Luna Enwright has spent most of her life shying away from people and social situations. Call her socially awkward, however her voluntary isolation takes its roots in a secret that makes social anxiety just a convenient pretence. To her, a simple hug...
Her mind replayed the details as she stood that evening in front of the bathroom mirror. Now, she saw a small shimmer of fear in her own gaze. She unbuttoned the top of her shirt, revealing a vile wound. Four neat puncture marks on her neck where Mr. Richard's canines had been. The area had already taken an awful shade of purplish blue. All it would take is one bite. Edmond had warned. She found a dark green turtleneck in her closet and decided this would be her new style from now on. Meanwhile, she tore eagerly through her coat pocket feeling for her mother's broken pen. She thought she might've figured something out. The piece of paper with her mother's writing on it felt so feeble in her palm like something so simple yet so precious to Luna could just fly away. She couldn't believe what she was about to do. It took her a good ten minutes to find a lighter in the apartment. She didn't smoke so didn't have use for one normally. Then, she brought the lighter to the piece of paper. Something inside her mourned when watching the letters of her name crumple and darken away. However, her regret was quick gone when, as predicted, letters appeared. The magic of lemon juice. She heard her mother echo in her mind. Letters shaped into words and words shaped a single sentence: Listen as the wind whispers.
Luna inhaled sharply. To any other person, this could seem like an unusual message to be destined posthumously to one's daughter, but to Luna it made absolute sense. Immediately she slipped on her parka, making sure that the hood covered her features. Today's incident had taught her that they were everywhere, watching her. She exited the apartment in a hurry and feverishly ran to the nearest metro station. Then, took line 11 to Belleville... from there every street was familiar, it was painful. Ahead she recognized the park with its high trees grazed with moonlight. It was closed of course at midnight. Nevertheless, she walked around the high gates, searching for it. At one point she got frustrated and started telling herself that the park must have changed since so long ago. However, just as she was about to turn around in disappointment, the play of the moonlight caught her eye. There it was. The slight dent between two of the gates's bars. As a normal passerby, you wouldn't have noticed it because of the bushes and greenery that covered it. But it was there. Just as it had been a decade ago. Squeezing herself past the gate, between those two bars, Luna stumbled onto a thick coat of leaves. There she stopped, paralyzed, not wanting to interrupt the forest's sleep. Everything was quiet, only the faint ruffle of the wind through leaves could be heard, like the calm breathing of some invisible giant. A wave of nostalgia swept over her. It was as if time had had no effect on this place. In front of her moonlight flowed over a large dried up fountain. Even as a child, Luna had never seen water in it except for on rainy days. To her right, the tree of her memories was there standing proudly like some ancient monument. Luna had never known whether it was one big tree or many that had merged together. It looked like it had more than one trunk that twined all together like a thick strand of rope. Its roots spread out across the ground. Luna often used to enjoy hiding under them as if in her own underground treehouse. The branches were low allowing her to climb it easily.
Now, she decided to reach the top. From up there if it wasn't too cloudy, you could see the moon. Once, Luna's mother would bring her up here when she deemed the night clear enough. They would sit mother and daughter, on the tree's highest branch. Her mother would point out the moon and then every time she would invite her daughter to listen to the wind as it whispered through the trees. Now, Luna closed her eyes and let the wind brush her cheeks.
Something about this place felt special. Something in the air tugged at her senses. Almost as if the air itself was resonating all around her. She turned on her branch and with who knows what motivation, she reached into one of the tree's many holes. But instead of meeting bark, her hand met what felt like some sort of metal stick. She swore she could feel it vibrate under her fingers. She dislodged it to have a better look at it. What she held in her hand resembled a miniature metal flute or otherwise a whistle. In this case, attached to the tree it would have been blown by the wind itself. Engraved on its side were tiny letters. Nicolas Flamel.
A/N Words: 1776
Hang on! A story is like a moelleux au chocolat:
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