The veil was breath.
Soft, feathered breath spun from silver clouds and moon-threaded silk.
It drifted over my head like a vow whispered by something ancient and unseen—something that didn't ask if I agreed.
I stood in the center of a vast space that wasn't just a church. It was something older, deeper—cathedral, palace, tomb, and womb. The air pulsed with a sacred pressure, like I'd wandered into the lungs of a sleeping god.
Above me, the ceiling stretched forever, ribbed in shimmering gold, held aloft by pillars of alabaster that glowed faintly like bone. Unseen choirs sang in languages my ears couldn't catch, but my soul remembered. Candles hung midair, suspended in invisible harmony, their flames flickering without fire, as if lit by memory instead of heat.
The stained glass windows curved like waves frozen in time. They pulsed with color—wine-reds that bled, ocean-blues that swallowed, golds that dripped like honey into eternity. When I looked down, the colors danced across the marble floor, rippling with each beat of my heart. A silent symphony of light and loss.
And my heart—
It was a bell.
A heavy, sacred bell ringing inside my ribs, sounding a call I didn't understand.
I looked down.
My gown shimmered. It wasn't made of fabric—it was spun from fog and starlight, stitched together by whispers. It clung and floated all at once, refusing to obey gravity or shame. Tiny beads lined its bodice, each bead a glinting pearl—and each one throbbed with a memory I couldn't quite name. Some were joyful. Some were not. But they all belonged to me.
I opened my mouth to speak—to ask where I was, or why I felt like I was being watched.
But nothing came.
My voice had been taken. Or maybe I had surrendered it without knowing.
Then—
Something shifted.
Not a sound. Not a movement.
A presence. Like the air itself inhaled.
I raised my eyes.
And saw him.
The groom.
He stood at the far end of the aisle—so distant, yet so present, as if space bent to keep him in focus. He was tall. No—colossal. Looming like a forgotten titan. His black suit shimmered with oil-slick reflections, perfectly tailored, clinging to his broad frame like armor. But it bulged at the stomach, as though his power had grown beyond the limits of vanity.
He was bald, his head gleaming like obsidian in candlelight.
But his face—
There was none.
No eyes to meet.
No mouth to kiss.
No nose, no brows, no flesh—just a smooth, glassy void.
A mannequin mask of nothingness. A faceless king.
I felt my knees weaken.
And in that moment, the cathedral began to come undone.
Not violently. Not with fire or thunder.
But with exquisite, devastating slowness.
The stained glass shattered—not into shards, but into flocks.
Butterflies of dust fluttered upward, disintegrating midair.
The pews softened, sagged, and melted into rippling water that lapped at my feet.
The red carpet twisted, coiled, and peeled like snakeskin shedding itself.
And the music—oh God, the music—
It was clocks.
Thousands of clocks, ticking backwards.
Doors creaked in perfect harmony.
A violin made of screams bowed by silence.
I ran.
Or tried to.
But space twisted against me.
The walls shifted.
The doors betrayed.
Each one I opened led to another aisle—another altar—another version of him, waiting.
Mirrors bloomed along the corridor, each reflecting someone different in my gown.
A version of me that looked older. Angrier. Blood on her train.
Another smiled with teeth too sharp.
One wept black tears that never touched the floor.
I passed roses blooming from cracks in the stone, their petals whispering names—some I recognized, some I didn't. Each one pricked the air with the scent of mourning.
The candles blinked. Not flickered. Blinking. With eyes.
Lidless, golden, watching. Judging.
The altar groaned, low and guttural, and began to laugh.
It was not a joyful laugh.
It was the sound of something that knew the joke was me.
And then—the walls began to speak.
"She's fleeing fate, she breaks the vow,
But the bride is bound, no matter how.
He waits in black, the faceless king,
Return, return, complete the ring."
The ground cracked. Doves—white doves—exploded from my gown. But they flew backward. Into the roof. Vanishing in reverse.
I turned and found a hallway unraveling itself like ribbon.
The wallpaper peeled into petals, falling like silent applause.
The floor was a chessboard, bleeding from its squares.
I followed the sound of my name—
But it was being whispered backwards.
I ran.
And then, somehow—
I escaped.
The cathedral doors opened, creaking like lungs inhaling one last time.
And I stepped out.
Into a sunlight that hurt.
The sky was yellow-bright. Too bright. Blinding.
My gown was torn. My hands were scratched. My hair hung wild around my face.
I had no idea where I was. But it wasn't there.
It wasn't the church. Or the dream. Or whatever it had been.
