William dreamed of voices.
Not shouting.
Not screaming.
But the soft murmur of home.
His mother humming as she worked.
His father's footsteps crossing the kitchen floor.
The gentle creak of the cottage settling into itself.
In his dream, the sounds began to thin.
Like mist in sunlight.
One by one, they faded.
Until only silence remained.
He woke with a sharp breath.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it before he understood it, a strange tension in the air, as though the night itself were holding its breath.
Then came the crash.
Wood splintered.
Glass shattered.
A scream cut through the darkness.
William sat bolt upright.
"Mum?" he whispered.
No answer.
Another scream followed, closer this time, raw with terror.
His bedroom door flew open.
Thomas Thatcher filled the doorway, half-dressed, hair disheveled, eyes wide and alert.
"William," he said urgently. "Up. Now."
Smoke curled into the room behind him.
The air smelled of burning oil and pitch.
William's stomach dropped.
"What's happening?" he asked.
"No time," Thomas replied. "Put on your cloak."
Eliza was already in the corridor, clutching a small cloth bundle to her chest. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear.
"They've come," she whispered. "From the square."
"Preaching," Thomas replied grimly. "Shouting about sin and judgment."
William's hands shook as he pulled on his cloak.
"Why?" he asked.
His mother knelt before him and took his face gently between her hands.
"Some people are afraid," she said softly. "And when people are afraid, they sometimes believe cruel things."
"Did we do something wrong?" William asked.
"No," she answered immediately. "Never think that. Not for a moment."
Thomas rested a hand on William's shoulder.
"We're going to the fields," he said. "Just for tonight."
William nodded.
He did not understand.
But he trusted them.
They stepped outside.
And Willowbrook was burning.
Flames leapt from rooftop to rooftop like living creatures. Sparks whirled through the air. Smoke rolled through the narrow lanes in choking waves. The sky glowed red and orange, as though dawn had arrived hours too early and gone mad.
People ran past them screaming.
Some carried children.
Some carried bundles.
Some carried nothing at all.
Men in dark cloaks moved through the chaos, shouting verses and accusations.
"For God!" they cried.
"Cleanse the valley!"
William flinched at every shout.
It sounded wrong.
Hollow.
Broken.
Thomas scanned the streets with grim clarity.
He recognized faces.
Men who had once bought grain from him.
Who had laughed with him at market.
Who had accepted his help during the famine.
Now their eyes burned with borrowed certainty.
"They said this land was cursed," Eliza whispered as they ran. "Because our crops grew while others failed."
Thomas clenched his jaw.
"So now success is a crime," he muttered.
They hurried through narrow alleys.
Past burning homes.
Past neighbors pleading for mercy.
Past bodies already lying still.
William's stomach twisted.
He tried not to look.
He failed.
Heat pressed against his skin.
Ash stung his eyes.
His lungs burned.
A house collapsed nearby with a thunderous crack.
Someone screamed beneath it.
William stumbled.
Thomas caught him.
"Don't stop," he said firmly.
They reached the garden fence.
For one fragile moment, hope flared.
Then a man stepped into their path.
He was tall and gaunt, his skin streaked with soot. A crude holy symbol was painted across his chest. His eyes were wild, fever-bright.
Thomas recognized him.
A former merchant.
Ruined by debt.
Saved by the preacher's promises.
"You," the man snarled. "You prospered while God punished the rest."
"We shared our grain," Thomas said desperately. "You know we did."
"Not enough," the man replied.
He raised his torch.
"Please," Eliza said quietly. "We have a child."
The man hesitated.
Only for a moment.
Then fear won.
The torch fell.
Fire erupted.
Pain tore through the night.
Eliza cried out.
Thomas shouted.
William reached for them—
And was thrown backward.
He struck the ground hard.
The world spun.
"Run!" Thomas roared. "William, run!"
"I won't leave you!" William sobbed.
"Live!" Eliza screamed. "Live for us!"
Something inside him broke.
He ran.
Through smoke.
Through flame.
Through wheat and darkness.
Behind him, Willowbrook burned.
The sky screamed red.
The earth shook.
He fled until his legs failed and collapsed beneath a fallen tree.
He curled into himself.
Shaking.
Whispering their names.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually, silence came.
Only crackling ruins remained.
Ash drifted like poisoned snow.
William lay unmoving.
Empty.
At dawn, he returned.
Slowly.
Terrified.
The village was gone.
Charred beams.
Blackened stone.
No birds.
No voices.
No life.
He searched.
Calling.
Begging.
Praying.
He found them near the fence.
Together.
Still holding hands.
As though still protecting him.
His knees buckled.
No sound came.
He stayed there until neighbors led him away.
Wrapped him in blankets.
Pressed food into his hands.
Spoke words he could not hear.
That night, lying beneath borrowed blankets in a stranger's home, William stared at the ceiling.
He did not sleep.
He did not dream.
Inside him, something old and frightened began to stir.
Waiting.