything. And hid everything.
“Is it you?..” the girl stepped forward. “You are…”
“Yes,” interrupted the aunt. “I knew. I chose you. The clan demanded sacrifice. Forgive me.”
“Forgive you?” her voice trembled. “You knew I was a bearer of power? That I would be the key?”
“I knew,” the aunt’s eyes filled with tears. “But I hoped you would live an ordinary life. Without memory. Without them. Without truth.”
“But I remember. And now you will also face those you betrayed.”
The ashen souls began to surround the aunt. But the girl raised her hand:
“No. She made a mistake. But she is part of this circle. Let the clan judge her. Not vengeance.”
The Matron’s voice sounded again:
“So speaks the First of the new. Her word is the beginning of a new era.”
Then the sky above the rift finally cracked open. And through it came a being — neither human nor shadow. Ancient. With horns of light and a voice like the silence before the storm.
“You called us,” it said. “Closed the circle. But now the question:
Will you be the Keeper or the Conduit of Chaos?”
She looked at the creature that emerged from the abyss. It was beautiful and terrifying at once. Its horns wrapped in light, and from its eyes dripped darkness. It knew no good or evil. It offered a choice.
The Matron’s voice came softly but firmly:
“No one will tell you. All who came before took their step. Now — it is your turn. What do you choose:
To preserve the old or let in the new?”
She closed her eyes.
Inside — faces. Ashen souls, the gaze of a traitor, deceived years. But deeper — pain. Resentment. The desire that no one else decides for her anymore.
She opened her eyes.
Loudly. Clearly. Confidently.
“I choose the third.”
The creature froze. The air stopped.
“What do you mean?” it asked, narrowing its eyes.
“I will not be Keeper, nor Conduit of Chaos. I am a reset. A passage. A rewrite. I will keep the power but change its essence.”
The world trembled. Stones rose into the air. The symbol on her hand shone, and from it flowed lines like roots, covering the ground. The rift began to close.
The ashen souls no longer screamed. They watched.
The Mother of Beginnings… smiled.
“So she is…” she whispered.
The creature of light and darkness slowly bowed its head:
“Then you are the First of the new branch.”
And disappeared.
The rift closed.
The sky cleared.
The symbol on her palm turned golden, like dawn. No longer a brand. Now — the seal of a new path.
A moment. And she woke up.
On the bus. People still silently staring at phone screens.
And opposite her sat the same fortune teller. Now younger. Calmer.
“Welcome, girl,” she said. “To your clan.”
Three years passed.
She was no longer the one who rode the bus. She lived on the edge of the city and the forest, in a house that seemed to have found her itself. It breathed — the walls, the floor, the grasses outside the window. In every crack — a story. In every gust of wind — the voice of the clan.
She was called by many names: witch, healer, strange. For those who understood, she was simply — the Keeper of the Passage.
Those who had trembling fingers for no reason came to her. Who heard their grandmother’s voice in dreams. Who felt something “not of this world” within themselves. She did not heal — she helped them remember.
One day, a little girl about seven approached her door. Big eyes. On her palm — a familiar symbol. Barely noticeable, golden.
“I dreamed of light,” she said. “And you were in it. You said: ‘When you come, don’t be afraid.’”
She smiled. Squatted down and took the girl’s hand.
And immediately understood: the clan continues.
Not through pain. Not through suffering. Not in shadows.
Now — through freedom. Through memory. Through choice.
And in that choice was she.
The one who refused to be just an heir.
The one who rewrote her destiny.
Many years passed.
The girl who once knocked on her door became a woman. Now she herself led those who sought answers. And the one who was the key became a legend — almost invisible, but always felt.
The house long ago merged with the earth. Trees swallowed the walls, only wooden plaques with symbols poked out of the moss. They said time stopped there, and those who entered came out different.
No one knew when she left. There was no funeral. No farewells. Only a footprint on the ground — as if someone walked barefoot on dew and disappeared into the morning fog.
But one spring equinox night, a new star appeared in the sky — golden, pulsating. And all who carried memory in their hearts felt it.
The woman raised her face to the sky and whispered:
“I remember you. And you were right.”
The wind ran through the grass. And somewhere in the darkness, it seemed someone smiled.
Since then, anyone seeking answers could hear her whisper.
In the mirror of water.
In the crackle of fire.
In dreams where the forest leads not where you want, but where you must.
Because those who once rewrote fate —
remain forever.
