Originally Posted by The Narrator

The harp beneath your fingers responds with a tremble of sound—soft and cold, like a silver blade drawn across glass.

Then it began.

Blinding red translucent aurora wisps burst to life, vivid and electric, casting sharp-edged shadows that flickered across your face and table before you with a wild pulse that knocks your textbook clear off the table and on to the floor with a thud. They twisted and spiraled with force, not grace—slivers of motion within them resembling legs, glints of fangs, and the suggestion of something more human. The air tensed…not chilled, but charged—as if the air around you was holding its breath.

This was no gentle recollection.

The spell had worked, more or less. But it had not settled. It flared—a burst of brilliance, not a sustained glow. The harp quivered under the strain, as though the memory had lashed through it, rather than flowed. If you wish the memory to illuminate rather than burn, perhaps you ought to let more of your heart enter it. Not just the fear. Not just the fury. Look deeper. There is always more to the story than what stalks you in the dark.