At first, I thought I'd gone blind.
The light was gone—not just dim, but erased.
Then sound faded back in, like slow breath through a cracked door: wind dragging across broken stone, the soft drip of water echoing far too long, and…
Crying.
A child.
I opened my eyes.
But it wasn't the world I knew.
The trees were there—but twisted. As if they'd been burned and then forgotten by the fire. Their bark flaked like ash. Their branches reached without purpose.
The sky? No sky. Just a gray ceiling above, like a smothered moon trapped behind stained glass.
I stood in a version of the Pale March—but drained of all warmth. No sun. No wind. Just a stillness that pressed down on my lungs like guilt.
The realm of the dead.
And in the distance—through the fog—stood the well.
Still standing. Still waiting.
"It seems you've now entered the dead world," a voice said.
I turned—and there she was.
The spirit.
But not the same.
Chains bound her arms and shoulders, each link pulsing with a dull red glow—like molten grief. Her glow was dimmer, her eyes no longer calm, but tired.
"What happened to you?" I asked.
"Ah… right," she said with a sad smile. "This is the past version of me. The echo trapped here when the child died."
"So the one I spoke to outside…?"
"That was me—free, after centuries. She reached you. Guided you. But here…"
She looked down at her chains.
"Here, I am still bound. Still helpless. Still watching it happen."
I felt my throat tighten.
"And you remember all of this?"
"Spirits don't forget," she said softly. "Especially not failure."
"Then you know why I'm here."
She nodded slowly.
"You're here to help the child, aren't you?"
"I am."
"Then you must find the well." She looked toward the mist. "The child still lingers there—trapped in the moment before silence. Crying not for rescue… but because no one ever came."
The spirit paused, as if listening to something in the wind.
"Be careful, Ezekiel. This place remembers sorrow more vividly than joy. It will test you—not through monsters, but through memories."
"What happens if I fail?"
"Then you'll become like me," she whispered.
"Stuck?"
"No… worse."
She looked at me then—truly looked, as if through every layer of skin, name, and soul.
"You'll begin to understand the child. Too well. And the line between who you were and who you could become… will blur."
The crying grew louder in the distance.
I turned toward it.
"Then I better get to him before that happens."
The cries guided me like a thread.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
Then—gone.
My surroundings began to… flicker. Like broken frames of a video, skipping between moments I didn't belong to.
A field. A stone wall. The trees reversing.
"Where are you?" I shouted. "Come on—just show me!"
A harsh crack of sound echoed.
Then it shifted.
The world snapped back together.
And I was no longer alone.
A crowd had gathered beneath a gallows.
Dust swirled around their boots. Eyes locked forward. Faces grim—yet too satisfied.
I turned to look where they stared.
There, in the center of it all—
A man.
Hanging.
His body swayed gently, like a leaf caught in a breeze. His neck twisted at an impossible angle. Skin pale, lips purpled.
Below him, a woman screamed. Or maybe it was sobbing. Or both. Her hands were torn from clawing at the dirt.
"He got what he deserved!" someone shouted.
The crowd roared in agreement.
"Justice!"
"Justice for the girl!"
"Hang him again if you can!"
Their voices became a blend of celebration and bloodlust, hollow and cruel.
I stumbled back—hand over my mouth.
My knees buckled.
I dropped to the ground, retching from the weight of it. Not the smell, but the feeling.
This wasn't justice.
This was a town bleeding itself clean with a sword far too dull.
"Stop," I whispered, but the crowd didn't hear me.
They weren't real.
They were echoes.
And yet the pain they left behind was still… fresh.
The child had seen this.
Had been born into this.
A memory not forgotten, but carved deep into the bones of this place.
The crying resumed. Softer now.
I wiped my face with a shaking hand and forced myself to stand.
"I'm coming," I muttered, staring through the fading vision.
"I won't leave you here."
The cries began again.
But this time, louder. Closer. Raw.
I pushed forward through the mist. My legs moved, but the ground no longer felt like dirt—more like memory pulling at my ankles.
The world flickered again.
And just like before, it reassembled.
But I was indoors now.
A small, dark shelter. Walls of wood, stained with mold and time. A cradle—empty. A chair—broken.
And in the center…
A woman.
Her hair wild. Her dress torn. Fingers trembling as they clutched at her own skin.
"Stop crying," she muttered. Over and over again. "Please. Please, stop crying."
But there was no child here.
Just the memory of one.
The door burst open.
Townsfolk stormed in—three women, two men. One of them held ropes. Another wept.
"She's not well—she's not well!" someone shouted.
"Tie her arms—gently, damn you!"
"Where is the child?"
The woman screamed as they held her down, her voice breaking like glass.
She begged, cursed, cried.
"He wouldn't stop crying," she wailed. "I didn't ask for this—I didn't—I didn't—"
A slap echoed across the room.
Someone pulled a shawl over her face. Another whispered a prayer.
And I watched, paralyzed.
One moment she was alive.
