The Red String Effect

Chapter Three -- Part One: Frayed

The greenhouse lingered in Layla's mind long after she left it. She walked home in silence that night, her sneakers soaked from the puddles, her hood plastered to her hair. Her mother had been watching TV in the living room when Layla slipped through the door, but Layla barely remembered the sound of the sitcom laughter in the background. Her mind was elsewhere. On the knot. On Luca. On the faint flicker of black weaving into her string.

She saw on the edge of her bed for hours, staring at her wrist. Sometimes it pulsed red. Sometimes it was black. Sometimes both together, a twisting helix that felt wrong in her chest. She pressed her fingers to her sternum, half-expecting to feel the knot physically tightening around her ribs. It wasn't visible to anyone else. To them, she looked the same as always. Quiet. Withdrawn. Too much in her own head. But inside, Layla was splitting down the middle and every time she closed her eyes, she saw Peter.

By Monday, the visions got worse. She sat in history class, trying to take notes, when the words on the page began to blur. At first, she thought it was her eyes, but then she realized the letters themselves were twisting. The ink bled into shapes that weren't words at all but tiny strings curling across the paper, red and black, knotting into patterns she didn't understand.

Her pencil clattered to the floor. "Layla." The teacher's voice was distant, muffled, like it came through water. She blinked, and suddenly everyone in the classroom was staring at her. Expect Luca. He was watching her too, but not like the others. His gaze was sharper. A warning. Layla's chest tightened. She grabbed her notebook and bolted out the door before the teacher could stop her. Layla found herself in the bathroom, gripping the sink with both hands. Her reflection swam in the mirror – her face pale, eyes wide, hair sticking to her temples and behind her, just for a flicker, she saw the shadow figure again.

Tall. Faceless. Strings dripping from its hands. Her breath caught. She whirled around. Nothing. When she looked back, the mirror was cracked, and her thread was pulsing so violently she thought it might snap. Luca found her outside after school. "You saw it, didn't you?" he said. Layla glared at him. "You knew this would happen." "It always does." "You could have warned me!" "I did," he said simply. She wanted to scream at him. To shove him. To demand answers, he wasn't even bothering to give. But the truth was, she needed him. He was the only one who understood. So instead, she whispered, "what are they?"

Luca's gray eyes were unreadable. "Fragments. The leftovers of strings that should have been. When threads break, they don't vanish – they rot. And sometimes... they become hungry." Layla's stomach turned. "Hungry for what?" He looked at her wrist. At the knot. "You already know." That night Layla dreamed of the greenhouse again. Only this time, she wasn't alone with Luca. Peter was there, standing in the corner, his black-threaded arm twitching. And behind him, dozens of shadow figures swayed, their faceless heads turning toward her in unison. Their threads slithered across the floor like snakes, reaching for her ankles.

Layla backed into Luca. His hand closed around her wrist. "Let them take you," he whispered. "Then you'll finally understand." She woke up screaming. Her mother burst into the room, eyes wide, asking what was wrong. Layla couldn't answer. How could she explain that her dead cousin had just tried to drag her into a world full of shadows? Her mother sighed, rubbed her temples, muttered something about stress, and left. Layla sat alone in the dark, trembling, her eyes fixed on her dimming thread. And for the first time, she wondered if she wanted it to break.