Isaac's scream cut through the clearing like a snapped bone.
It echoed hard and sharp, then dropped into silence.
Ian didn't wait. He turned and ran.
The house loomed ahead, its roof dark with moss, its windows black like waiting eyes. He slipped through the door and made for the hallway, boots thudding against the floorboards. His heart pounded out the seconds. One. Two. Three.
David was already standing.
He had cracked the bedroom door open — not wide, just enough to block the way with his body. His face looked like carved stone. Pale. Lined. Alert.
"What happened?" David asked.
"I—Isaac," Ian said, out of breath. "He hurt his wrist. Bad. I think it's—twisted or sprained or something—he was screaming—"
David didn't move. His eyes studied Ian with a strange calm.
"You're here. And not with him."
Ian blinked. "What?"
"If he's hurt, go help him."
"I just thought—maybe you could—"
"Ian."
David's voice dropped an octave. Not angry. Not loud. Just final.
"You've had enough time with Elias. Let him rest."
He started to close the door.
Ian stepped forward, blocking it with his palm. "Please. Just five minutes."
David didn't budge. Behind him, Ian could see the edge of the bed — covers folded over a narrow shape, unmoving. The light inside was dim, drawn through yellow curtains. Elias's face wasn't visible.
"I'll be quiet," Ian said. "He won't even have to say anything. I just want to sit. Just a little while."
David stared at him.
Then, quietly:
"He doesn't know who you are anymore."
Ian's mouth went dry.
"I've tried," David added. "We've all tried."
Ian lowered his hand. The door slipped forward. One inch. Two.
"He whispers to people who aren't there. Sometimes he laughs in his sleep. Sometimes he just cries." David paused. "He doesn't ask for you."
Ian couldn't answer. His throat had closed up somewhere between hope and shame.
David gave a tired nod. "Go help your friend."
David's hand gripped the door, half-shut. Ian stood stiff in the hallway, clutching the book like a confession he hadn't decided whether to speak aloud.
Then, a voice rasped from inside:
"…Let him in."
David turned.
On the bed, Elias had stirred — his voice thin as moth wings, but clear. His eyes were open. Glassy, but watching.
"I felt it," Elias whispered. "The book. He brought it."
David hesitated, his hand tightening on the knob.
"He shouldn't stay long."
"I won't," Ian said.
David stepped aside. "Ten minutes."
He brushed past Ian on his way out. Not angry — just tired, like a man carrying more than one body's weight. He paused for a moment, as if considering saying something else. But there was nothing between them except polite nods and passing comments. He didn't have the words, and neither did Ian.
So he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Ian stood at the threshold, not moving.
The room was dim. Dust clung to the edges of the light where it filtered through old curtains. A cup sat untouched on the bedside table. The smell of dried sweat and faded antiseptic hung in the air.
Elias was thinner than Ian remembered. Not just sick — shrunk, like the illness had eaten more than flesh. His cheekbones jutted like forgotten architecture beneath his skin. His voice, when it came again, was raw but smiling.
"You gonna stand there like you're waiting for a priest?"
Ian stepped in. "Wasn't sure you were awake."
"I'm never awake. I just swim up sometimes." He gestured vaguely at the stool beside the bed. "Come on. I don't bite. Not anymore."
Ian sat, slow, trying not to creak the wood. He set the book on his lap. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"This is weird," Elias said.
"What?"
"Talking. We've never really done it."
Ian rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah."
"I always thought you didn't like me."
"I didn't dislike you," Ian said quickly. "We just… didn't run in the same circles."
"You mean I was weird."
"You built a secret hideout behind a boarded-up confessional and made people call you 'Archbishop.'"
Elias grinned. "Yeah. I was weird."
They both laughed, but softly, like they were afraid to break the moment.
Elias leaned his head back against the pillow. "Where's Isabelle? She's usually with you and Isaac."
Ian hesitated. "She's with her sister today."
"Oh." Elias closed his eyes for a moment, as if picturing her. "I wanted to see her."
"I'll tell her."
"She probably thinks I'm dead."
"She doesn't," Ian said. "She asks about you."
Elias nodded faintly. "She always did care too much."
The silence returned. But this time, it settled into something deeper — like the kind of hush you get in churches or graveyards.
Ian looked down at the book. "Do you remember where you found it?"
Elias opened his eyes again, slower now. "Some of it."
"David said you're forgetting things."
"I am."
"But you remembered me. And the book."
