The night the sky bent, Elijah was fifteen.
He remembered the sound first.
Not screaming.
Not thunder.
Whispers.
They crawled across the walls like insects, seeping through cracks that weren't there before.
"Miriam…" he whispered.
His sister stood in the hallway.
Her eyes were open.
Too open.
Black veins pulsed beneath her skin like living ink.
"Elijah," she said gently.
But it wasn't her voice.
The lights flickered.
The air grew heavy.
And something ancient pressed against his chest.
"You were always the weaker one," the voice continued. "Your father knew it."
That broke him.
"I'm not weak," Elijah breathed.
The whispers laughed.
His sister's body lifted from the floor.
And something inside Elijah snapped —
No.
Something aligned.
He didn't know why he said it.
He didn't think.
He just spoke.
"Stand."
The world obeyed.
Gravity froze.
The air shattered like glass.
The presence recoiled.
And for one impossible second—
The sky bent inward.
Light poured through invisible fractures.
Miriam screamed.
Then silence.
She was gone.