The church bell rang for the first time in years.
It wasn't a summons — it was a warning.
The air was heavy with mist and the scent of burning oil as Father Elias stood before the altar, stripped of his ceremonial robe, clothed only in white linen now stained by ash and candle soot. His eyes, though tired, burned with a kind of fire the Hollow could not touch — conviction.
Before him, Robert and Sheriff Dalton knelt. Both men bore the marks of exhaustion — their faces gaunt, their eyes hollow from sleepless nights. But beneath the weariness, something stronger stirred.
Faith.
Not the kind that begged for miracles — but the kind that refused to die even when God was silent.
Father Elias lifted a brass bowl filled with water that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. He had mixed it with salt, oil, and ashes from the old town cross — the last remnant of the church before the Hollow's rot reached it.
"The body breaks," he whispered, voice trembling. "But the soul… the soul remembers."
He dipped his hand into the bowl and let the droplets fall on Robert's head. The water was warm — almost alive.
"Remember your strength, Robert," the priest said. "You have walked through grief and guilt and still stood. Let that be your light."
Robert bowed his head, clenching his fists, feeling something shift inside him — a warmth spreading through the cold that had rooted in his chest since Will was taken.
Elias turned to the sheriff.
"Dalton," he said softly, "You've seen death. You've carried the weight of every sin in this town, and yet you still protect it. Remember that courage is not the absence of fear — it's faith refusing to break."
The sheriff's jaw tightened. He nodded, a tear rolling down the side of his face that he didn't bother to hide.
Then Elias raised the bowl and walked to the open church doors. The fog swirled outside like a living thing, pressing against the threshold.
The priest lifted the bowl high, whispering in a language older than Latin — the same words he had found scribbled in the margins of the journal left by Mrs. Halloway.
"Let the earth remember the light. Let the air recall the song."
He cast the water outward. It scattered into the mist like sparks, glowing faintly before sinking into the earth.
And for the first time in weeks, the air changed.
The oppressive heaviness thinned. The bleeding vines that clung to the chapel walls began to recede, curling away like smoke. A faint wind carried through the streets — warm, clean, and golden beneath the rising sun.
The people who had survived began to step out of their homes.
Mothers clutching their children.
Old men gripping crosses.
Faces pale and haunted, but eyes open — watching, hoping.
Elias raised his voice so all could hear.
"The Hollow feeds on what we forget!" he shouted. "On our fear, our silence, our surrender. But faith is memory — memory of who we were before it came!"
He turned to the people.
"To those who still believe, even a little — remember that you are not powerless. The darkness cannot steal what you hold within."
One by one, people began to light candles. Some whispered prayers. Others simply stood in silence, faces tilted to the weak morning light.
The church bell rang again. Louder. Steadier.
Elias turned back to Robert and Dalton. "The town remembers now. That's the first step. The second…" His voice trailed off as he looked toward the forest.
The mist was retreating — not fleeing, but watching.
"…is to remind the Hollow that we do not kneel," he finished.
Robert picked up his coat, eyes fixed on the tree line. "Then we take this light into the dark."
The sheriff loaded his rifle, lips pressed into a thin line. "And we don't come back until it's done."
Elias nodded, closing his Bible with trembling hands.
He looked one last time at the town — the flickering lights, the faces turned toward them — and whispered, almost to himself,
"God forgive us… and guide us."
Then the three men stepped into the fog.
The church doors creaked shut behind them, sealing the echoes of prayer inside.