Elias turned his head, his voice suddenly sharp in a way that made Ian straighten.
"I remember what matters."
A beat passed.
"Sorry," Elias murmured. "That came out—"
"It's fine."
"I just…" Elias stared at the ceiling. "It's like trying to hold smoke. I remember the room. I remember a stone door that didn't open — not until I said something, something I don't remember saying. And then it did. I went down. It was cold. The kind of cold that makes your bones feel hollow."
He blinked.
"I thought it was a test. I thought I was special. That's what the book wanted me to think."
Ian ran a thumb along the edge of the cover. "Did Gaius know?"
Elias shook his head. "That's the worst part. I don't know. I should remember if he was there. But it's like my brain skips over that part. Like it's been edited."
"Redacted."
"Exactly."
They sat in the quiet hum of the room.
"Kids still use the hideout," Ian said eventually. "Every day after school. They play cards, tell stories, sometimes just… sit there."
Elias didn't answer.
"I think they're forgetting it was yours," Ian added. "Feels like they're claiming it now. Like you never built it."
"Good," Elias whispered.
Ian looked up, confused.
"That's what it was for," Elias continued. "It was never about me. I just wanted them to have somewhere that wasn't this place. A little corner that didn't belong to the sermons or the stares or the silence. Just for them."
He smiled, weakly. "Still hurts, though."
Ian nodded. "Yeah."
A ragged cough tore through Elias's body. He curled in on himself, fingers clutching the blanket like it might keep him from slipping entirely away. Ian moved without thinking, reaching out to steady him.
"You okay?"
Elias slowly nodded, catching his breath.
"You're not going to die, are you?"
"Not yet."
"But soon?"
"…Maybe."
Another silence.
Ian looked down at the book again. "Why did it stop calling to you?"
"I don't know. Maybe it got bored. Maybe it already took what it wanted. Or maybe…" Elias trailed off, then met Ian's eyes. "Maybe I started to resist."
Ian felt a chill then, not from the air, but from something deeper — the idea that resistance was even an option.
"You said the cost was a life. Or a soul."
Elias nodded. "I'm not sure which it took from me."
Ian traced the edge of the cover again, the leather feeling unnaturally cool.
"I want to know what it is."
"No, you don't."
"I do."
"I thought I did too." Elias's voice was firmer now. "I thought it would give me power. Or truth. Something important. But it just… unravels you. It doesn't speak in words. It speaks in absence. In things that feel wrong when you look at them too long. Like you're remembering something that didn't happen. Or forgetting something that did."
Ian looked away. "So what do I do?"
Elias sighed. "I don't know. But if it's still calling to you, then it hasn't finished what it started."
"What if I want to finish it first?"
Elias's eyes darkened, but there was something in them — pride, maybe. Or fear.
"Then start looking. The village is full of dead buildings and dying ones. Crawl through basements. Listen through vents. Not everything got torn down. Some of it just sank."
"Into the earth?"
"Into us."
They sat together for a while, neither speaking. The book sat between them like a dormant thing, pretending to be asleep.
Finally, Elias whispered, "Sophia."
Ian blinked. "What?"
"That's the name of the voice I hear sometimes. A woman. In the dark. In my dreams. She calls herself Sophia. She doesn't sound cruel. But she isn't… kind either. She just knows things."
"What kind of things?"
Elias didn't answer. His eyes were already slipping closed again, like a weight was pulling him down.
Ian stood slowly, the stool legs creaking beneath him. He picked the book back up and tucked it into his coat.
At the door, Elias murmured, barely audible:
"Tell Isabelle I'm still here."
Ian paused. "I will."
Then he left — the door clicking shut like the closing of a lid.
The sun hung low behind the treetops, casting long shadows across the crooked path. Isabelle stood at the foot of the Widow's porch.
The house looked cleaner than Isabelle expected.
That was her first thought. The porch steps were worn, but swept. The curtains were yellowed, but pulled neatly across the windows. The kind of place you could almost convince yourself was ordinary, if you didn't look too long.
She stood at the threshold, arms folded, her braid clinging to the back of her neck in the heat.
Alexandra asked for answers.
The Widow knows things.
Just see if she says anything about Elias. He still matters, even if the town's decided to pretend he doesn't.
She reached out to knock.
The door opened before she touched it.
Just a few inches. Slowly. As if it had been waiting for her hand and got tired of waiting.
Isabelle stared at the gap.
A moment later, the Widow stepped into view.
