Two men made their way slowly among the trees. One was tall and massive, the other short and round.
— CRACK!
A twig snapped under the weight of one of them as they stumbled along the uneven forest path, roots threatening to snag at their legs.
Annabelle exchanged a look with the priest. She wasn't sure... but she suspected these must be her mother's brothers—the uncles she'd never met, the ones her mother sometimes complained about, calling them stuck-up bourgeois snobs.
The night before the funeral, the mayor had come knocking at her door just before dusk. He was a middle-aged man, half-bald with a thin wreath of hair. He kept glancing at his watch, eager to leave.
He looked around at the forest, visibly ill at ease and jumpy; the house stood far from the village's heart, isolated among the trees.
It was he who'd told her the uncles would come for her, since her father had no other known family. She was told to pack her bags ahead of time.
Now, Annabelle felt her life slipping through her fingers, unable to grasp anything solid, nerves on edge.
When she watched her uncles from afar, she expected to feel something—some bond. But nothing came. They were just strangers to her.
Georges trailed behind his brother with the mayor unseen at his back. He stood tall, muscles thick as a lumberjack, yet out of place in a suit far too tight.
His top hat teetered atop his wild hair, threatening to leap off with every sudden move. At each step, his broad shoulders brushed tree trunks, his boots gouged the damp moss. The stiffness in his posture betrayed his fear of disturbing anything: he kept his gaze lowered, avoided Annabelle's eyes, nervously fiddled with his jacket sleeve.
Beside him, Nicolas moved more slowly but at ease despite the fatigue of the journey. He was barely taller than a fence post, a sharp contrast to Georges's imposing frame.
Dressed in a perfectly pressed black suit, he couldn't hide the fatigue dragging down his features: dark circles under sharp eyes, a waxy complexion, each movement measured as if he feared collapsing on the spot.
The endless, rattling carriage ride had left him exhausted—sore muscles, mind foggy. Yet he held his head high, hat at a tilt, one hand gripping a black cane by reflex.
Both men regarded the girl—and Nicolas, looking gaunt as a scarecrow.
Nicolas forced a polite smile, turning to the priest.
"Hello, my name's Nicolas, and this is Georges, my brother."
The mayor rushed forward to finish the introduction.
"Right, right! They've come to take charge of Annabelle. Here's the paperwork." He shoved a suitcase into Nicolas's arms with little ceremony.
Then, he spun around, ready to leave.
Marcel, the priest, set a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Where are you off to, Jonathan? You've explained everything, haven't you?"
Jonathan froze, his hand tight on his bag's strap. His eyes darted to the road as if debating between running or facing the moment.
"I… I told them the essentials," he mumbled, not looking at Marcel. "It's not my job to… you know… sort out family matters."
The priest didn't budge, his heavy hand still on the mayor's shoulder.
"The essentials? I want to be sure, Jonathan. Do you know what you're handing over here?"
A thick silence fell, broken only by Nicolas's rough breathing and Georges's tense exhale. Annabelle felt the unease spreading around them.
Jonathan finally sighed, his voice low.
"I just followed the instructions in Éléna's letter. All the paperwork is in order, that's all."
"If anything happens, you'll answer for it before the Goddess."
Jonathan paled, shook his head, and wrenched himself free. He cast one last look at the uncles and at Annabelle, then vanished down the path, swallowed by the trees.
The silence grew heavier. Marcel met Annabelle's gaze, then Nicolas's.
"Annabelle, could you tell them what's happened these last months?"
Annabelle opened her mouth. All eyes turned to her. She wanted to speak. But nothing came. Absence. As if her tongue, suddenly, refused to move.
She tried to summon up the weeks, the days, the sequence of things… but inside, everything slipped away, like dry sand through her fingers. Faces, voices, household sounds: all fog. Her heart thudded, panic twisting in her gut. Her mind spun: there was a hole, a vast empty space where memories should have crowded in.
The silence lengthened, heavy, until it was unbearable. Annabelle, pale, dropped her gaze, ashamed of her own emptiness.
Suddenly, she felt a chill crawl up her spine. Something behind her was watching. Not an animal, not a bird—a stare too insistent, rising from the forest itself.
She whipped her head around, fists clutching at her dress. Far off, between twisted trunks, the shadow of a human shape—or was it just the wind in the branches? The thing seemed to recoil a step, vanishing as soon as she tried to fix it in her gaze.
"Annabelle?" Marcel's voice jolted her back to the present. The priest was watching her, worry soft in his eyes.
"I… I want to see Amandinne," she murmured, not looking away from the woods.
Nicolas exchanged an uncertain glance with Georges, both clearly thrown off guard.
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Abel Maria : Royal Road & Webnovel