Just as the sun made its appearance on the edge of the horizon, Blaise’s eyes quivered open, startled. The leaves gleamed with an exquisite gossamer of dew and the songs of nature filled the hopeful atmosphere while her body was coated in a sickly cold sweat from the recurring nightmare. A hunger lingered in amidst the morning air. Her mind raced miles ahead of her inert form, frozen to the damp earth. The sickly sweet melody of the distant mandolin entranced her into a carnal, primitive call that screamed to escape. Her mind pushed her, urged her to search to grapple for a cranny, a root, a rock, anything to support her deadweight form as she attempted to hoist herself up.

She combed through her unkempt hair, a tangled mass of earth brown twigs, and pushed the memory from her mind as she buried her face into her rugged hands. The fire’s wrath was embossed into the depths of her mind despite her constant efforts to shun it away. Every night, the vision resurfaced and she was forced to relive the moment the faces melted away into the ravenous inferno. At the light of dawn, she was embraced by the cold realization of being orphaned. The sweet song of the mandolin haunted and comforted her, controlling her in a way that was too supernatural to explain. It was as if her father’s spirit beckoned her closer with the sound of his precious mandolin as he once used to do.

Blaise mustered the energy to uncurl from her protective fetal position; staggering, she rose and collected her meager supplies. The melody of the mandolin soothed her anxious mind and soothed her weak muscles. Blaise breathed a sigh, distracted from her recurring vision of the incident. She strapped on her knapsack and made her way through the clear forest, following an aimless path.

Despite following the tune blindly, Blaise’s naturally curious wit questioned her journey. Why was she so eager to follow this vague noise that — for all she knew — didn’t even exist? Why was it so easy for her to run away while this oddly familiar tune continued on like a broken record?

She was transported back into her family’s mansion: its aged wallpaper was peeling away as the weary grandfather chair held her beloved father and her five older sisters. Her mother had died years ago — bearing six children had weakened her to her grave. Blaise’s sisters sat in a perfect ring around their father, a wise yet troubled man; the death of her mother had taken a toll on him. She was his everything.

Her father, seated in the comfortable chair, was encircled by a ring of golden-haired maidens — all years older than her. His hallowed mandolin sat in his lap, the fingerboard worn from the countless songs he played throughout the years. From the doorway, Blaise peered at the sight of her father’s morose grey eyes and feigned smile as he entertained her sisters with their favorite tunes. Their gazes met and his eyes melted as they did when he saw his wife but quickly returned to their melancholy state.

“Blaise,” he beckoned, “come.”

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All resemblance to actual people, places, incidents, or things is completely coincidental.