My breath came in ragged bursts. I touched my chest.
I was real. I was me.
I had survived.
The dream was fading.
But not before it gave me one final gift. One final warning.
The sky darkened—just a little.
Like a bruise blooming on eternity.
The air grew still.
And I heard it.
A low, velvet growl. Purring through silence.
I turned.
The black Lamborghini Aventador waited.
Sleek. Sinister. Still.
Its headlights flickered on—not with light, but hunger.
Twin eyes. Watching. Knowing. Wanting.
It revved once—
A sound like thunder in a velvet coffin.
I froze.
And just as I turned to run—
I collided into someone.
Nila's eyes flew open as her body slammed into something solid.
Someone's arms caught her instinctively.
She staggered—lightheaded, gasping, the corridor spinning like the dream had followed her—but she didn't fall.
Timi stood there, gripping her shoulders, brow furrowed in concern. "Whoa—hey, hey. Easy."
She looked up at him.
But she didn't see him at first.
Her mind was still in the veil.
In the hallways.
In the church that ate itself.
Sweat clung to her forehead. Her hands trembled.
Timi's voice came again, this time quieter. "You okay? You look like you just ran out of a horror movie."
Her lips parted, searching for something coherent.
"I… I think I just had a dream," she whispered.
Timi tilted his head. "During a walk? That's talent."
She tried to laugh. It came out hollow. Her hands shook slightly, and she quickly tucked them into the folds of her uniform. The memory of the faceless groom—his towering silence—still lingered like a bruise across her mind.
The bell rang in the distance. Timi's shoulder brushed hers.
"Come on," he said, gently. "You need air or a Coke or something. You look like you outran a ghost."
Nila swallowed again, the ghost of her dream still pressing at the edges of her thoughts like a whisper she couldn't quite shake. But the corridor was solid beneath her feet, the walls unmoving. No chanting, no vanishing pews, no faceless grooms waiting at the end of reality.
She inhaled through her nose, steadied herself, then glanced sideways at Timi. He looked like he hadn't even broken a sweat, leaning slightly against the railing, one brow lifted in quiet observation. She hated that he always seemed so calm—like the world never got under his skin.
"I'm fine," she said again, firmer this time, smoothing a wrinkle out of her uniform blazer like it would press her back into shape. "Just… a weird moment."
"Yeah," Timi replied casually. "Looked like your soul just did a backflip."
That got a small smile out of her. "It did."
They started walking again, the corridor buzzing faintly with post-bell chatter and the occasional bark of a prefect chasing a latecomer. The classroom was just around the bend.
"So," Nila said after a moment, trying to keep her voice light. "About the trip… Are you going?"
Timi shrugged. "Dunno. Still figuring stuff out."
"Is that… like a 'stuff-stuff' situation? Or a… 'you know…'" She trailed off awkwardly. Words tangled in her mouth. God, why did this feel like negotiating a nuclear treaty?
Timi turned his head slightly, clearly amused. "You're not great at this."
"At what?"
"Offering help without offering help."
"I'm trying to be tactful," she muttered, rubbing her arm.
He slowed his steps, now fully facing her. "Look, I know what you're getting at. And yeah… maybe. Things are tight."
She bit her lip. "Well, if there's anything I can do—logistics-wise, I mean. I'm not trying to play savior."
He stared at her for a beat. "You'd do that? For me?"
Nila met his gaze. "Don't make it weird."
A small smile ghosted over his lips. "Wouldn't dream of it."
They walked in silence a few more steps. It was a different kind of quiet now—warmer. More aware.
When they reached the class door, it was ajar, and the noise inside was low and tense, like a conversation that didn't want to be overheard. Nila stepped in first, and what she saw rooted her to the spot.
Mendel stood by Chiji's desk, leaning in slightly, his tone low and clipped. Chiji, their usually unbothered classmate, looked like he wanted to disappear into his seat. His fingers fiddled with the edge of his notebook while he nodded rapidly—too rapidly. A performance of agreement. A surrender.
Mendel's posture was relaxed, almost lazy. But the air around him carried weight. Like the calm before a monsoon. Like violence wrapped in politeness.
Then Mendel looked up.
His gaze found Timi with a predator's ease.
It wasn't just a look.
It was a statement—quiet, razor-sharp contempt that cut without needing a word. His lips barely moved, but the twist of them spoke volumes. You don't belong. You never did.
Mendel's eyes flicked to Nila, pausing a half-second too long, as if calculating something in her. Then he turned, deliberately slow, and strode past them. His shoulder brushed against Timi's—not enough to cause a scene, but just enough to challenge. To claim space.
