The day I woke up to was unnervingly normal. Too
normal. It was as if the universe had taken great
care to ensure that every minute detail was
perfectly in place. The sun filtered through my
window in measured rays, the air was crisp and still,
and the house was shrouded in an unnatural silence.
My mother moved about the kitchen, her routine
mechanical, her presence muted. No sharp glances,
no words of reproach. Even the usual creaks of the
floorboards under her heels seemed subdued.
Despite the veneer of calm, the oppressive feeling
lingered—the unshakable certainty that I was being
watched. Not by eyes that openly scrutinized, but by
something far more insidious. It was a silent,
pervasive force, observing from every shadow, every
corner, biding its time. At school, the day unfolded
with unsettling precision. No mocking laughter
from the usual bullies, no misplaced accusations.
The corridors felt wider, the classrooms less
suffocating. And yet, the sensation of unseen eyes
weighed on me as heavily as ever. It was in the
middle of this odd tranquility that I met her.
She was unlike anyone I had ever seen. The moment
she entered the classroom, it was as though time itself
paused to take notice. Her long black hair cascaded
down her back in soft, silken waves, catching the pale
light like strands of midnight. Her skin was porcelain,
smooth and untouched by the harshness of the world.
But it was her eyes—those mesmerizing grey eyes—
that struck me most. They were deep and reflective,
like storm clouds on the verge of releasing their fury,
yet they held an uncanny calm, as if she carried
secrets that no one else could fathom. It wasn't in my
nature to dwell on such thoughts. I had long since
resigned myself to solitude, a lone wolf by necessity
rather than choice. Trust was a luxury I could not
afford. But as she moved, there was an ethereal grace
about her, a quiet confidence that seemed to defy the
reality of this cruel, indifferent world. She wasn't just
new; she felt otherworldly, as though she didn't belong
here at all. When her gaze met mine, my breath
caught. I could feel the heat rise to my face as I quickly
looked away, but not before she gave me a small,
almost imperceptible smile. It wasn't mocking or
insincere. It was warm, genuine—a stark contrast to
everything I had come to expect. I found myself,
against all odds, smiling back.
Class began, and the lesson was on religion.
The teacher spoke with an unusual fervor, his
voice resonating through the room. "Life," he
began, "is a test of endurance, a trial of the soul.
God, in His infinite wisdom, challenges His
creation not to break them, but to see them rise
above their trials. To see if they are worthy.
Remember, my children: do not speak evil, do
not see evil, do not hear evil. Keep moving
forward, for only through perseverance will you
find peace. Those who endure will be rewarded."
His words, simple yet profound, settled over me
like a balm. For a brief moment, I felt as though
the weight I carried was lessened, that perhaps
all of this—the judgment, the isolation, the
relentless gaze—was part of a grander test.
Maybe, just maybe, I could endure it. After class,
I kept to myself, walking through the courtyard
with measured steps. But then, as fate would
have it, I bumped into her. Literally. The girl
from earlier. "Sorry!" I blurted, bracing for the
inevitable insult. But she only smiled. "It's okay.
No harm done."
Her voice was soft, almost melodic. I stood there,
dumbfounded, my mind racing to process the sheer
abnormality of the encounter. She was kind. And
beautiful. Too beautiful. "You're Adam, right?" she
asked, tilting her head slightly. "Y-yeah," I stammered,
my words caught in my throat. "And you…?" "Sarah,"
she replied, her smile widening. "Nice to meet you." We
spoke for longer than I thought possible. Every word
she spoke felt deliberate, carrying a weight that made
me hang on to each syllable. She asked about my life,
my thoughts, my world. I was hesitant, guarded at first,
but her presence was disarming. Despite my
nervousness, I found myself opening up in ways I
hadn't with anyone else. Before we parted ways, she
said, "Let's meet again soon, okay?" I nodded, too
stunned to do anything else. As I watched her walk
away, the feeling was surreal. For once, the world had
shown me kindness. But as I headed home, the familiar
dread returned with a vengeance. The eyes. The
watchers. The path through the woods was my only
route home. By day, it was serene; by night, it was a
corridor of shadows. Tonight, it felt alive. Every rustle
of leaves, every creak of branches was amplified. And
then, I felt it: a presence. It was not human. I could
sense it lurking just beyond my sight, a shadow within
shadows.
A whisper drifted through the air, low and
guttural. It spoke a name, one I couldn't recognize,
yet it sent a shiver down my spine. I quickened my
pace, my heart pounding, but the whispering grew
louder, more insistent. I dared not look back. When
I finally reached the threshold of my home, I
collapsed against the door, gasping for breath. The
oppressive feeling had not left. Even within the
supposed safety of my house, I knew—I was still
being watched. And I wasn't alone. That night,
after the monotony of another school day, I sat at
my desk, forcing myself through the drudgery of
homework. Equations and words blurred together,
their meanings lost amidst the ever-present
sensation of unseen eyes boring into me. I finished
the last sentence, my pen scrawling in haste as if I
could outrun the weight pressing down on me. I
closed my notebook and, for the first time in what
felt like days, allowed my head to rest against the
pillow. Sleep came reluctantly, like a reluctant
guest to a foreboding feast. But even in sleep, I
found no solace. The eyes followed me there, as
they always did, lurking in the periphery of my
subconscious.
In my dream, I found myself in a vast, empty expanse.
Two figures stood before me, illuminated by a pale,
unnatural light. One was human—frail and unremarkable.
The other was anything but. The second figure radiated an
otherworldly majesty, towering over the first. It was not
merely beautiful; it was divine, a being of transcendent
light and boundless grace. Its form was vaguely humanoid,
yet its presence was overwhelming, filling the void with an
aura of infinite sorrow and restrained power. The human
knelt before the godlike figure, extending a hand as if in
supplication—or perhaps something more. There was a
strange intimacy in their posture, a silent plea unspoken.
The divine being hesitated, its glowing eyes dimming as if
caught in an agonizing decision. And then, darkness. When
the scene returned, everything had changed. The human
now stood over the godlike figure, chains in hand, binding
the being of light in cold, unyielding metal. The radiant
figure had dimmed, its light flickering like a dying star.
The human held the chains tightly, its expression twisted
with a cruel satisfaction, while the once-majestic being
knelt in submission, its shoulders slumped in defeat. The
godlike figure lifted its gaze, its sorrowful eyes locking
onto mine. It whispered a name—soft, indistinct, yet
imbued with a weight that felt like the collapse of entire
worlds. The name resonated through me, a name I did not
know yet felt deep within my soul. And then I woke.
I bolted upright, gasping for air, my heart hammering
against my ribs. The dream clung to me like a shroud, the
whispered name echoing in my ears. I sat in silence, trying to
piece together its meaning, but no clarity came. Instead, I was
greeted by the mundane sounds of the waking world.
Downstairs, I heard my mother bustling about, her
movements hurried. I descended the staircase, finding her
surrounded by bags and suitcases. The sight of them set my
nerves on edge. "What's going on?" I asked, though I already
dreaded the answer. "We're moving," she said flatly, not
looking up from her task. "Why?" My voice cracked with
frustration. "Why now?" She sighed, her hands pausing for
just a moment. "I need a better job, Adam. A better place. This
isn't working." I wanted to argue, to tell her this place was
fine, that we didn't need to uproot everything again. But I
knew better. My mother was a force of nature, and when she
made a decision, it was final. I clenched my fists, my mind
racing. Sarah. I had just met her. The one person who didn't
make me feel like I was suffocating under the weight of this
world's judgment. I could already see her face, the
disappointment in her eyes when she realized I was gone.
Here we go again, Adam was forced to do wrong again so he
can be blamed, a bond severed before it could even begin. I
cursed my existence, the unyielding current of life that
seemed bent on forcing me into situations where I could only
fail. But then I remembered the words of my teacher "God
tests His creation, not to break them, but to see them rise."
With a heavy heart, I nodded. "Fine."
We packed, and soon enough, we were gone. The new place
felt no different. The streets, the faces, the walls—they all
stared back at me. The watchers followed. Years passed, each
one blending into the next, and yet that oppressive presence
never left. Now, I am in my twenties, a student of history.
University offered a temporary reprieve, a sanctuary where I
could lose myself in the study of ancient civilizations, long
forgotten gods, and the intricate web of belief systems that
shaped human existence. There was a strange comfort in it,
understanding how the world once was, how people sought
meaning in forces beyond their comprehension. But even as
I immersed myself in the past, the present refused to let go.
One night, weary from hours of reading, I decided to wash
my face and prepare for bed. Standing before the bathroom
mirror, I stared into my reflection, hoping to find some
semblance of peace in the ritual. And that's when I saw it.
Behind me, just for a moment—a shadow. The same shadow I
had seen in the woods all those years ago. It loomed,
featureless and yet unmistakably alive. My breath caught,
and I spun around, my heart pounding in my chest. But
there was nothing there. Just the empty room. I turned back
to the mirror, my reflection pale and shaken. "It's nothing," I
whispered to myself, forcing a shaky laugh. "Just fatigue."
But deep down, I knew better. I could still feel its presence,
lingering just beyond the veil of sight. I returned to my
room, trying to shake the unease. I lay down, but sleep did
not come easily. And when it did, the dream returned.
The divine figure stood alone this time, its light dimmed
but not extinguished. It reached out to me, its eyes filled
with a sorrow so profound it felt like the weight of eternity
pressing down on my soul. Once more, it whispered that
name—soft, mournful, pleading, and then, darkness.