“Yes, Mum! For the last time, I’m fine! I don’t need your help!”
“Alright then sweetie! Just let me know if you need anything!”

Clara’s your average teen. Very stubborn with everything. Does she need some help with homework? Nah, she’s got that. Is she hungry? Nah, she could hold out a bit longer. Just need to finish this essay. So when her mother asked her if she needed help with her research, of course the answer she was expecting Clara to respond was what she heard.

Now reader. Let us have a think of what Clara’s doing on her laptop at 7 in the morning so secret that not even her mother can know. Perhaps actually studying? Maybe she’s having an argument over the internet? Or perhaps on a call with a secret lover?

If you were thinking any of those, you’re wrong. Because in fact, Clara isn’t doing anything that you’d expect someone of her age and personality to do.

“Thistle Park…” Clara vocalises as she types into Google. There must be theories on the actual park. Maybe even some videos from clickbait content creators. But as she scrolled and scrolled, there weren’t any good theories on the park. Nor any clickbait videos. The only videos there were from families recording their time there.

Which was fair. Thistledown Hollow was a relatively small town after the park closed down, and nobody really had any reason to visit it. The only few trips ever made to Thistledown were trips from schools in the surrounding area who were doing their own research on urban decline.

And then she found it. Right there, in blue text as every other link on the page was: “What is Thistle Park?”

Wait no, that can’t be a theory website. That seems like a website made by the park to explain what it was. But the description underneath was enough to convince Clara that this wasn’t just a corporate “about us” page. So she clicked on it.

It was empty. A fake website. But that’s weird, there was content on the search result. So she went back to Google. And back to the website. And back to Google. And back to the website. But nothing changed.

“Perhaps there’s just… nothing.” She sighed in disbelief. There has to have been something about it that wasn’t corporate material.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning outside. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming. And despite this, it was yet again another boring day for Clara. With her dad at work, Clara had nobody to talk to other than her mum. You would think being an only child had its perks, but when you’re introverted and you talk to the same person everyday, it gets a bit jarring. So there had to be a change.

“Hey Mum? I’m going out for a walk!” she calls out, half-expecting no response. Clara’s mum was quiet and didn’t like to talk to anyone. The apple doesn’t fall from the tree, after all.

“A walk? That doesn’t sound like you at all!”
“Mmm.. I just need to get something off my chest.”
“Alright, have fun then! Stay safe!”

Finally, time away from home. Why didn’t she do this more often? It’s nice.

An hour passed. Clara’s now heading home. She rummages through her pockets for the keys that she picked up. Except she didn’t. Clumsy her. Guess she’ll have to knock on the d-

The door was open. Clara’s heartbeat spiked. Mum never left the door open. She always kept careful watch over everything she did. Even if the door was slightly open, just barely touching the frame, she’d force it closed.

So why was it open?

“H… hello? Is anyon-“

The scene in front of Clara was bewildering. Everything was on the floor. There were ceramic chunks on the floor from plates falling. A few glass shards here and there. And a black piece of neatly folded black paper. Opening it, she noticed in bright yellow letters:

“Hello, Clara Vayne. Surprised by the scene you see? Don’t be. I told you what’d happen.”

Clara was confused. When did this person say this? She hadn’t had any human interaction since last week.

“When did this happen, you may be asking yourself. You visited my website. Quite a few times, actually. I have answers you’re looking for. Why the need for the mess then? Well… your mother put up quite the fight. Don’t worry. She’s fine. She’ll have forgotten about this whole thing. Catch me if you can.”

The note was signed with a name. It didn’t seem like a name though. More like a pseudonym. “Cynicism”.

This person knew who she was. Where she lived. And most importantly. What she was after.

⏩ Chapter 2: Fading Twilight