The Wall was always there.
From the window of Carlo Vince's bedroom, its pale surface rose like a cliff of stone, swallowing the horizon. It was not the kind of wall that looked built by hands — no brickwork, no seams, only smooth, unbroken stone that stretched so high the top faded into the mist. The city clung to it like ivy, its streets curling toward its base as if the people inside wanted to be close to it, even as they swore they feared what lay beyond.
Carlo's family home sat at the city's farthest edge, where the Wall's shadow reached longest during the afternoon. They had always lived here — his father, his grandfather, and countless heads of the Vince line before them. That was their burden: when the Wall changed, the head of the family must go beyond. Nobody returned.
His father had left when Carlo was nine. There had been no fanfare, no crowd, only a heavy knock on the door in the dead of night and a man in the city guard's gray cloak whispering, It's time. Carlo never saw him again.
Now Carlo was twenty-seven. And lately… the Wall had been whispering.
It was never clear when it started. Maybe a month ago, maybe a year. At night, when the wind dropped, there would be a low hum in the air — faint enough to dismiss as imagination, but steady, like the breathing of something enormous. The first few times Carlo heard it, he turned over in bed and forced himself back to sleep. But the sound was persistent. Waiting.
One morning, Carlo leaned against the balcony railing with a chipped mug of coffee in his hand, staring at the pale immensity. The surface seemed different today. Not changed, exactly… but the light struck it oddly, as if it had shifted texture in the night.
The market bell rang in the distance, snapping him out of his thoughts.
He told himself it was nothing.
But he didn't believe it.
---
The market was already alive by the time Carlo arrived. Colorful tarps flapped overhead, stalls groaned under heaps of fruit and bread, and the air smelled of baked dough, wet stone, and the tang of riverfish. It was the sort of morning that should have felt ordinary — comforting, even.
But people were whispering.
Carlo caught fragments as he passed:
> "…stone isn't the same shade…"
"…heard it rumble last night, swore it shook my windows…"
"…always means something when it starts…"
He slowed at the bread stall, where old Mrs. Ellin kneaded dough with her thick arms dusted in flour. She gave him a smile that crinkled the deep lines on her face.
"Morning, Carlo. You're up early for once."
"Couldn't sleep," he said, nodding toward the loaves. "Two of the rye, please."
As she wrapped the bread, Mrs. Ellin leaned closer, lowering her voice. "You've seen it too, haven't you? The Wall."
Carlo froze. "What about it?"
"Don't play dumb. It's breathing again." She said it with such certainty that for a moment, Carlo thought she might be right. "Your father left when it started breathing last time. You were just a boy. I remember."
Carlo took the bread without answering. The air between them felt heavy.
He turned to go, only to find a city guard watching him from across the square. The man's eyes lingered a second too long before he moved on.
---
That night, the humming grew louder.
Carlo sat on his bed, staring at the Wall through the balcony doors. His heartbeat matched the pulse in the air — slow, deliberate. He thought about knocking on his mother's door down the hall, asking if she heard it too. But she had always avoided speaking about the Wall, even when his father left.
Instead, he whispered to the night, "What do you want from me?"
And though no voice replied, he could have sworn the hum deepened… as if in answer.
---
The following days bled into each other, stitched together by the constant presence of the Wall. No matter where Carlo went, he could feel it — not just looming over the city, but pressing in, like a thought that refused to leave.
He began to notice more eyes on him.
The guards near the Wall's base lingered when he passed. Strangers in the market paused mid-transaction to glance his way. Even his old friend Derren, who worked at the watchtower on the river side of the city, seemed different when Carlo visited.
They sat on the tower steps, watching the current drag silt downstream.
"You've been quiet," Derren said.
"Have I?"
"You have that look. Like your father had before he—" He stopped, jaw tightening. "Before he left."
Carlo kept his gaze on the water. "What was it like? That night?"
"I wasn't there." Derren's voice dropped. "But my father was. Said your father walked right up to the gate like he was meeting an old friend. Didn't even look back."
"The gate's sealed."
"Not for your family."
A chill settled in Carlo's bones. "Why?"
Derren hesitated, then gave a small shake of his head. "Some truths aren't meant to be carried. That's what they say in the guard. Sometimes I think they're right."
---
Later that week, Carlo found himself at the city archives, a dim hall lined with shelves sagging under paper and parchment. The archivist, a thin man named Morel, peered at him over rimless spectacles.
"You're a Vince," Morel said, without being told.
Carlo nodded. "I'm looking for records about the Wall."
The archivist's mouth twitched into something between a smile and a grimace. "There are none worth reading. The oldest scrolls are just… blank. Ink faded beyond recognition."
He lowered his voice. "Sometimes I think it's not the ink that's gone, but the memory. As if the Wall doesn't want to be remembered."
