There was once a saying, "When a tortured soul pray, God would answer."
The air was damp and cold. Above, the night sky hung heavy and silent, swollen with the promise of rain-yet not a single drop would fall.
The corridor stretched in darkness, unlit by a single lantern. No one was meant to walk here at this hour. Yet through the gloom, a pale figure moved swiftly, his robes brushing soundlessly against the wooden floor. His steps carried no echo, but the urgency in his stride betrayed a hidden haste.
From somewhere ahead, a sound could be heard, drifting slowly through the silence. A frail, wavering hum-soft as breath, fragile as cobweb-threaded between the wooden walls. It clung to the damp air, lingering where it should have faded.
A melody. One he knew too well.
The notes curled around him like cold fingers, carrying a weight he dared not name. The tune was gentle, almost sorrowful, yet beneath its quiet beauty lay something far darker-something that hollowed his chest with dread.
His pace quickened, heart thudding faster with every note, until at last he reached the corner. Slowly, he leaned forward, his pale face catching the faint spill of moonlight.
There.
Bathed in silver radiance stood another figure. He hummed softly to himself, each note drawn out as though he were lost in a trance. The melody wound through the air, unhurried, mournful, and the moonlight made him appear more phantom than flesh.
The watcher held his breath. Fear pressed tight in his chest-yet tangled with it was a sharp anticipation, pulling him closer despite himself.
Then, abruptly, the humming ceased.
The silence that followed was suffocating. The world seemed to pause, every sound, every movement swallowed whole, as if time itself had stilled.
The man in the moonlight turned. Slowly. Deliberately.
The pale figure trembled, waiting, as the silver light slid across the stranger's features.
And at last, the moon revealed his face.