The Shadow of Silas

The air in Anya’s kitchen felt thick, like a blanket woven from sunlight and the scent of baking bread, a comfort Elara usually cherished. But today, a tremor ran beneath it, a subtle discord that tickled the edges of her awareness. Anya hummed a familiar tune, her hands busy kneading dough, flour dusting her apron like a gentle snowfall. Elara watched, tracing the swirling patterns of dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, each one a tiny, perfect moment. Then, one of the motes – no, it wasn't a mote – flickered. It was a tiny, silver locket, the one her grandmother had given Anya, resting on the windowsill. Elara blinked, and it was gone. She blinked again, and it was back, glinting innocently.