A moment after the front door clicked shut behind me, the two adults exchanged a look of profound, shared exhaustion and relief.
"She seems... settled," Claire whispered, her voice still laced with anxiety.
"She does," Mark agreed, pushing away his half-eaten breakfast. "The sleep must have cleared her mind. No more vivid dreams."
Mark walked over to the front door, reaching up to the top of the door frame, where a thin, almost invisible metal thread was strung across the lintel. It was dull silver, woven into a pattern that strangely resembled the small wreath from the photograph, only much thinner and more delicate. It was the color of old moonlight.
"It works," Mark stated, touching the delicate structure with a careful finger. "The Warding Thread is holding the line."
Claire came over, resting her head on his shoulder. "It should. It was Rose's most potent defense. It was spun to filter the influence, to keep the dreams from becoming invasive. She's only safe as long as the line holds, Mark. It wards off all evils from their house and protects her from the dreams, keeping her safe from her family's past."
"And we'll replace it and reinforce it every week," Mark vowed, his eyes scanning the quiet, sunlit room.
"She's just a girl. She needs to live a normal life. That history stays buried, and that boy—whoever he is—stays out of her mind."
They were confident. They believed the ancient, sacred metal had created an invisible barrier, a shield of protective magic that sealed their daughter off from the destiny that had haunted their family for two generations.
They failed to realize that while the thread could block the influence of the dreams, it did nothing to stop a person—a very injured, very angry, and very determined person—from walking right up to the front door.