Ink That Speaks from the Dead

Mae stroked the parcel like it might vanish if she let go. The paper felt damp beneath her fingertips, soft at the corners, delicate in a way that warned her to be careful. Too fragile to be real. Too light to hold anything that mattered.

Still, something twisted in her chest. A heat that wasn't heat. Grief. It bloomed slowly, painfully, like a bruise rising beneath the skin. Her heart ached in that quiet, echoing way that never really went away.

No one told her to expect anything. Not her father. Not her mother. And this didn't make sense. It was July 26th. She blinked at the date and whispered, almost to herself, "It's not even my birthday."

She gave the parcel a light shake. It made a faint sound inside, like shifting paper or... something else. She froze, straining to hear. Voices. Or maybe just the blood rushing in her ears.

"What is this?" she whispered. Her heart picked up speed, her skin already slick with sweat. A few beads slipped down her temple and along her cheek. She wiped them away, suddenly too warm for the rain-soaked room.

Then a sound ripped through the quiet.

She flinched and turned.

Her kettle.

"Oh God." She let out a shaky laugh. "I really need to fix that thing." She glanced back at the parcel. "Maybe that's all it was."

But the quiet outside had changed. The rain softened, the rhythm of life outside resumed. Footsteps. Horns. Conversations weaving through the air again as people picked up the pieces of their day.

And still, she stood here. Alone in this house that felt too big. Too empty.

There had been a fairy. She thought.

Maybe.

But what if it was her mind playing tricks? The kind of tricks that grow in lonely places when no one's around to talk to.

Her gaze drifted back to the parcel. Her chest tightened.

She missed her mother.

Missed her so much it hollowed her out.

No goodbye. No last words. No final hug. Just the dark blur of a funeral she barely remembered and a silence that came after.

Her dad said it would have been too hard for her. That love makes dying heavier.

But Mae never believed that. Not really.

She thought love made it worth staying until the very last breath. If it had been her, she would've begged for just one more second.

She could still see her mother everywhere. The chair by the window where she used to read after work. It still sagged with her absence. The red cup with white polka dots from the summer sale, untouched in the cupboard. No one used it. Not even her dad.

The bathroom still held the echo of her mother's life. Perfumes lined up on the counter. Creams she barely used. All still there. All still hers.

Her mother had been beautiful. Mid-length brown hair, always soft. Green eyes that saw everything. That warm beige skin that glowed even under the harsh bathroom light. People told Mae she looked just like her. But she never thought she measured up.

Her mother worked too much, barely slept, took every shift she could. Nights. Mornings. Sometimes both. But she always looked put together. Always held herself like the world couldn't break her.

Mae never understood how she died. Her dad said pneumonia. She remembered the cough, the fatigue, but not much else. Her mother never took medicine. Never acted sick.

Maybe she gave up. Maybe the world got too heavy.

Mae didn't want to believe that. But the not-knowing gnawed at her.

The rain outside thickened again, slashing the streets with silver. The buildings blurred, their edges softened by the storm.

She walked to the window.

"Hey," she whispered. "Are you still there?"

Silence.

She opened the latch. Wind rushed in, flipping the curtain sideways. The rain stung her cheeks. She leaned out slightly.

"Little fairy?"

Only wind. And the high, distant cry of birds.

"Hey Mae, enjoying the rain again?"

Mr. Prat's voice made her turn. He stood at the corner shop like always, steam curling from the top of his takeaway coffee stand.

"Yeah," she answered softly.

"Good, because it's going to rain the whole damn week. Bloody weather in London. Hopefully I'll sell out of hot coffee." He turned to a new customer with a grin. "Coffee? With milk? Sugar? Of course."

She smiled.

And then a sharp screech echoed from the trees.

She gasped, jerking her head into the window frame.

"Fuck."

Her hand flew to her forehead. Pain bloomed. She winced and glanced down. The mark from before. The one the fairy left. Still there. Still warm. But now soft, like velvet, like something old had kissed her skin and stayed.

She touched it.

"It doesn't hurt," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

That hadn't been a dream.

She knew it. Felt it in her bones. In the air that suddenly felt too still.

Then—another sound.

Behind her.

She turned.

The parcel was shaking.

"What the..."

It jolted again.

"Fuck!"

She sprinted out of the room, bare feet skidding against the polished wood floor. Her heart pounded as she slammed her bedroom door shut behind her.

"What did you send me, Mum?"

She collapsed onto the floor. The wood was cold beneath her, numbing her skin. She tucked her hair behind her ears and rubbed her face with shaking hands. She should be fine. She had slept well. But her whole body felt like it was carrying something heavy. Invisible. Crushing.

"God..." she whispered, tipping her head back against the wall.

Silence.

Long. Deep. Unsettling.

Then the rain faded. The world stilled.

Sunlight pushed gently into the hallway, soft and golden, like fingers reaching for her.

She peered through the open sliver of her door.

Nothing moved.

Just the slow drip from the kitchen tap.

She crouched, eyes narrowing.

A single strand of hair on the floor. Long. Definitely not hers.

"Strange," she murmured. "It's been there since she died..."

She stepped out, cautious. The parcel sat still again. Waiting like it had all the time in the world.

No sign of movement now. No fairy. No wind. No reason to doubt. And yet, something still felt... wrong.

She knelt. Her fingers found the knot and tugged. The rope unraveled easily.

Inside the package: a black diary and a necklace.

Her heart clenched.

A serpent coiled around a blood-red stone.

"She wore this," Mae whispered.

She reached for it. Her fingers closed around the pendant instinctively. She brought it to her face.

Vanilla.

Cedar.

Her mother.

She slipped it around her neck. The metal chilled her skin for half a second, then warmed. Like it knew her. Like it remembered.

The diary flipped open.

Just one name in delicate script.

Gwen.

"Gwen?" she breathed. "But that's not..."

She flipped through the rest of the diary.

All blank.

Hundreds of empty pages staring back at her.

She gave a faint, fragile smile.

"She knew I wanted to be a writer."

Mae picked up her pen. It felt heavier now. Like it carried the weight of her bloodline.

She leaned forward and wrote:

31st March, 2025. My name is Mae, and this is my story.

The ink faded.

Then, like breath drawn into the paper, new words appeared:

10th September, 2013.

Mae's whole body went still.

"What?"

Then slowly, deliberately:

Hello, it's Gwen again.

Her lungs stopped working. She scribbled fast.

Who are you?

The page responded.

Mae, it's Mum.

The red stone against her chest pulsed with warmth. Alive. Glowing.

Then the window burst open.

Curtains snapped in the wind. The hallway lights flickered. The air felt different. Charged.

And Mae stared at the pages, her hands shaking.

Everything she knew was unraveling.

And maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning.