I didn't sleep again.
Not really.
The silence of this world seeps into you, crawls down your throat, fills the spaces where thoughts should be. Every time I close my eyes, I feel it pressing against my skull — like the air itself is listening, waiting for me to break the rule I don't understand.
By morning — or whatever passes for it here — the marks on the hut's wall are still there. Charred black. The shape of my hand etched like a scar. When I touch it, the wood feels warm, almost breathing.
I pull my hand back.
Something deep inside me stirs again, that same tremor from before. It feels alive, like something coiled beneath my ribs, waiting for permission to wake. I tell myself it's fear. That's what I want it to be. Because if it isn't fear… then what is it?
Outside, the world hasn't moved. The sky's still that endless gray. The trees still bow in their eerie rows. But there's something different now — a rhythm, faint and uneven, like footsteps carried through fog.
I step out of the hut.
The air hums softly. The silence isn't empty anymore. It's aware.
The village lies across the valley, motionless. But as I start walking toward it, I notice the smoke — darker this time, curling above rooftops. Not chimney smoke. Fire.
My chest tightens. I walk faster.
By the time I reach the edge of the village, the streets are deserted. Doors hang open, swinging slightly without sound. A wooden cart lies overturned, its wheels spinning lazily. The well is cracked, the stones glistening with something dark.
And then I see her — the same woman who fled from me yesterday. She's kneeling again, but this time she isn't praying. She's shaking. Her hands are clamped over her mouth.
Behind her stands a figure.
Tall. Cloaked in ash-colored cloth. No face — just a smooth surface where features should be, like someone erased it from existence. In its hand, it holds a shard of white glass. The air around it bends, muffled.
It turns its head toward me.
I freeze. The silence grows heavier, pressing on my lungs, my bones, my thoughts. Every instinct screams to run, but my legs won't move.
The figure tilts its head — curious, almost human. Then it raises the glass shard, and the woman's body collapses soundlessly. No blood. No scream. Just gone.
Something snaps inside me.
All the buried anger, all the humiliation, all the years of watching others crush me because I couldn't fight back — it rises like a tide. My vision burns white. My pulse roars. The silence shatters.
For a heartbeat, the world moves.
Wind whips through the valley. The gray sky ripples. The faceless thing recoils, its smooth head cracking down the center. The shard in its hand turns to dust.
And then… it's gone.
Just like that.
The silence returns, but it's different now. Bruised. Uneven. Like the world itself is breathing harder than before.
I drop to my knees. My hands are shaking again — but not from fear. From heat. A faint black glow flickers beneath my skin, tracing the veins of my forearms like ink spreading through water.
I bite down hard, force myself to breathe. The glow fades, leaving behind the faint smell of burnt iron.
No witnesses. No sound. Just me, kneeling in the ruins of quiet.
I look at the place where the woman had been. There's no body. Not even a shadow. Only the faint imprint of knees in the dirt — proof that someone existed here once.
My stomach twists.
I whisper her name, though I never knew it. The word barely leaves my lips before the air reacts — trembling, warping. The ground beneath me vibrates as if the world resents the sound.
The silence wants to be obeyed.
I stand slowly. My throat feels raw, but not from speaking — from holding everything in.
If this place is a test, it's not about strength. It's about endurance. About how long you can stay quiet while everything inside you screams.
I look toward the forest. The bowed trees are swaying now, one by one, as if nodding toward me. Or warning me.
I don't know where to go. But I can't stay here.
As I walk, I feel that second heartbeat again — the one that isn't mine. The rhythm steady, patient, almost calm. It whispers through me like a promise.
The silence fears something.
And it isn't me.
Not yet.