The moon hung low over Maplewood that night, half-swallowed by storm clouds. The streets were deserted, the lamps flickering like tired souls. Only the church stood awake — tall, pale, and waiting.
Ezekiel stopped at the edge of the hill, breath heavy, dust caked into his skin. The church bell loomed above him like an accusing eye, silent but watchful.
He hadn't seen this place in seven years. Not since the day the Elders drove him out, their torches blazing brighter than their mercy. Yet standing there, staring at the old oak doors, he felt no fear. Only memory.
He climbed the hill slowly. Each step brought back fragments — the hymns, the confessions, the lies. The scent of burning wax and holy oil. The echo of his own name as it was cursed.
When he reached the door, he didn't knock. He pressed his palm against it, feeling the wood tremble faintly beneath his hand.
That's when he heard it.
A whisper.
Not from the wind.
Not from the trees.
But from beneath the church.
> "Ezekiel…"
He staggered back, heart pounding. The voice was faint, but real — threaded with pain and something older than time.
He knelt, pressing his ear to the ground.
The whisper came again, clearer now, curling through the cracks in the stone.
> "The Cross bleeds… and she still burns…"
Ezekiel's pulse quickened. "Seraphina?" he whispered, eyes wide.
The voice didn't answer directly, but the earth beneath him shuddered — a deep, groaning sound like something trapped for centuries turning in its sleep.
He rose to his feet, scanning the churchyard. The old cemetery lay just beyond the fence, its gravestones leaning like weary sentinels. And in the center of it — a single wooden cross, charred black at the base.
He approached it slowly.
Ash clung to the ground, though no fire had burned there in years.
And as he knelt, he saw something glinting in the dirt — a fragment of silver cloth, frayed but still faintly glowing.
He picked it up, his breath catching.
It was the hem of Seraphina's robe.
> "She's alive," he whispered. "She has to be."
But the whisper beneath the ground grew stronger now, twining through the roots of the cross like a curse.
> "Alive… yes. But bound… beneath… what they call holy."
Ezekiel's eyes snapped toward the church basement. The sealed doors. The forbidden cellar beneath the altar.
He understood then — the sanctum wasn't holy.
It was a prison.
And the voice of the one he loved was calling him from below.