Morning came slow, wrapped in mist.
It clung to the rooftops like forgotten breath, curling between chimney cracks and broken shutters. Dustwall didn't usually get fog like this. Not thick enough to hide whole doorways. Not cold enough to numb your knuckles through cloth.
It felt... unnatural.
Like the city was holding its breath.
Like something was walking through it—and Dustwall didn't want to be seen.
Father stayed home that morning.
Not from sickness. From instinct.
"Too quiet," he muttered, rubbing his calloused hands together over the hearth. "Even the birds are hiding."
Mother stirred the pot without comment. But she set out dried herbs she only used when someone passed away.
Elna glanced at the window every few minutes.
Even Fenn, restless and wild, kept still.
We all felt it.
The hush.
The waiting.
I slipped out before midday.
Wrapped myself in a shawl, took a bit of bread, and said I was going to fetch water.
No one stopped me.
No one really moved.
The streets were empty.
The mist had teeth now—nipping at my arms and curling around my ankles.
But the silence...
That was worse.
It wasn't dead.
It was listening.
I went to the river.
To the stone beneath the current.
The one with the eye and the hand.
But the river was gone.
Not dry.
Just... missing.
Still water. No flow.
Like it had forgotten how to move.
I stepped closer, my boots sinking in the mud.
And then I saw them.
Footprints.
Dozens of them.
Bare feet, small. Children-sized.
Leading into the river.
But not out.
I crouched. Touched one.
It was warm.
The whisper came again.
This time not in my ear.
In my head.
"The veil thins. The name stirs."
A pulse ran through my skull—like someone plucked a string in the center of my brain.
I stood. Stumbled. Looked toward the west.
Where the carved hand had pointed.
Where the footprints vanished.
I didn't return home.
I followed the prints.
Through alleyways and narrow paths where the mist clung thicker.
Past the tanner's shop.
Past the prayer-stone covered in old soot.
To the Old Quarry.
No one used it now. The stone dried up. Cursed, they said.
But the footprints led there.
So I did too.
The quarry yawned like a broken jaw—its mouth jagged, filled with black earth and cold silence.
And there, in the center, stood a girl.
Thin. Barefoot. Dressed in rags.
Eyes missing.
Not blind. Gone.
The same girl from my dreams.
She didn't move when I approached.
Didn't speak.
But the fog swirled around her like it was afraid to touch her.
I took a step closer.
She raised her hand.
And pointed behind me.
I turned.
A man stood at the edge of the quarry.
Tall.
Draped in a patchwork cloak made of graying cloth.
His face was wrapped in bandages.
No mouth.
Just smooth skin where lips should be.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
But I heard his voice.
Not in sound.
In thought.
"You are the last echo."
I couldn't speak.
Couldn't run.
The girl lowered her hand.
The fog began to hum.
And then—
A flash.
The world spun.
Stone cracked beneath me.
A scream—not mine—split the air.
And the girl fell.
Folded like paper.
The man with no mouth vanished with the mist.
When I woke, the sky was clear.
Stars blinked overhead.
The quarry was empty.
No footprints.
No girl.
No man.
Just me, shivering, covered in dust.
And in my lap—
The book.
Open to a new page.
One word burned into it.
"Remember."
I returned home with dirt in my hair and blood on my sleeve.
Mother didn't ask.
Father gave me a long look and nodded once.
Elna pulled me into a hug so tight it hurt.
Fenn was asleep, mumbling about shadows and names.
And the city?
It pretended nothing happened.
As Dustwall always did.
---
But that night, I sat by the fire with the book in my lap.
And in the quiet, something stirred beneath the floorboards.
A scratching.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like something ancient was waking from sleep.