IF minimalism was a person, it would be Ríone's mother.

It was reflected well in the decor of their old home. The walls of the living room was a minty pastel with a couple of abstract art pictures on its walls. The three-seater sofa was elegant, white with golden lining at its edges. It got plenty of air and light from the wide window behind the sofa. Unlike so many other houses, her mother did not place a showcase in their living room. She wanted it to be simple.

The house seemed to have honoured that wish even in their absence. Ríone smiled at the thought. Despite being long abandoned, it kept its pristine look, mostly. There was a thin film of dust on the furniture and the sealed windows had blackened a bit, which was nothing a good cleaning could not remove.

She placed her bag beside the closed main door and ventured inside. She took in the house's stale breath, the colours that were etched so well in her mind, the little irregularities on the walls which only she could point out. Everything looked the same.

Ríone walked over to the dining area next to the living room. They painted this part of the house in a light blue with fuzzy white clouds on top of it to imitate the sky. A dining table with four chairs was set in the middle of the room. It was made of mahogany, its colour a rich chocolate brown. On its right was the kitchen, its door closed, while on the left side there was a wall from which hung a single picture.

Her gaze fixated on the picture.

It was a family photo. Its edges had turned brown with age. In the middle was a smiling pigtailed Ríone, dressed in a peach coloured frock. One of her front teeth was missing, but she was smiling, not at all self-conscious. To her right was her mother with a slight smile on her plump lips while her hazel eyes glittered in the sunlight. Her sharp features were well captured in the image.

To Ríone's left was her father. He was taller than her mom and the fairer of the pair. Contrasting her mother's dark hair, he had light golden hair. His eyes were dark, just like Ríone's. Just like his daughter, his smile was wide and untainted.

You would never guess, judging by his appearance, the things he was capable of.

The tears that she fought so hard to suppress flowed out of her eyes. Ríone fell on her knees, sobbing noisily. Her ribcage quivered under the pressure of her heartache, her eyes bloodshot. Drool dribbled down a corner of her lips. Then, as if taken over by an external force, she stood up and slapped the picture right off the wall. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

"I hate you, Pa," she said, her voice a mere whisper. "I hate you so, so much. I hope you are rotting in hell."

He was the one of the reasons why they had to leave Loutham. The reason she had to go to a therapist twice a month even now. He had stolen her childhood, her girlhood.

No matter what, she would never have it again.

***

For the next few hours, Ríone spent cleaning the house. So it was now a little after two-thirty in the afternoon.

She dusted the furniture, arranged a room for herself in the second-floor guestroom, mopped the kitchen, opened the windows and wiped their glasses clean. After a scavenger hunt around the house, she had bought the contacts of the water and electricity suppliers and had called them. Within an hour, they came and had restored both.

One of the many perks of having occupied a place on the New York Times Bestselling List, not once, but four times.

Amid that, she did not forget to dispose of the photo which she broke. For all it was worth, she was happy that she would not have to see it again in the course of her stay. She did not care about it at all.

Wasted from all the physical exertion, she lay on the sofa. Her sneakers were sprawled on the floor and her cardigan hung on one of the sofa's arms. She closed her eyes, letting the breeze wash over her face. It felt good, the entire process of cleaning. There was no way better than this to calm down an emotional Ríone.

All she wanted to do now was sleep and—

"Oh, crap!"

She sat up straight. Today was the day. The day she was supposed to inform her agent about the progress on her latest novel. However, with her coming to Loutham and the emotional episode she had earlier, she totally forgot about it. They were already irritated with the delay in the schedule. If she did not get back to them on time, preferably with news of having made some progress with the manuscript, they would be so mad. The last thing she wanted was to happen.

Ríone jumped off the sofa and ran upstairs barefooted. She entered the guest room, opened her bag and took out a sweatshirt, a towel and pants before locking herself in the adjoined bathroom. A shower would be good. It would clear her mind and help her focus. If luck was in her favour, she would be able write a chapter or two and give them an update by the end of the day.

She ripped off her sweaty clothes and turned on the faucet. The droplets of warm water trickled down her chubby body, traced the curves of before seeping down the grey-tiled floor of the bathroom. Ríone's hair was open, drops of water collected in-between them. She kept her eyes closed and enjoyed the sound of the water rushing past her ears, occasionally rubbing circles upon her bosom, the area of her neck above the collarbone and the sides of her forehead.

That was when something tickled inside her cheeks.

Her eyes opened. She traced the area with her tongue. A long, thin thing. That was what she observed. Could a strand of her hair had somehow gotten inside her mouth? Maybe. She opened her mouth, and using her fingers, pulled it out.

Ríone was right. It was a strand of hair. It was not hers though — the colour did not match. It was a strand of grey hair, dull and lustreless. And the more she pulled at it, the more of the strand came free, but it was not coming out wholly.

Her heart leaped in fear. Fingers trembling, she unfurled it even faster. It still did not pull free. Like some infinite ball of yarn, it just kept on coming out. By now, it was hanging below her knees.

"No!"

Desperate tears fell from her eyes. Long threads of saliva dripped out of her mouth. Whether or not she was being delirious, the hair strand seemed to get thicker with each pull. Leaving the futile pursuit, she switched off the faucet and grabbed the towel from the towel rod. She wrapped it around her body and rushed out of the bathroom.

Somehow, she made it to the bed and sat down. Her heartbeats came so fast that she could hear in the room's silence. She put a hand on her lips to find the strand.

Nothing was there.

As if it was some elaborate fantasy, the hair strand had disappeared. She touched her chest, her belly and her legs, trying to find it. However, it was nowhere. It was gone.

But instead of being relieved, Ríone was even more afraid. Her face ashened. Chill ran down her spine. She could not believe it.

It had happened again.