The Girl The Sun Could Not Touch

The Girl the Sun Could Not Touch

Chapter One: The Letter in the Dark

The letter arrived on a Thursday, beneath a sky the color of old bone.

Austėja Vaitkutė noticed it before she noticed the postman.

It lay on the narrow wooden table beside her front door, where it had been pushed through the letter slot and left among the ordinary inconveniences of life: a water bill, a grocery advertisement, and a reminder from her landlord that the rent would be due in six days.

Yet the envelope looked nothing like the others.

It was long, thick, and yellowed with age. Its edges had darkened, and a fine crack ran through the wax seal pressed into the flap. The seal bore the impression of a raven with its wings spread above a crescent moon.

Her name had been written across the front in faded black ink.

Austėja Vaitkutė.

Not Miss Vaitkutė. Not A. Vaitkutė.

Just her name, written in a handwriting so familiar that, for several seconds, she forgot to breathe.

Her mother's handwriting.

Austėja stood perfectly still.

Outside, a car passed through the wet street, sending a thin hiss of water against the pavement. Somewhere in the apartment building, a door slammed. Pipes rattled inside the walls.

Ordinary sounds. Ordinary life.

She held on to them.

Her mother had been dead for eleven days.

Austėja had received the news by telephone from a stranger who introduced himself as a solicitor. He had spoken with the careful gentleness of someone delivering unpleasant information to a person he expected to become difficult.

Marija Vaitkutė had died alone at an estate in the countryside.

There had been no funeral that Austėja could attend. No body had been returned to the family. The solicitor had explained that certain arrangements were still being made, and when Austėja asked what arrangements, he had fallen silent long enough for her to understand that he was not going to answer.

She had not asked again.

She had spent the following eleven days moving through her life as though it belonged to someone else.

Now her dead mother's handwriting lay on her table.

Austėja reached for the envelope.

The paper was cold.

Not cool from the autumn air or damp from the weather. Cold in the way a stone might be cold after spending a winter buried beneath the ground.

She turned it over.

The wax seal had been broken before, then pressed together again. Someone had attempted to conceal the damage, but a thin line remained where the pieces no longer met.

Beneath the seal, in tiny letters, were four words.

Read only after sunset.

Austėja stared at them.

Then she laughed once, without humor.

Austėja: "Of course. Why would anything in my life be straightforward?"

She carried the letter into her living room and placed it beneath a stack of books.

She would read it later.

There were other things to do. Laundry that had been waiting in the washing machine since the previous evening. Dishes in the sink. An email she had promised to answer two days ago.

She could deal with an inexplicable letter after she had dealt with the ordinary world.

That was how she survived it.

By making lists.

By keeping curtains closed.

By wearing tinted glasses even on overcast days, because an overcast sky did not mean the light was harmless. By choosing the shaded side of the street and learning which shops had dim interiors. By carrying a small bottle of sunscreen in her bag and knowing that none of these precautions offered a guarantee.

People often assumed that a person who looked healthy must feel healthy.

Austėja had long since stopped trying to explain the difference.

She could tolerate the world in small, carefully managed portions. The right lighting. The right clothing. The right amount of time outdoors.

Too much brightness, and her eyes watered until the world blurred. Too much sun, and her skin reddened with a speed that frightened people who had never seen it happen.

She had learned to plan her life around these things.

She had not learned to enjoy it.

By late afternoon, the sky had darkened considerably. Rain began tapping against the windows, and the apartment settled into the comfortable gloom she preferred.

Austėja made tea.

She ate half a piece of toast standing at the kitchen counter, forgot the other half, and returned to the living room.

The envelope waited beneath the books.

She drew it out.

For a moment, she considered putting it back.

There was something deeply unpleasant about receiving a message from someone who could no longer explain what she meant. A letter was a conversation with only one participant, and Austėja had spent most of her life having conversations with her mother that ended before they reached the important part.

Still, she broke the seal.

Inside lay three sheets of paper and a small brass key.

The key was old, its surface darkened by age. A narrow strip of black ribbon had been tied through the bow. It smelled faintly of dust and something floral that Austėja could not identify.

She set it aside and unfolded the first sheet.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

The same narrow letters. The same slight downward slant. The same peculiar habit of leaving too much space between certain words.

At the top of the page was a date.

Fourteen years earlier.

Austėja frowned.

She read the first line.

My dearest Austėja,

If you are reading this, then I have failed to keep you away from Juodvarnis.

She stopped.

The name meant nothing to her.

Juodvarnis.

She sounded it out silently, turning it over in her mind. It had the shape of a word that belonged somewhere old, somewhere with dark forests and wooden houses and roads that disappeared into mist.

She continued.

I wanted to believe that distance would be enough. I wanted to believe that if you grew up far from the estate, you would be allowed to live your life without knowing what happened here.

I was wrong about many things.

I may have been wrong about you, too.

Austėja lowered the page.

Outside, rain traced crooked lines down the glass.

Her mother had always been a private woman. She kept old photographs in locked drawers, refused to discuss her childhood, and became strangely quiet whenever Austėja asked about the family.

There had been no stories about grandparents. No childhood holidays in the countryside. No relatives who appeared unexpectedly with cakes and presents.

When Austėja was little, she had assumed this was simply how families worked.

As she grew older, she began to understand that her mother had been hiding something.

She had never discovered what.

Austėja returned to the letter.

You must not come to the estate during daylight.

I know how unreasonable this sounds. I know that you will want explanations, and I know that you will be angry with me. You have every right to be angry.

But there are things that do not behave as they should when the sun is visible.

If you see someone standing where no one could possibly be standing, do not approach them.

If you hear your name spoken from an empty room, do not answer.

If you see a reflection that does not belong to you, leave the room immediately.

And if the sunlight begins to whisper, close your eyes.

