Chapter 6 Nothing Stays Buried
I found myself in a foreign courtyard, yet it thrummed in my bones with a familiarity older than memory.
The air was thick, sweet with rot. Pomegranate trees twisted overhead, their branches too close, their fruit split open and bleeding. Seeds scattered at my feet, glowing like warnings I couldn’t read.
I looked down at my hands. They were stained red.
Dark and warm juice dripped from my fingers. I tried to wipe them clean, but the stain spread, crawling up my wrists like vines taking root.
Someone was calling my name. A voice I trusted but couldn’t place.
I turned, seeking the voice. A figure stood in the distance. The voice called to me again. I reached for the figure, but it shifted, morphing into something menacing, towering over me.
I tried to run, but my feet wouldn’t move. The vines had wrapped around my ankles, pulling me down into soil.
Cold metal kissed my throat.
I gasped, choking on copper and crushed fruit. My hands flew to my neck, wet warmth spilling over my fingers.
The courtyard blurred. The trees bled into shadow. The ground opened beneath me, and I was falling—
I shuddered, the memory of the dream still clinging to me like spiderwebs.
I tapped my pen against the edge of my dream journal, nerves still rolling in my belly.
Luz had already left for the morning, but not before leaving me with a smoothie and a declaration that I would tell her all about my nightmare when we met up later.
I glanced at the clock on the wall, setting down my pen. It was already 11:03 in the morning. I’d spent the better part of the morning trying to get myself together.
Pulling my damp hair into a lazy braid, I checked my reflection. I looked paler than normal, dark shadows forming under my eyes. My birthmark caught my attention. For a second, I swore the cluster of ovals looked darker than usual.
I pulled my sleeve down and grabbed my bag.
If answers were going to show up anywhere, they’d be in the library between brittle pages and buried footnotes.
The university library was quiet in that particular way that only libraries manage. I made my way to the mythology section, my usual corner near the back, tucked under a stained-glass window that spilled fractured colors across the worn oak table.
I dropped my bag with a dull thump. The shelves stretched upward, spines cracked and faded, titles barely legible.
Rites of the Seedbearers: Seasonal Myth in Pre-Hellenic Greece.
My hand pulled it free, setting it on the table, and I kept looking.
The Daughters Below: Forgotten Aspects of Kore. Descent and Return: Death, Fertility, and the Divine Feminine. Mysteries of Eleusis: Sacred Rites and Initiations.
Each title hummed inside me, oddly familiar, like I wasn’t discovering them but remembering them.
I stacked them beside me and opened the first, notebook ready.
The words swam into focus:
“Kore, later known as Persephone, was once a goddess of spring untouched by grief. Her descent was not only a theft but a transformation. The girl who returned was no longer the girl who left. In ancient Arcadian versions of the myth, it is not Hades who takes her, but Kore who chooses to go below, answering a call only she could hear.”
I underlined, “Chooses to go below.”
For a split second, I could feel cool air rushing past me, dark soil closing over my skin. My stomach twisted, heat and chill colliding inside me in surrender. I blinked hard and shook it off, forcing my attention back to the text.
Another book referenced “The Seedbound,” but the translator’s note was uncertain. Bound by seed, or becoming the seed herself. Either way, it spoke of metamorphosis, not captivity.
I traced the word with my finger, and an image of red pulp staining my hands, juice running down my wrist, surged behind my eyes unbidden, a bitter-sweet flavor on my tongue.
I startled, pen clattering against the table.
The vision dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving only the words staring back at me.
I pressed the heel of my hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing.
Around me, the library was silent except for the distant rustle of pages, the soft footsteps of someone shelving books two aisles over.
I pulled another book closer. This one had illustrations of pomegranate seeds, women descending into dark places, and emerging crowned.
References to Eleusinian rites, shrouded in secrecy.
Initiates were sworn to silence, death the price of betrayal. Fragments remained of what they witnessed. Descent and rebirth, a goddess who ruled both spring and shadow. Kore became Persephone, the Maiden who became Queen.
The longer I read, the more it felt like none of these versions were exactly wrong, and none exactly right. They were all lenses, fractures of a single truth.
As the words blurred before me, I felt like I could almost recall them. A meadow drenched in sunlight, a voice calling from below, a hand reaching toward mine, and a choice made to take it.
My pulse fluttered at the base of my throat.
One book, its margins riddled with handwritten notes from previous readers, claimed her story had been rewritten by men eager to make her a victim. In the first tellings, she was powerful. She commanded her descent, death, and rebirth, hers to wield.
