The coldness of the floor crawled up Choen's bare feet as she stood frozen in front of the flickering hospital television. Her breath hitched. There, inside the screen, was Gabrielle.
Her teacher—the one who had encouraged her, pushed her forward, believed in her when the world turned away. Gabrielle's pale face stared back at her, lifeless, eyes wide open, as if calling her through the screen. Her lips parted, as if she had something left to say. Blood trickled slowly from the corner of her mouth. The image was silent, yet deafening.
"Gabrielle... no," Choen whispered, stumbling forward. But the moment her fingers touched the screen, everything disappeared. The screen turned black. No static. No trace of what she had just seen. Only her reflection stared back—terrified, confused.
"CHOEN!"
She gasped, turning around sharply. The hospital corridor was gone.
Sunlight streamed through sheer white curtains. The walls were not sterile but warm, painted in soft beige. The sharp scent of antiseptic had vanished, replaced by lavender. A hand gently shook her shoulder.
"Choen, wake up," the nurse said kindly. "It's time for your check-in. You fell asleep here again?"
Choen blinked. Her heart was still pounding. She looked around. She was in the hospital lounge, curled up on a couch, her notebook still resting in her lap. The nurse gave her a small smile and walked off.
Was it... all a dream?
Choen sat up slowly, her hands trembling. The dream had felt real—too real. She could still feel the icy fear lingering on her skin.
But there had been no endless corridor, no TV with Gabrielle inside.
Still, something inside her told her it wasn't just a dream.
Thirty-four days passed.
Despite her hopes and visits, Gabrielle never woke up. The hospital tried everything. Every time Choen called, the answer was the same: "There's been no change."
Until one cloudy afternoon, as the rain tapped steadily on her Paris window, Choen's phone buzzed.
Gabrielle had passed away.
She didn't cry immediately. She couldn't. Her body felt too numb.
It wasn't until she reached Gabrielle's home—the small, charming place nestled on a quiet street near Montmartre—that the tears fell. Not from her eyes, but from her soul.
A caretaker let her inside, explaining that Gabrielle had kept a few things set aside for her in case something happened. She stepped into the old study, filled with the faint smell of coffee and ink, where Gabrielle had spent years mentoring students.
On the desk was a small wooden box. Nothing fancy. But it had a red thread tied around it, and a single note rested on top.
Choen picked up the note with trembling hands.
**"To my Choen,
If you are reading this, then fate has made its decision. There are things I never told you. Things I couldn't. But if you've felt something following you—if the past feels like it's whispering again—do not ignore it.
You must return to where it began.
Follow the scent, follow the shadows.
You were never just a designer, my dear.
You were chosen.
Gabrielle"**
The letter slipped from her fingers.
The red thread around the box reminded her of something. A fragrance. A boy. A spider.
Her breath hitched.
She turned slowly, feeling the hairs on her neck rise. The room was empty. But the wind outside howled differently now, like it carried a secret.
Choen didn't know what was coming.
But something had begun.
And it wouldn't stop until it was finished.