Red String, Black Thread

Chapter 4: Threads That Don't Exist Yet?

It happened again.

She blinked—and the classroom stretched.

Not physically.

Not really.

But like someone had pulled the moment long, dragging it out like melted wax.

Her vision split for half a second—lines danced over her classmates, threads glimmering red like veins beneath the skin.

And then they were gone.

Vesper (under her breath): "Nope. No, no, no, we are not glitching during Chemistry."

She clenched her fists under the table.

Don't look.

Don't activate the Sight.

But something in her was slipping. Like the gift—no, curse—was breaking free of her grip.

The teacher's voice sounded like static. Her notes were gibberish. But Auren?

Auren was watching her. Again.

Same unreadable face.

Same elbow propped on the desk, fingers brushing the same page for the past fifteen minutes like he was stuck.

Vesper (dryly): "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

Auren (without hesitation): "I have. Plenty."

She snapped her head toward him.

Vesper (narrowing her eyes): "What is that supposed to mean?"

Auren (softly): "You asked me once to remember you. I'm trying."

Her pulse jumped. That sentence didn't feel casual. It felt like a callback to a conversation she hadn't had yet.

Or maybe... had and forgotten.

She didn't respond. Just stared at her paper like it would stop the tremor in her fingers.

That night, she tried to sleep. She really tried.

But the dreams didn't let her.

She was running through a forest—barefoot, bleeding.

A black thread, thick and coiled like a serpent, dragged behind her, knotted around her wrist.

It burned.

Behind her, someone screamed her name.

Not Vesper.

Another name.

One that tasted ancient in her mouth.

She woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, hand on her throat.

Nothing there.

But her skin ached where the thread had been.

She stumbled to the bathroom.

Turned on the faucet.

And froze.

There—on her reflection's wrist—was the faintest shimmer of black thread.

But when she looked down at her own arm?

Nothing.

Vesper (whispering): "Am I still asleep?"

She didn't sleep after that.

Next day. School. Headphones in. Hood up.

Avoid eye contact.

Ignore Auren.

Ignore the universe glitching around you.

Ignore the damn threads.

She tried.

But in the library, everything fell apart.

She reached for a book on old symbolism. Didn't even know why.

And a hand reached at the same time.

His hand.

Again.

Because of course it was him.

Auren (low): "You're not imagining it."

Vesper (tight): "Don't start."

Auren (holding the book): "I saw the black thread last night. Around you. In the dream."

She flinched.

Vesper (sharply): "We're not sharing dreams."

Auren (dead serious): "Aren't we?"

He flipped the book open.

There—on the page—was a sketch of the same symbol she saw in her dream. A thread around a wrist. A rune burned into skin.

Auren (quietly): "It's called a Binding Sigil. You tie someone to you, they carry your pain. Or your memory. Or both."

Vesper (coldly): "What if I never wanted to tie anyone?"

Auren (without blinking): "Then someone else did."

She stared at the image.

Why did it look familiar?

Why did her chest ache like grief she never earned?

She snapped the book shut.

Vesper (muttering): "I don't want to remember. I just want this to stop."

Auren (soft): "Then stop pretending it's not real."

Later, in art class, Vesper sat alone—scribbling.

Not doodles.

Not fun little anime sketches.

But something violent.

A hand tied to a wall. A mouth sewn shut. A thread stitched through a heart and yanked.

She didn't know where it came from.

But the shading?

Flawless.

Too flawless.

Vesper (to herself): "I don't remember drawing this."

She flipped the page. Another one.

A woman—her—with a blade.

Another page.

A man—Auren—on his knees.

Another.

The thread—black, choking, beautiful—twisting around their bodies like fate's cruel joke.

She slammed the sketchbook shut.

Vesper (to herself, shaking): "These are not threads that exist."

Except they do.

And they're pulling tighter every second.

TO BE CONTINUED. 🖤