Gray Hearts Episode Ten: Fade

Gray Hearts by Raspberry | Content warnings

The air turns cool as I trudge along the gravel path, wishing I had the foresight to request more sensible shoes (and maybe a cardigan) before walking into the large hedge. It feels like a labyrinth, with large green walls of thick vines and clusters of leaves growing all around me. Except there is only one path to follow, one way to go. I can’t get lost even if I try.

I rub the goosebumps spreading across my exposed arms and glance around. The sun has disappeared behind a cloud, and I can see the leaves are losing their luster as I continue on. A breeze blows from ahead, its chilly breath detaching a handful of leaves from the hedges and sending them scattering behind me. The leaves begin to curl up and brown as the path curves.

“Iris?” Quinn’s voice whispers from around the bend.

My heartbeat quickens, and I rush forward.

The hedge opens. I’m at the cusp of a forest. Trees dotted with red and yellow sway in the breeze that wraps itself around me.

“Iris.” Quinn’s voice rides on the wind, tickling my ear and nudging me forward.

“Quinn?” I call out.

Whispers surround me, voices I can’t recognize follow as I stumble down the path. I know it makes no sense for her to be here, but every falling leaf—that flash of orange in the corner of my eye—has me spinning and looking for her.

“Iris, come on,” Quinn urges.

Her voice is desperate and frustrated. And fading. I quicken my pace, but her voice is gone.

“Where are you?” I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Quinn?”

“Iris?”

There. I run towards the sound, off the path, into a pile of leaves. They scatter as I look around. I hear a soft laugh tickle my ear, and I spin around. It’s not Quinn’s voice.

The path is gone.

“Are you alright, dear?” The voice echoes around me.

It’s Quinn’s mother, and I can practically feel her green eyes watching me. Except instead of the sweet, loving tone mingled with concern, it sounds mocking.

I look around, stumbling away from the voice. The voice I once turned to when my own parents had no time to check my fever or help with homework. The voice of the woman kind enough to call me her daughter but who turned away from her own child for daring to love outside traditional expectations.

There’s a house past the trees. I can make out its silhouette through the fog. It’s two-storied and run-down, with chipped white paint and an old wooden door wedged open.

My feet shuffle towards it, even as I wonder if I should be running the other way. But the other way is filled with a coldness that seems to echo in my body and make my heart shiver.

I gently push the door open, expecting to see someone waiting for me, like Prin or Yeo-reum. Some smiling face ready to draw me in and never let go.

I don’t expect a long hallway, with a dozen identical closed doors separated by dusty candlesticks nailed to the wall. I step inside, and the door swings shut behind me. The candles on the walls flicker to life.

“Hello?” I call out cautiously. “Autumn?”

There’s no response. I take a step forward, my shoes brushing against the bronze-colored rug that runs down the middle of the hallway. I’m still expecting someone to burst out of one of the doors, but maybe I’m alone.

The door I came in from is locked, and I tug at the handle with no luck. Whoever is controlling this place obviously doesn’t want me leaving. I mentally kick myself for falling into a trap.

“Well,” I say to no one in particular. “If no one wants me to leave, I guess I’ll just look around then.”

I choose the first door on my right, turning the handle slowly. It swings open, but I can only see darkness. The light switch must be inside. I peek my head in—

“Oh my god, Iris, stop letting all the cool air out!” Quinn calls with a laugh.

I blink to clear my eyes and look around.

It’s impossible.

We’re at my apartment.

At least, it looks like my apartment. There’s my run-down sofa, the mismatched throw pillows, my cluttered table separating the living room from the kitchen. But there are knick-knacks that don’t belong to me. A silver Celtic cross hung above the television. A giant rainbow throw on the back of the couch. Small ace and lesbian pride flags poking out of a scent diffuser.

“I-ris!”

The door closes behind me. Or maybe I close it. I can’t seem to register anything but Quinn as she dances into the living room with a tub of ice cream in one hand and two spoons in the other. She’s in denim shorts and a green oversized shirt, with her hair pulled back in a messy bun.

“Dessert for dinner?” she suggests, grinning as she shows off the Cherry Jubilee. “It’s too hot to cook.”

The way she’s talking sounds like we’ve done this before. Like her things all over my place—our place?—and her perching on the arm of the couch while scrolling for a movie to watch is a regular evening for us.

“It should be illegal for it to be this hot in fall,” she says. “It kills the vibe of spooky season.” She laughs. “No pun intended.”

Fall.

Autumn.

I remember why I’m here. Not here in the apartment. I should be somewhere in Autumn’s realm, looking for Quinn. I turn and grip the door handle.

“Iris?”

Quinn’s confused tone paralyzes my hand, and I can’t help but look back.

“Where are you going? You just got here,” she says with a tilt of the head.

“I… I can’t stay,” I begin, trying to force myself to focus. “This… this isn’t real.”

“But it’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” It’s still Quinn’s voice and face, but her tone feels different.

Her eyes turn black, and it feels like they’re burning into my skull and reading my thoughts.

“This is the future you hoped for,” she continues. “Are you really going to leave it behind?”

“Who are you?”

She just smiles at my question, looking more smug than I’ve seen Quinn before. The freckles are gone from her face, and her hair seems to retract into her skull as it darkens.

“That’s a question you should be directing at yourself,” she replies.

Any semblance to Quinn is gone. The woman before me tilts her head, her black, wispy bob framing her face.

“You’re Autumn,” I whisper.

“That should have gone without saying, dear,” she says with a thin-lipped smile. “Who else would be in my house?”

We’re still in my apartment, or what looks like my apartment, and I almost want to wait to see if it will shift the way she did.

“You still haven’t answered the question,” she says, and I realize her gaze hasn’t left me.

“What question?”

“Who are you?” Her voice is lilted, like a teacher asking a rhetorical question to a misbehaving student.

I have no idea what she’s looking for, or what answer would earn me grace instead of punishment. So I turn the door handle and run outside.

The door slams behind me with a cold draft slapping my hair around my face. I push it out of my eyes and look around. I’m back in the hallway.

That’s one door down, the wind seems to whisper. Many more to go.