Chapter 3:
Whispers of the Forgotten
The bell's chime faded, swallowed by the valley's unnatural stillness. Adrian's pulse quickened. He had expected to hear movement—people responding to the call—but nothing followed. No footsteps, no murmurs of conversation.
Just silence.
He moved forward, step by careful step. The village was closer than it should have been, its structures looming ahead as though the valley itself had shifted to meet him.
The houses were old, yet well-kept—wooden beams darkened with age, stone foundations unyielding against time. It was as if they belonged to another era, yet bore no signs of decay.
His fingers brushed the rough wood of a doorway. The texture was real, solid. This was no illusion.
Then, from behind him—
"You are late."
Adrian spun around.
A figure stood in the village square, barely ten feet away.
An old man, draped in a robe that blended with the earth, his face hidden beneath a deep hood. He did not move, but Adrian felt his presence as if the very air around him had bent to accommodate it.
Adrian swallowed, his throat dry. "I—I don't understand."
The old man tilted his head slightly. "Few do."
A gust of wind stirred the dust between them, and Adrian realized something chilling.
There were no footprints.
The old man had simply appeared.
Adrian took an involuntary step back. "Where… am I?"
The old man's voice was calm, patient. "A place beyond forgetting."
Adrian's breath hitched.
He had studied myths, legends, the concept of lost civilizations—but standing here, facing something so inexplicable, his knowledge was useless.
The man gestured towards the village. "Come. You have questions."
Adrian hesitated.
Then, as if drawn by an unseen force, he followed.
Each step felt heavier, like he was sinking into something unseen.
Something ancient.
Something that had been waiting for him.
And as he crossed into the heart of the village, the whispers began.
Not from the man.
Not from the houses.
From the very air itself.