Inheritance of ash

Fragmented

The hallway was dark, suffused with shadows that seemed to stretch and twist like silent witnesses to a story too painful to speak aloud. Vicky stepped through the threshold of that same familiar house — the one from her dreams, the one she never wanted to revisit, but which clawed at her in restless nights.

She was older now, around fifteen — just a year or so past the last time she found herself here, but the weight of this moment felt infinitely heavier. They were all dressed in black, a heavy cloak of grief settling around their shoulders like an unshakable fog. The funeral had just ended. The air felt thick, almost suffocating, and she could smell the faint trace of damp earth, cold flowers, and stale tears.

There was no Claire by her side this time. No soft apologies, no whispered reassurances. Only him. The man whose face still haunted her, the man she had come to know as Richard — a name that surfaced suddenly, clearly, as if the darkness itself had spoken it aloud.

He led the way through the house, his footsteps echoing down the hall with an angry rhythm, like a drumbeat marking the end of something precious. Vicky's chest tightened, the memory — or was it a warning? — settling deep in her bones.

Her eyes darted around the house. Empty, hollow, filled with silence that screamed louder than any words. She could almost feel the coldness creeping beneath the floorboards, waiting to swallow everything whole.

And then it hit her.

Claire was gone.

Her mother was dead.

Vicky's throat tightened, the air seemed to escape her lungs in a sharp gasp. But it wasn't just grief that swelled inside her — it was rage. Furious, searing, volcanic rage that burned hotter than any pain she'd ever known.

She turned to Richard, her voice cracking but resolute, tears blurring the edges of her vision.

"This is your fault. You killed her. You did this."

His face twisted — no longer a shadow of regret, but pure, unfiltered anger. His eyes blazed, not with sorrow but with something far darker.

"No Victoria," he spat, voice cold and hard like steel. "It's your fault."

Vicky's breath caught, a shuddering sob breaking free as the walls seemed to close in around her. She stood her ground, but the weight of his rage slammed into her like a physical blow.

Without warning, he lunged, grabbing her arm with a grip so tight it bruised immediately. His hand pushed her roughly against the wall — the same unforgiving, hard surface that had held her mother captive so many times before.

Pain blossomed across her back, but she didn't freeze.

She fought.

Her hands clawed at him, her voice rose above the storm of her own pounding heart.

"Hit me!" she screamed. "Hit me like you hit her! Like you hurt her! Show me how much you hate me!"

His eyes flickered, a dangerous hunger surfacing beneath the anger.

And then—

The impact came.

Hard.

Brutal.

Across her face.

Sharp fire blossomed behind her eyes.

Her vision blurred.

And then—

Her eyes snapped open.

⸻

She woke with a gasp, her chest heaving, lungs scrambling to catch up with the moment. For a second, everything was still Richard's hallway — shadowed, suffocating, thick with accusation. But then it wasn't.