Carlo left the archives with nothing but the echo of those words.
---
That night, the humming became something else — a rhythm, almost like a heartbeat. And when he looked out from his balcony, he saw it: a hairline crack in the Wall's perfect surface, faintly glowing.
The Wall had changed.
And now it was calling.
---
Carlo woke to the sound of knocking.
It was still dark outside, the air heavy with the scent of rain. For a moment, he thought it might be a dream — until the knock came again, deliberate, slow.
He pulled on a coat and opened the door.
A man stood there in the gray cloak of the city guard, hood drawn low. "Carlo Vince," the man said. His voice carried no warmth. "It's time."
Carlo's stomach tightened. He had heard those same words once before, the night his father vanished.
"I'm not—" he began, but the man stepped closer, enough for Carlo to see the faint shimmer of the Wall's glow reflected in his eyes.
"It's your duty. The Wall has changed."
From the hallway behind him, Carlo felt his mother's silent presence. She stood in the shadows, pale and still, her hands clasped. She didn't speak. She didn't try to stop him. That, more than anything, made his heart sink.
They walked through the city in silence. The streets were empty, shutters drawn, as though the entire city knew and chose not to watch.
The closer they came to the Wall, the louder the hum became. It vibrated in his ribs, in his teeth, until every step felt like it moved to its rhythm.
At the base of the Wall stood a massive gate Carlo had never seen open — its surface seamless, without hinges or handles. But tonight, the crack in the Wall's face bled light into its outline.
The guard stepped aside. "From here, you walk alone."
Carlo looked up at the towering stone. It felt… alive. Watching.
He took a breath and stepped forward.
The gate split soundlessly down the middle.
---
I had always thought the Wall was just… stone. Immovable, dead.
Up close, I could feel its warmth. Not the kind you get from sunlight on rock, but something deeper — like the slow pulse of blood through a vein. The glow spilling from the crack was soft, almost inviting.
I glanced back once. The guard was gone. My mother was nowhere in sight. The city was silent, its streets already fading into shadow.
I think part of me wanted to run back, lock the door, pretend I'd never been called. But I knew the truth: there was no going back. Not for my father. Not for any Vince. Not for me.
The hum in the stone swelled as I stepped closer. My fingertips brushed the surface — and it felt… wrong. Not smooth stone, but something yielding, like skin stretched tight over bone. I swallowed hard and pressed forward.
The gate opened wider without a sound. The light spilled over me, warm at first, then cold enough to bite. My breath fogged in the air, though I couldn't see where the mist came from.
Beyond the threshold, the ground was pale and endless, stretching under a sky I didn't recognize. It wasn't barren. It wasn't empty. Something was moving out there, just at the edge of sight.
And it was moving toward me.
---
The air beyond the Wall was heavy, as if it carried weight instead of wind. Each breath felt like inhaling water, thick and cold. My boots sank slightly into the ground — not soil, not stone, but something in between.
The hum I'd heard from the city was stronger here. It wasn't coming from the Wall anymore. It was coming from ahead.
The shape in the distance was still indistinct, but every step brought it into sharper focus. It was tall — impossibly tall — but not because it towered like the Wall. Its height was wrong, as though perspective itself bent around it.
I could feel it looking at me before I could see its face.
I don't know how long I walked. Time didn't behave the same here. The ground stayed pale, the horizon stayed still, but the figure drew closer until I could see the faint shimmer of movement where its edges should be.
It didn't walk. It didn't need to.
It was already here.
---
I stopped. My legs wouldn't move. The hum deepened, slipping into my chest, my bones, my teeth, until it became the only thing I could hear.
And then… it had eyes.
They weren't eyes the way we think of them — they were windows. Looking into them was like looking into the memory of a place I'd never been, but had always known was waiting for me.
The presence tilted its head, as though studying me.
I realized, with a sudden and complete clarity, that it had been watching my family for generations. Waiting for this moment. Waiting for me.
And then it happened.
It saw me.
I saw it.
The hum stopped.
---
Carlo Vince stood in the pale expanse, locked in that mutual gaze.
And then… he was gone.
There was no sound, no flash, no sign of struggle. One moment he was there, the next there was only stillness, as if the space he had occupied had never been filled at all.
The pale ground was undisturbed. The horizon did not shift. The presence remained a moment longer, unmoving, before it too dissolved into the endless sky.
---
In the city, the Wall stood as it always had. Smooth. Silent. Unchanged.
A woman in a modest home near its base prepared her morning tea. She paused for a moment, frowning at the faint hum in the distance, then shook her head.
Somewhere in the market, Mrs. Ellin sold her bread. She smiled at the customers, not noticing the empty space in her memory where a young man's name should have been.
On the river watchtower, Derren scanned the streets without knowing what he was looking for.
Life in the city went on, exactly as it always had.
And the Wall waited.