The next—
Hanging from a rafter.
A rope. A stool kicked away. Her eyes wide in frozen terror.
No one moved to stop her.
No one caught her.
Not even the spirit.
…Who was now beside me.
Bound by glowing chains.
Her face blank—expressionless—until she turned slightly toward me.
"I couldn't do anything," she whispered. "I saw it all… and I couldn't stop it."
Her voice cracked—something impossible for a being like her.
"She was just a girl. Not a mother. Not ready. And no one helped her. Not even me."
The light dimmed around us. The rope creaked in the silence.
I felt my hands tremble.
"Why show me this?" I asked.
The spirit didn't answer. She just looked back up at the girl—the broken mother, suspended in stillness.
"Because this," she finally said, "is the weight the child still carries."
I took a grip of myself.
My hands were shaking. My chest still tight. But I forced my legs to move.
I wouldn't turn back. Not now.
The mist parted as I pressed on.
And then—I saw it.
The well.
Lonely. Cracked. Standing in the middle of a field that felt like it hadn't seen warmth in centuries.
I took a single step closer.
And then—
The world cracked again.
A jarring pull.
Light and shadow distorted.
My body stayed still, but the world around me shifted like glass being shattered and reassembled.
Now I stood near the well—but not alone.
Soldiers.
Five of them, dressed in blackened armor, some pieces rusted, others stained. They laughed like drunk men, though their faces were cruel.
One held a bundle.
Small. Wrapped in cloth. Crying.
My breath caught in my throat.
"Bet he won't even scream," one of them said.
"Throw it, let's see if the spirit we pissed off comes back," said another, chuckling.
"Filthy brat's cursed anyway," spat the third.
I tried to scream—to run forward—to do anything.
But I couldn't move.
My body was frozen.
A silent witness to the unchangeable past.
The soldier raised the baby above the well, the others jeering.
"Catch, you ghost-loving whoreson," he shouted as he tossed the child into the dark.
No hesitation. No mercy. No shame.
Just laughter.
The kind of laughter that turns the stomach.
The sound of impact didn't echo.
There was no scream.
Just silence.
And then… crying.
Not from the well—but from within me.
I collapsed to my knees.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
I pressed my palms into the ground, whispering something—anything—to push back the rage crawling up my spine.
"I'm sorry," I said, not knowing who I was saying it to. "I'm sorry."
The vision faded. The soldiers disappeared. The mist returned.
But the well remained.
And now—I wasn't alone.
A small figure stood near it.
Bare feet. Tattered cloth.
No face. Just a presence.
A child—glowing faintly, like the dying end of a candle's wick.
Waiting.
The child stood near the well.
Small. Silent. Wrapped in flickering pale light.
Not crying anymore. Not moving either.
Just… waiting.
I approached slowly, careful not to disturb whatever fragile thread still tethered him to this place.
When I reached him, I didn't kneel right away. I sat. Quietly. On the cold earth beside the well.
"I've seen what happened to you," I whispered. "All of it."
The child's glow dimmed slightly—like a breath held too long.
"You weren't supposed to be here. Not like this. Not as some ghost trapped in someone else's mistakes."
I looked at him—no face, no voice, just the shape of a soul too young to carry the weight it bore.
"It's not a sin to be born."
My voice cracked.
"You didn't ask for any of this. You didn't choose your parents. You didn't choose this town. This war. That well…"
The mist swirled faintly around us as I lowered my head.
"You should've had a name. A hand to hold. A life to grow into."
I clenched my fist against my knee.
"Instead, you grew here. Alone. In the dead's world. In sorrow. That's not right."
The child moved—just slightly—closer.
"Your parents never named you," I whispered, my voice gentler now. "So maybe I can. Maybe if I give you one… you'll finally feel like you were loved."
I didn't know where the words came from.
They just came.
I looked at the child.
"I'll call you…"
I paused, letting my heart speak for me.
"…Eliel."
The light around the child flickered.
Then steadied.
Then glowed.
A warm light. Brighter than before. Not blinding—just enough to feel like the sun was rising somewhere far away.
The child stepped forward and rested a tiny hand in mine.
Cold. But light.
And in that moment—I knew he was ready.
Eliel faded like the last star before dawn.
A small flower bloomed where he had stood. Soft blue.
Its petals curled inward like a cradle.
I sat there for a moment longer, hand still open, breath slow.
"You gave him more than peace," came a voice behind me.
I turned.
The spirit stood there—no longer bound.
The chains were gone. Her presence felt whole. Not powerful, not radiant—but still. Settled.
"You gave him something I never could," she said. "A name. That's more than remembrance… that's love."
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "No one should leave the world without being called by name."
The spirit walked beside me. This time, she left no trail of light—only footprints.
"There are many more like him," she said. "Not just here. But across this world. Children of war. Forgotten souls. Pain that doesn't fade."
I nodded slowly. "Then I'll remember this."
"That's enough," she said.
"Come, Ezekiel. Let's go home."