I pressed my hand harder against my chest, trying to ground myself against the strange ache spreading there.
What did it say about us that we preferred the story where she was stolen and broken?
I scribbled into my notebook:
Whose story gets preserved? Who benefits from erasing her agency? What if she wasn’t taken but chose?
My handwriting wavered. The pen tip snagged, almost as though the page resisted. The thought felt too big, like it didn’t belong to me somehow.
I released a shuddering breath and glanced out the window. The light had shifted, gone bruised and purple as dusk settled in.
I checked my phone. 5:47 PM.
Shit.
Two missed texts from my mother.
Mother: Reservation at Amara’s. 7 pm. Don’t be late.
Mother: Assuming you’re still coming.
I groaned and let my head drop to the table. Of course. Dinner. I’d completely forgotten.
I gathered my books, sliding one last note across the margin of my page before closing the notebook:
What if she didn’t fall? What if she jumped? And what if I already know why?
I stepped out of the shower at 6:38 PM and checked my phone.
Mother: I’m picking you up at 7. Be ready.
Mother: And wear something appropriate.
I rolled my eyes. That was Mom’s way; an iron grip dressed in silk gloves and passive-aggressive texts.
I dried my hair, changed into clean jeans, a simple sweater, and my nicest boots. I texted Luz:
Me: Dinner with Mom. Pray for me.
Her response was immediate:
Luz: Remember, murder is illegal, but hexes aren’t!
I smiled despite the knot in my stomach. I could still feel my mother’s nails grazing my scalp, tuning me like an instrument. “Good girls don’t squirm.” The memory scraped at me as I pulled my bag over my shoulder.
The air was heavy with wet concrete and fallen leaves. Thunder rumbled, storm clouds gathering in the sky.
My mother’s black Mercedes pulled in at exactly 6:58 PM. Punctual as always.
I climbed into the passenger seat. The car smelled like my childhood: strong perfume, faintly antiseptic; the scent of control.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Melanie.” She glanced at my sweater with barely concealed disapproval. “That’s what you’re wearing?”
“It’s clean, and it fits. It’s fine.”
She sighed but didn’t push. Small mercies.
The drive downtown was quiet except for NPR murmuring. Thunder rumbled, rain hitting the windshield.
The restaurant came into view. Amara’s was all glass windows and hanging pendant lights; the kind of place that screamed privilege.
I smoothed my hair and braced myself.
We were seated quickly. Candace ordered chardonnay, and I asked for water. The waiter brought bread. I broke off a piece just to have something to do with my hands.
We hadn’t even finished the bread basket before she began.
“So,” she said, swirling her wine. “Have you finalized your graduation paperwork yet? Your last semester, Melanie. You should be proud.”
“I did,” I said. “Just need to confirm some clinical hours with my adviser.”
“Good.” She nodded. “Elysian’s expansion into the wellness consulting division is ramping up. I need someone I can trust in a leadership position. You’ll be ready by graduation.”
I set down my bread. “Mom—”
“It’s the logical next step. You’ll come work for me. Build something real instead of chasing mythology and herbal fantasies.”
“I never agreed to work for you, Mom.”
“Of course you did. We discussed this when you started your degree. Elysian needs you, and frankly, you need the structure. A real company. Real metrics. Real purpose.”
“No. That’s what you decided for me, like you always do.”
“Don’t be difficult. This was always temporary, that’s what we said.”
“No. That’s what you said.” I hissed. “You decided for me, like you always do.”
A flash of memory burned hot—me at twelve, wanting to join the school play, only for Mom to say no. “You’ll embarrass yourself, Melanie. The debate team will look better on your transcript.” And me, like a marionette, swallowing my protest, moving where she pulled the strings.
Now I felt every phantom tug of those strings, and I was so tired of dancing.
She sighed, her patience unraveling. “Melanie, don’t be dramatic. You just need direction and structure. You can’t live in a dorm forever, pretending that podcasts and stories will pay your bills.”
“They’re not just stories,” I snapped. “Some stories are truer than the facts we’re fed.”
She tensed. “This again. Gods and symbols and Aunt Reenie’s spiritual nonsense.”
I stiffened. “Don’t bring her into this.”
“She wasted her life,” Candace said flatly. “She could’ve done something meaningful, but instead she disappeared into incense and ‘intuition,’ never grounded, never contributing anything of value. She clung to a fantasy, and here you are doing the same.”