She wore a long, gray skirt and a tucked-in blouse — ironed flat, not a wrinkle in sight. Her posture was upright, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She looked like an actress just before stepping onstage.
Her smile came a second too late.
"Isabelle," she said, as if greeting an old friend she didn't quite remember. "What a lovely surprise."
Isabelle hesitated. "Alexandra asked me to come."
The Widow nodded slowly, her eyes flicking to something behind Isabelle and back again. "Of course she did. Come in, come in. You'll catch cold out there."
It was warm.
Still, Isabelle stepped inside.
The air smelled faintly of cedar and lavender soap. The floorboards beneath her feet didn't creak — not yet — but she could feel the tension in them, like they wanted to.
The door closed gently behind her. She hadn't touched it.
The front hall was dim but clean. The light filtering through the lace curtains made everything look dipped in tea. Isabelle spotted a low shelf filled with porcelain figurines — ballerinas, birds, small angels with hands folded in prayer. Not a speck of dust.
But something about the shelf seemed… too orderly. Like someone had arranged it every day, just in case someone else came.
"This way," the Widow said, gliding ahead.
Isabelle followed. They passed a narrow mirror that warped slightly near the edges. A crooked painting of lilies. A bowl of hard candy no one had taken.
"I heard Elias isn't doing well," Isabelle offered.
The Widow didn't slow her pace. "No. He isn't."
She said it simply. As if she'd already accepted that particular ending.
They entered a small sitting room. The furniture was mismatched but carefully arranged. A teapot rested between two delicate cups — the kind with blue vines curling around the rim. Neither cup had been poured yet.
"Please, sit," the Widow said, gesturing with one hand.
Isabelle sat.
The cushion deflated beneath her like it hadn't been touched in years.
The Widow settled across from her, movements smooth, precise. She poured the tea in silence, the liquid pale and thin. The scent was something faintly herbal, but hard to place — like a memory you couldn't name.
"I don't know him that well," Isabelle admitted after a moment. "Elias, I mean. I've talked to him, but…"
"But not much."
Isabelle nodded. "Alexandra asked me to look for answers, thought maybe you would know something"
The Widow smiled again. "That girl has a strong back and a strong will. A rare combination. She means well."
There was a pause. The teacups steamed between them. The room was still — almost too still.
Then, just at the edge of her vision, Isabelle thought she saw something move.
A flicker. Low to the ground. Quick.
A rat?
She blinked. It was gone.
The Widow didn't seem to notice.
"You keep a very clean house," Isabelle said, uncertain why she said it.
The Widow looked pleased. "I try. It's easier to keep things clean when no one comes to visit."
There was a strange lilt to her voice. Something rehearsed — not unkind, just… practiced.
"I've seen Elias," Isabelle said. "Back in the infirmary. He looked… wrong. Like he wasn't all the way in his body."
The Widow's eyes drifted toward the window. Her smile stayed.
"Some things take more than they give. And some boys are too curious to leave the lock untouched."
"You think it's something he found?"
The Widow turned her gaze back to Isabelle.
"I think there are old rooms in this village. Older than the walls we build around them. And sometimes, they're not as empty as they appear."
Isabelle felt a tightness in her chest.
"What does that mean?"
"It means Elias walked through a door," the Widow said gently. "And he left it open."
Outside, wind rattled a loose shingle.
The teacups sat untouched. The room smelled faintly of wood polish. One of the dolls in the hallway had turned slightly on its string — not visibly, but Isabelle knew it wasn't facing that direction when she'd walked in.
"I'm worried about him," Isabelle said.
"And that makes you brave."
The Widow stood slowly, smoothing her skirt with both hands.
"I'll tell you what I told another boy once: If you want to help, you must be ready to see things others won't. You must be ready to listen to walls. And not all voices speak with tongues."
She walked to the window. Her back was to Isabelle now.
"You have a strong presence," she said. "That's why it came to you."
"What did?"
The Widow didn't answer right away. Just watched something through the glass.
Finally, she turned. Her face was calm again. Polished. Still.
"I hope your friend finds peace. And I hope you do, too."
Isabelle stood. She didn't remember deciding to.
"Thank you," she said, voice quiet.
The Widow inclined her head.
As Isabelle reached the front door, she thought she heard the sound of something scraping across the floor upstairs. Slow. Deliberate. Like a chair being dragged by someone with too-long arms.
She didn't turn around.
The door opened easily when she touched it.
The air outside smelled sharp and new.
She stepped off the porch without looking back.