The days that followed the hollow light's first intrusion carried a weight that none could name, though all could feel. It was not simply the weather, though the skies seemed perpetually bruised, heavy with a twilight that lingered even at noon. Nor was it merely the quiet, though laughter had retreated from the tavern, and children no longer played in the square after dusk. It was something more insidious, as if the town itself had been drawn into a slow inhale, lungs expanding, waiting for the release that never came.
Elara moved through her shop like one navigating a dream that had turned sour. Each book she touched seemed fragile, as though ink and paper might dissolve under her hand. Customers still came, but their eyes darted nervously, unwilling to linger in the corners where shadows clung too deeply. When she handed over purchases, her fingers often brushed theirs, and in that brief contact she felt the question they did not dare speak: What is happening to us?
She had no answer.
At night she and Kieran met in the half-light of the drawer, their communion more desperate now, though fewer words passed between them. Sometimes it was enough to watch his hand move across paper, to trace the slope of his letters with her eyes and know he was still there. Other times, the silence between their worlds pressed so thickly that even their breathing seemed tethered, rising and falling as though one chest contained both.
But the comfort frayed quickly. On the fourth evening, when she slid open the drawer, she found not his note but a feather—pale gray, edges burnt as if seared by invisible fire. She held it trembling, knowing instinctively it was no gift he had chosen. When she sent it back, the drawer refused to close, gaping like a wound.
She lit every candle in the shop, sat with her back pressed against the counter, and waited until dawn before the seam relented.
The townsfolk grew restless. Farmers left their fields earlier, abandoning tools rather than walking home in the thinning light. A woman swore she had seen her reflection move out of step in a windowpane; another whispered of her son sleepwalking to the square, standing in the bleached ring until pulled away. The blacksmith hammered fewer nails, each strike slower, as if listening for something between the clangs.
By the week's end, Mayor Halvors called a meeting.
The hall was too small for the crowd, bodies pressed close, the air thick with unwashed wool and unease. Elara stood at the back, her hands buried in her coat, Kieran beside her though she half-wondered if anyone else could see him. Sometimes she felt him too vividly, the warmth of his shoulder against hers; sometimes he was no more than an outline at the corner of her vision, visible only because she wanted him to be.
Halvors cleared his throat, but the sound was thin, lost quickly to murmurs. He raised his voice, attempting a steadiness he did not possess.
"We've all seen the changes," he said. "Heard the stories. Some of you call it light, others a sickness, some… a curse. But we mustn't give in to panic. What matters is how we face it."
Murmurs swelled—agreement, dissent, fear. An old man shouted that the square should be burned. A woman near the front crossed herself repeatedly. Someone whispered Elara and too many eyes flicked toward her, quick and guilty, as though her gaze might sear them for daring.
Her chest tightened. She wanted to vanish into the floorboards.
Kieran leaned close, his voice for her alone. "They know it's tied to you. The breach doesn't stay hidden forever."
"I never asked for this," she whispered back.
"Neither did I," he said, his tone soft but edged. "But choice or not, it's ours now."
At the front, Halvors tried to summon authority. "We'll watch. We'll wait. We'll stand together." Yet even as he spoke, people slipped out, unwilling to linger once the sun began its descent.
Elara stayed rooted long after the hall emptied, the weight of stares clinging to her skin. When she finally turned, she found Kieran studying her—not with blame, but with something heavier. Resolve.
"They'll come to you," he said. "When dusk gathers, they'll look for someone to hold them steady. You can't turn away."
Her laugh was brittle. "I'm no leader. I'm barely keeping myself whole."
But even as she spoke, she knew the truth of his words. The seam had chosen her, or she had chosen it by answering. The distinction no longer mattered.
The next evening, dusk seemed to fall faster, as though someone had tugged a curtain across the sky. Shadows bled long, swallowing the last gold from the horizon. The bleached ring in the square pulsed faintly, visible even through the haze of torchlight.
People gathered without planning, drawn by some shared instinct. They clustered at the edges, unwilling to step too near, their faces pale hollows lit by flame. Elara found herself there too, pulled as though her body obeyed a command separate from will. Kieran was at her side, though again she wondered if anyone else saw him.
The silence grew unbearable.
Then the ground shivered. Not a quake, but a tremor, as though something vast stirred beneath the cobblestones. Candles flickered out, one by one, until only the central torches burned—and even those guttered as a thin wash of pale light spread outward from the ring.
Gasps, prayers, a muffled cry. The light did not scorch this time; it hummed, a vibration in bone and blood, a call that felt almost like music but stripped of melody. It wanted answering.
Elara's hand moved without consent, rising as though to catch it. Kieran gripped her wrist, fierce.
"Not now," he hissed. "Not like this."
But the townsfolk were watching. Some leaned forward, hope flaring desperate in their eyes. Others shrank back, faces hardening with suspicion. Elara felt their gaze pressing into her, branding her as surely as the light.
She drew a slow breath, forced her hand down. The light pulsed once, twice, then withdrew, sinking back into the earth as though satisfied with its test. Darkness reclaimed the square.
The people dispersed quickly, fear and relief tangled into something sour. Elara stood unmoving until the last had gone, her body trembling with the effort of restraint.
Kieran's voice broke the silence. "That was only a beginning."
She nodded, unable to trust her voice.
Above them, the sky deepened into a shade that was neither night nor day. The gathering dusk seemed endless, a veil stretched taut across the world.
And Elara knew, with a certainty that hollowed her chest, that the breach was no longer asking to be noticed. It was demanding.