The rattle still sat on the pew where the veiled woman had stood. Its faint jingle lingered in the air long after Daniel's trembling hands refused to touch it.
He stared at it for what felt like hours—his breath shallow, his pulse a relentless drum in his ears.
The sunlight, fractured through the stained-glass window, painted the church floor in red and gold. But in Daniel's eyes, everything looked gray.
Colorless. Dead.
> "It's not real," he whispered.
"It's not real."
His voice sounded small in the hollow cathedral.
But when he turned to leave, a soft sound broke the silence—a baby's cry.
Daniel froze.
It came from the altar.
Slow, reluctant steps carried him forward. The cry grew louder—weak, desperate, familiar. His fingers brushed against the edge of the pulpit… and then he saw it.
A cradle.
Old. Wooden.
Rocking on its own.
Inside lay a bundle wrapped in white cloth, faintly stained at the edges.
> "No…" he whispered, his knees nearly giving out.
"No, please…"
The crying stopped. The cradle fell still.
And when he reached down, the bundle was empty.
Just cloth.
And blood.
---
The church doors slammed shut. The wind howled through unseen cracks. Daniel spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs—
and there she was.
The veiled woman.
Standing in the center aisle.
Her voice was soft, like a hymn turned sorrowful.
> "You remember now, don't you?"
Daniel stumbled back. "Who are you?"
She tilted her head, the lace veil swaying as she stepped closer. The faint scent of lilies followed her—a scent that dragged his mind back years.
Rebecca's scent.
> "You made a promise," the woman whispered. "That it wouldn't break you. That love would survive the bargain."
Daniel's throat burned. His chest ached as though a hand had reached in and twisted his heart.
> "Rebecca?"
The woman stopped. For a moment, the world went silent. Then, with trembling hands, she reached up and lifted her veil.
Her face—
was both familiar and impossible.
It was Rebecca… but not as he remembered her. Her eyes held centuries of sorrow. Her lips were pale as frost. And when she smiled, it was with grief, not warmth.
> "I waited by the lake," she said softly. "But you never came back."
Daniel's breath hitched. "Rebecca, I—"
She stepped closer. "You left me to carry the sin alone."
Tears blurred his vision. "No, I didn't! I suffered too—"
> "Then why did you hide it?"
Her words struck like thunder.
And suddenly, she was gone.
The veil drifted to the floor where she stood.
The air went still.
The church fell silent again—except for the faint echo of a baby's cry fading into nothingness.
---
Daniel fell to his knees. The rattle rolled from the pew, stopping by his hand. He gripped it tightly, shaking, whispering her name.
> "Rebecca…"
But only the shadows answered.