The Shape Of Almost All Things

The Watcher

I know the sound of her steps before I see her: soft, hesitant, yet rushing—as if she knows what she seeks but not quite where to find it.

She always pauses at the edge of the clearing before she enters the forest, just where the sunlight weakens into shadow. That pause is my undoing—because in that moment, she almost looks at me. As if she could see through the veil that sets us apart.

My chest aches with the memory of her hands wrapped around me, guarding me like a precious gift.

The Veil

On my side, the light is different. Shimmering green, with a bruise of twilight that never lifts. The trees come to life, the moss whispers secrets. Even my own breath sounds like music.

The veil is not a wall, though it keeps me from her. It shivers when I press my hand to it. Sometimes I think it would let me slip through, if only I gave enough of myself. But I know the price of it.

I whisper her name sometimes, though the veil steals the sound. And still, she tilts her head towards me, frowning at the trees—as if she could hear me.

The Weight of Almost

I hover close, far enough not to touch the veil but close enough to feel her warmth, to hear the sound of her rushed breath and imagine laying my palm upon her shoulder. But I can never touch her. Not yet.

So I watch her instead. I carve her image into my memory to recall everything through the barren months: the way she trails the same path between the beeches, her dress brushing the grass as if nothing has changed, as if I am still beside her. The way her hair is braided like ivy, the way she stops and trembles when she’s about to call my name. The light pink color of her nails dotted with tiny white moons.

Everything changed about her, and year by year she keeps changing, growing, becoming more of an adult. It feels like surreal, as if I'd watch my own self like in a film. Yet, at her core Marie is still the same — it's unmistakable.

She keeps whispering to me, as if she knows I'm here, listening, drinking her every word with endless thirst. And she tells me everything that happens between the summers.

One step closer and I could reach her. She would tumble into my world, into the never ending twilight where I live. I could take her with me. I could have her here. I reach out, my fingers graze the veil, and I almost... almost reach the edge of her skirt —blue like forget-me-nots.

Just one step...

But the moment I touch the veil, the truth burns my fingertips. If I pull her in now, she will be lost to the other world. Just like me.

Hunger

Her yearly returns make it harder for me to hold myself back. The temptation grows as I my fingertips linger longer on the veil. Each time I get more used to the burning sensation. Every visit brings me closer to breaking.

I imagine it every time: reaching through, grabbing her wrist and pulling her into my realm. She'd look at me with wide eyes, surprised at first but happier than ever. She'd pull me close and hug me for a century. We'd braid flowers in each others hair, dance around the golden meadows, swim in the river that glistens like raw obsidian.

But then I see the other side—her side. Our mother weeping in our fathers arm for now they have two daughters who'll never return. Our father grieving in silence, locking up his pain somewhere deep where even he can't get to it. Our Aunt forever watching the edge of the forest through her kitchen window, never letting another child go even near the clearing.

It's better to be damned alone than to cause unspeakable pain with a single, selfish act. So I hold my growing hunger back, waiting for the day when it will consume me whole.

Echo

Every day through the summer she sat by the old oak where we carved our names. Her fingers traced the scar in the bark, a single breath apart from me.

Her life's tethered to this forest— the scene of my disappearance— like an echo that never gets tired of repeating itself.

Each day, she laid out the triple sacrifice — bone, blood, offering — and whispered her hearts desire, hoping for a miracle. I know she wishes for me.

But not to join me on the other side of the veil, but to bring me back into the world I used to belong to.

But she comes with other gifts, too. Little things she leaves for me — a ribbon now, my favorite candy last year, a picture book before... as if deep in her bones she knows the truth. That her wish will never be granted. She'll never be taken, and I'll never return.

And on the last day of the summer, before school bells ring again, my dear sister would return one last time to whisper goodbye until she's allowed to stay at the house of Aunt Gabrielle again.

I whisper back, though she cannot hear: Thank you, Marie, for not forgetting me.

Then I watch the forest grow quiet and pale behind her, holding nothing else but love and grief.

All I am left with for the rest of the year is this: the shape of her, just out of reach. Breath caught in my lungs like a bird in my chest, my hand forever hovering just short of hers— before it falls away.

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🕯️ NOTE:

This story is part of a series called "The Veilwood Tales". A collection of short stories about Marie and Elisabetta— two sisters separated by the veil of a faerie realm, each story was inspired by Vocal challenge prompts.

For this story I decided to write in a slightly different way. I chose the form of prose vignettes because it made me feel like it allows the story to flow like the lives of the two sisters. Their bond itself exists in fragments: half-seen, half-heard, never whole, charged with echoes and absences.

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If you'd like to read other stories that belongs to the "The Veilwood Tales" cycle, you can find them in order below:

"The summer that never ended" explains how Elisabetta ended up with the fæ and why things turned out the way they did.

"Instructions for disappearing" is a cursed rhyme that evokes the fæ folk.

"The porch between us" tells the story of Marie and what happened to her after Elisabetta disappeared.

"The borrowed face" is the story of Elisabetta waking up in the world of the fæ.