I woke up gasping.
My pillow was wet.
For a few seconds I did not know where I was.
Stone walls.
Red sky.
His eyes.
Then the ceiling of my bedroom came into focus.
White.
Cracked near the corner.
Familiar.
Safe.
My chest hurt.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
I turned to the side and curled into myself.
He did not answer.
He almost did.
I saw it in his eyes.
He was about to tell me.
And then he chose not to.
Why?
Why would the Devil be afraid to hurt my feelings?
That question would not leave my head.
The ticking was gone.
No shadow.
No presence.
Just silence.
I should feel relieved.
Instead I felt abandoned.
Angry.
Confused.
I pressed my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind them.
"You are not just human."
His voice echoed in my mind.
Then what am I?
The thought made my stomach twist.
If I am not just human, what did my grandmother give him?
What did she promise?
What did she create?
I sat up slowly.
My mirror caught my reflection.
Red eyes.
Pale skin.
Hair tangled from sleep.
I looked… fragile.
I hated it.
I splashed water on my face and forced myself into routine.
Jeans.
Black sweater.
Minimal makeup.
Normal.
Act normal.
Downstairs, Joseph was arguing with someone on the phone.
Mom was already dressed, tying her hair back loosely.
She glanced at me and paused.
"You did not sleep," she said gently.
"I did."
She did not believe me.
Mothers always know.
"University?" she asked.
"Yes."
She hesitated.
"If you want to skip today…"
"I am fine."
Too quickly.
Her eyes softened.
"Melanie."
I looked away.
"I am fine."
She let it go.
That almost hurt more.
The walk to campus felt mechanical.
I watched people laugh.
Couples holding hands.
Students complaining about assignments.
Normal life.
How is it possible that I stood in Hell a few hours ago and now I am waiting in line for coffee?
Katy waved at me from across the courtyard.
Orla followed dramatically, sunglasses on despite the cloudy sky.
"There she is," Orla declared. "The mysterious artist."
Katy hugged me lightly.
"You look tired again."
"I have a project," I lied.
Orla narrowed her eyes.
"You look like someone dumped you."
I forced a laugh.
"No one to dump me."
If only she knew.
We walked together toward the art building.
Orla talked about a new client.
Katy complained about her boyfriend ignoring her texts.
I nodded.
Smiled when expected.
But my mind kept replaying his face.
The way he looked when I cried.
That hesitation.
That almost touch.
Why would the King of Hell care if I hate him?
"Earth to Melanie," Orla said, snapping her fingers near my face.
"Hm?"
"You are somewhere else."
"Just thinking about my project."
Katy smiled softly.
"You always get like this when you are deep into something."
If only it was that simple.
Classes dragged.
Charcoal dust under my nails.
Professor explaining symbolism.
I almost laughed at that.
If he saw what I draw at night, he would faint.
By the time afternoon came, I felt exhausted from pretending.
I decided to go to the bookstore after class.
Mom had mentioned she needed help organizing new shipments.
The bell above the shop door chimed when I entered.
The familiar scent of old paper wrapped around me instantly.
Comfort.
Stability.
Mom was behind the counter stacking novels.
She looked up and smiled.
"There is my artist."
I forced a small smile back.
"Need help?"
"Always."
We worked in comfortable silence for a while.
Sorting books.
Checking inventory.
I liked this.
The normal rhythm of it.
"Did you ever want to leave?" I asked suddenly.
She looked up.
"Leave?"
"This town."
She thought for a moment.
"I did once."
"When?"
"When I was your age."
Her eyes softened slightly.
"But then I had you."
My throat tightened.
"Did you ever regret it?"
She walked closer and brushed a strand of hair from my face.
"Never."
The sincerity in her voice made my chest ache.
If she knew.
If she knew I might leave.
Would she look at me differently?
"You look sad," she said quietly.
"I am just tired."
She did not seem convinced.
"Your father used to get that look," she added.
My stomach dropped.
"What look?"
"Like he was carrying something he could not share."
The air shifted slightly.
Did she know something?
"Did he ever talk about his mother?" I asked carefully.
Her expression changed subtly.
Just a flicker.
"Not much," she said.
"Why?"
"She was… complicated."
Complicated.
That word again.
"How?"
She hesitated.
"I met her only once."
My pulse quickened.
"You never told me that."
"It was not important."
Not important?
"You did not like her?"
Mom gave a small smile that did not reach her eyes.
"She was charming."
That was not an answer.
"Charming can be dangerous," she added quietly.
A chill ran down my spine.
Before I could ask more, a customer entered.
The moment passed.
Later, when the shop was quieter, I remembered I needed a specific art theory book for my project.
"Do we have anything on mythological iconography?" I asked.
"In the back storage," Mom replied. "Second shelf near the ladder."
I nodded and headed toward the back room.
The storage area was dimmer.
Dust floated in the air.
Boxes stacked high.
I searched the second shelf.
Moved aside older textbooks.
Nothing.
I crouched down and checked the lower shelf.
Still nothing.
As I shifted a stack of old journals, my hand brushed against something solid behind them.
A book.
Hidden.
Not misplaced.
Hidden.
It was old.
Very old.
The leather cover was dark and cracked.
No title on the spine.
My heart began pounding.
Why is this back here?
I pulled it out slowly.
Dust coated my fingers.
The cover felt cold.
Almost colder than the room.
I opened it carefully.
The pages were yellowed.
Filled with symbols.
Drawings.
Circles.
Sigils.
Not random sketches.
Precise.
Intentional.
My breath caught.
One of the symbols looked familiar.
I had seen it before.
In Hell.
Carved into the floor beneath my feet.
My hands trembled.
This was not just an old art book.
This was something else.
Something ritualistic.
I flipped another page.
A name written in elegant ink.
Leila.
My mother's name.
My heart stopped.
It was written smaller beneath another name.
The same elegant handwriting.
Aurélie.
Not Melanie.
Aurélie.
The room felt suddenly too small.
Too quiet.
Why is my name in this book?
Why is my mother's?
Why was this hidden?
Footsteps echoed faintly from the front of the store.
Mom laughing with a customer.
Normal.
So normal.
I stared at the page again.
Symbols.
Names.
Dates.
Some of them from before I was born.
My breathing became uneven.
Did she know?
Has she always known?
Why was this not destroyed?
Why keep it?
Why hide it here?
I closed the book slowly.
My hands were shaking now.
The ticking sound did not return.
But something else did.
A realization.
What if my grandmother is not the only one involved?
What if the deal did not happen in secret?
What if…
My chest tightened painfully.
Why was my mother keeping this book hidden?