And then he was gone.
The classroom seemed to exhale.
Nila blinked, watching the empty doorway as the atmosphere began to settle again, like ripples after a stone had passed through water.
"Wow," she muttered. "He's practically allergic to you."
Timi shrugged. "Can't be liked by everyone."
"No," Nila said, lowering herself into her seat. "But that was… different. That was something else."
As Timi sat beside her, she leaned in slightly, voice just above a whisper. "What's the story there?"
He didn't answer right away. His fingers tapped silently on his desk, his gaze distant. "Let's just say some people don't like it when the script changes."
She frowned. "You've known him before?"
"Something like that."
The teacher finally entered—a tall, thin woman with a voice like a chalkboard dragged across metal—and began writing dates and notes on the board. The usual routine resumed, but Nila could feel the pulse of something larger in the room. Something unfolding.
She glanced once more at the door.
The last bell had rung. Not the polite, pre-dismissal chime—the final, guttural clang that signaled freedom. Classrooms emptied like drained rivers, students spilling out into the hallways in clusters of laughter, shouts, and the sound of bag zippers being yanked with relief. The scent of dust, warm plastic, and cheap cologne floated in the air as the school shed its academic skin and became something looser, louder, alive.
Outside, the sun was stretching low, smearing gold across the sky, catching in the windows of parked cars, and casting long shadows from the trees along the school's walkways. The day was winding down—but for Nila, something still lingered.
She walked beside Timi as they crossed the front steps, the other students fanning out around them. A pair of boys tossed a football across the lawn. Someone blasted music from a speaker. Teachers nodded tired goodbyes.
"So," she said, adjusting the strap of her bag, "we survived another day. Mostly."
Timi glanced sideways, brow raised. "Mostly?"
"I mean, you almost got hexed by Mendel's stare. That counts for something."
Timi gave a dry laugh. "If stares could kill, I'd have been six feet under in JSS1."
Nila smiled. She liked when he let the edges of his sarcasm show. It made the silences in him seem less sharp.
She slowed her pace a little. The warmth of the sun felt good on her skin, the air was cool, and for once, there wasn't a teacher yelling about tucked shirts or undone ties. She hesitated, then turned toward him slightly.
"You meant it earlier, right?" she asked. "About maybe needing help for the trip?"
Timi stopped. "Yeah."
"I can talk to Ms. Busari—discreetly. Or cover something and say it was a scholarship extension or whatever. No one has to know."
He looked at her, eyes unreadable for a second. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Thanks."
She nodded back. "It's settled then."
Then her eyes widened.
"Oh my God—"
"What?"
"The bus!" she shouted. "I'm supposed to take the bus today!"
Timi blinked. "Okay, breathe—"
"No, you don't get it. If I miss it, my mum will literally send a search party and possibly a drone strike. We have guests coming!"
She was already turning, her blazer flapping like a cape. Timi barely had time to react before she grabbed his wrist and yanked.
"Come on!"
They ran.
Down the path past the art block, over the cracked concrete behind the science wing, cutting through the hedge like fugitives. Nila's bag bounced wildly against her hip, her hair coming undone in strands. Timi followed, cursing under his breath as his shoes slipped slightly on a patch of loose gravel.
They burst into the school parking lot like athletes crossing a finish line—chests heaving, lungs clawing for air.
But the bus was gone.
Not just starting its engine. Not just turning a corner.
Gone.
Vanished.
The line of yellow-and-blue buses that had once lined the lot was no more. Just a few cars remained, scattered like forgotten chess pieces. The last driver—a man in a faded cap—was already reversing a Corolla and giving them a bemused wave as he rolled past.
Nila bent over, hands on her knees, gasping. Timi flopped down on the nearest slab of concrete like a man defeated by life.
There was a long silence. Then:
"Well," Nila said between breaths, "at least we ran fast enough to watch it leave."
Timi chuckled, still lying flat. "We should get a medal."
"Or therapy."
She stood upright, brushing hair out of her face, sweat clinging to her collarbone. "You think we can still call someone?"
"I think," Timi said, finally sitting up, "we just discovered what rock bottom feels like."
She let out a groan and plopped down beside him. "I'm dead. My mum is going to kill me. Not just kill—disown, reincarnate me, then kill me again."
"On the bright side," Timi said, "you won't have to worry about the excursion anymore."
She elbowed him.
But she was laughing.
Even as the sun dipped further and the shadows lengthened, there was something oddly comforting about sitting there on the edge of disappointment. Sweaty, breathless, but not alone.