Austėja stopped reading.

She stared at the final sentence until the words seemed to separate from the page.

Then she read it again.

And again.

Austėja: "What on earth were you involved in, Mama?"

The apartment offered no answer.

She glanced at the second sheet.

It contained a single paragraph.

The solicitor has been instructed to transfer the estate to you. The papers will explain the legal details. The key enclosed opens the cabinet in my bedroom. You will find what you need there.

Come after sunset.

Come alone.

And whatever happens, do not trust the clocks.

The final sheet was blank except for a line of writing at the bottom.

It was smaller than the rest, almost cramped into the margin.

I am sorry I could not tell you the truth while I was alive.

Beneath it was her mother's signature.

Marija Vaitkutė.

Austėja placed the papers on the table.

For several minutes, she did nothing.

She was not frightened, exactly. Fear required a belief that something dangerous was happening, and she did not yet believe that.

What she felt was irritation, sharp and almost welcome.

Her mother had spent years refusing to explain herself. Now, after death, she had apparently decided to become mysterious.

It was an impressive level of commitment.

Austėja reached for her telephone and searched for the solicitor's number.

He answered after the fourth ring.

Matas Varnelis: "Good evening. Varnelis speaking."

Austėja paused.

That was not the name she had expected to hear.

Austėja: "I'm looking for the solicitor handling my mother's estate. I was given this number."

Matas Varnelis: "Then you've reached the right office. My name is Matas Varnelis. I work with the legal representative overseeing the transfer."

His voice was low and measured. There was something old-fashioned about the way he spoke, as though he had learned conversation from books written before telephones existed.

Austėja: "I received a letter from my mother."

Silence.

Not a long silence.

Just long enough.

Matas Varnelis: "What did it say?"

Austėja straightened.

Austėja: "You knew she had written to me?"

Matas Varnelis: "I knew she had left instructions."

Austėja: "That isn't the same thing."

Matas Varnelis: "No. It isn't."

She disliked him immediately.

Austėja: "The letter says I have to go to an estate in a village called Juodvarnis. It also says I shouldn't arrive during daylight, shouldn't trust clocks, and should apparently be concerned about my reflections."

There was another pause.

This time, she heard something in the background.

A clock ticking.

Slowly.

Regularly.

Then a faint metallic click.

Matas Varnelis: "Did she mention the White Noon?"

Austėja looked down at the papers.

Austėja: "No. What is the White Noon?"

The ticking stopped.

She heard Matas draw a breath.

Matas Varnelis: "It would be better if we discussed that in person."

Austėja: "I would actually prefer to discuss it over the telephone."

Matas Varnelis: "I understand."

Austėja: "Do you? Because you have just introduced a mysterious historical event into a conversation about my dead mother, and now you're refusing to explain what it is."

Matas Varnelis: "Your mother was a very careful woman. She believed some things were safer when they were not discussed over a telephone."

Austėja leaned back in her chair.

Austėja: "That sounds like something a person says when they want to make a perfectly ordinary situation sound sinister."

For the first time, Matas sounded almost amused.

Matas Varnelis: "Perhaps."

Then the amusement disappeared.

Matas Varnelis: "The estate is expecting you, Austėja. If you decide to come, wait until the sun has gone down. Someone will meet you at the village entrance."

Austėja: "Who?"

Matas Varnelis: "Ona Žilinskienė. She has looked after the house for many years."

Austėja: "And what happens if I decide not to come?"

He did not answer immediately.

Matas Varnelis: "Then I would advise you to keep your curtains closed."

The call ended.

Austėja stared at her telephone.

Austėja: "Oh, you're absolutely unbearable."

She set it down.

For the first time that evening, she noticed that the room had become unusually quiet.

The rain had stopped.

The refrigerator no longer hummed.

Even the distant traffic seemed to have vanished.

Austėja glanced toward the window.

Her curtains were closed, but a thin line of light had slipped through the gap between them.

It lay across the floor, pale and narrow.

She frowned.

The sun should have been well below the horizon by now.

She checked the time on her telephone.

6:42 p.m.

Outside, the sky had darkened to a deep, bruised gray.

Yet the light on the floor was bright enough to make her eyes ache.

Austėja stood slowly.

She had learned not to stare at unfamiliar brightness. She turned her face away and reached for the curtain, keeping her eyes lowered.

The light was warm against her fingers.

Not painfully warm.

Almost pleasant.

That frightened her more than it should have.

She pulled the curtains shut.

The brightness disappeared.

For several seconds, she remained beside the window, listening to the ordinary sounds returning to the apartment.

The refrigerator hummed.

A car passed outside.

Somewhere upstairs, a child laughed.

Austėja exhaled.

Then she noticed something on the floor.

A thin line of dust had been disturbed where the light had fallen.

Not a footprint.

Not exactly.

It was a narrow, curved mark, as though someone had dragged a fingertip through the dust.

Austėja crouched.

The mark formed a word.

HOME.

She stared at it.

Then, with a shaking hand, she rubbed the letters away.

She told herself it was a trick of the light, a coincidence, a pattern her frightened mind had assembled from nothing.

She told herself many things that evening.

But when she went to bed, she left the curtains closed.

And when she finally slept, she dreamed of a house standing in a dark forest, its windows painted black.

In the dream, a woman stood on the other side of the glass.

Austėja could not see her face.

She could only hear her voice.

Marija Vaitkutė: "You must come home before it remembers you."

Austėja tried to answer, but no sound came out.

Behind the woman, something moved through the darkness.

Something tall enough to cast a shadow across the entire house.

The woman pressed her palm against the glass.

Marija Vaitkutė: "Please, Austėja. This time, don't let it see you."

Then the sun rose behind the house.

And every window began to whisper.

---

End of Chapter One