Sleep arrived reluctantly that night, weighted with a dread Jabari could not name. His body ached from hours of restless tension, and his mind refused to quiet itself. Every shadow in his room seemed alive, shifting and stretching when he wasn't looking. The faint glow of the stone on his nightstand pulsed like a heartbeat, a rhythm that seemed to echo his own. He stared at it for hours, unable to look away, unable to close his eyes.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged him under, but his rest was no relief. The moment his consciousness slipped away, he found himself somewhere else.
---
The Misty Plain
Jabari walked through a vast plain blanketed in fog. The ground beneath his feet was soft and damp, clinging to his shoes as though the earth itself wanted him to stay. The fog twisted and curled around him like living fingers, drifting over his ankles and climbing his legs. The sky above was a dull gray expanse, neither night nor day, and yet the light felt cold, unnatural.
Figures appeared in the mist — blurred, ghostly, faceless. They drifted past him silently, each whispering fragments of thoughts and regrets.
"…forgive me…"
"…I shouldn't have…"
"…she's gone…"
"…I can't find him…"
The words were fragments, broken and incomplete, yet Jabari felt them as if they were his own thoughts. Their sorrow pressed against his chest, cold and heavy. Every heartbeat felt borrowed, every breath a struggle against some invisible weight.
He tried to step aside, to escape, but the fog shifted to block him, guiding him forward along a narrow path that seemed endless. Panic clawed at him, and he stumbled, his hands scraping the wet ground. His fingers came away sticky and cold.
Then one figure moved differently. Unlike the rest, it walked toward him with purpose. Cloaked in shadows, taller than the others, its presence carried a strange authority. The light around it flickered faintly, fragile like a candle struggling in the wind.
---
The Voice in the Mist
"I have been waiting for you," the figure said, voice echoing both through the plain and within Jabari's mind. It carried a weight, a deliberate intent that made his knees tremble. "You have seen the stone. You have felt it. And now, you must choose."
Jabari's chest tightened. "Choose what?" he whispered, his voice trembling, swallowed by the fog.
"To hold it willingly… or to be claimed by it," the figure replied. "The stone is not yours to ignore. It chooses, and once chosen, it will not release you."
A shiver ran down his spine. His thoughts scattered. He remembered the stone's pulse back in his room, the warmth against his palm, the soft glow like a heartbeat calling to him. Could he trust this voice? Could he trust the stone? He didn't know, and that uncertainty gnawed at him.
"You could learn," the figure continued, "but knowledge has a price. Fear… doubt… temptation… they are all part of what you will face."
Jabari swallowed hard. His hands shook. "I… I don't know if I'm ready."
The figure's cloak shifted in the mist. "No one is ever ready. But choice is yours. Choose, or be chosen. Do you understand?"
The words cut through the fog, sharp and deliberate. Jabari nodded slowly, though he did not feel any braver. The mist seemed to grow thicker, curling around him like a living thing, whispering fragments from the faceless figures:
"…you cannot escape…"
"…we are waiting…"
"…the stone is ours…"
---
The Faces of the Lost
Jabari's attention returned to the other figures. One by one, they came closer. Their faces blurred, watery, impossible to read, but each conveyed a story. A mother sobbing for a child lost to fire. A man wracked with guilt for crimes unspoken. Lovers mourning betrayal. Their whispers filled Jabari's mind, layering one grief atop another, until he could barely breathe.
Every sorrow was tangible, like a cold hand pressing against his chest. He felt their regret, their shame, their pain, as if he had lived their lives alongside them. And yet, among them, the cloaked figure remained different — steady, silent, and somehow untouched by despair.
"You are not like them," the figure said, noticing his hesitation. "You still have a choice. But the longer you linger, the stronger the whispers will become."
A flicker of warmth brushed Jabari's mind. "Do not be afraid," it said, soft and steady, unlike the others. A memory surfaced — a Sunday school lesson from his youth, a line from his mother's worn Bible tucked in the corner at home. Comfort? Perhaps. But the pause was fleeting, swallowed immediately by the fog and the weight of the whispers.
---
The Red-Eyed Figure
Suddenly, a new presence emerged from the mist. Taller, wider, and eyes glowing faintly red, this figure moved differently — aware, predatory. Jabari felt its gaze pierce him. Unlike the faceless crowd, this one seemed to understand him, to understand the stone, to understand the choice looming before him.
"…do not resist… you cannot escape… you will belong…"
Fear coiled in his chest like a snake. Jabari's hands trembled. He wanted to turn and flee, but the fog held him fast. He could feel the pulse of the stone in his mind, syncing with the heartbeat of this vision, as if it were alive, aware, and responding to his fear.
---
Temptation and the Whisperer
"Hold the stone willingly," the cloaked figure said again. "Do not let fear rule you. You can learn. You can see. But only if you choose."
Jabari wanted to resist. He wanted to run. Yet the faint warmth of the whispered phrase — "Do not be afraid" — lingered at the edges of his mind. He clung to it like a lifeline.
"You could have power beyond imagining," the red-eyed figure hissed, creeping closer. "Knowledge, control, freedom from fear. Do you not want it?"
Jabari's mind spun. His own thoughts felt fragmented, unstable. He remembered the words of the cloaked figure, the sense of something beyond this mist, beyond the shadows: a fragile voice of truth, unseen, waiting. "The truth will set you free," it whispered in the back of his mind, faint but persistent.
---
A Glimmer of Courage
He wanted to cry out, to plead for the mist to vanish, but his voice caught. He wanted to touch the stone back in his room, to feel its warmth, to understand it. The fog seemed to sense his resolve and pressed harder, twisting around his legs, tugging him down.
Yet the faint thread of courage persisted. A memory, nearly forgotten, rose: Psalm 27:1, his mother's voice echoing in the recesses of his mind: "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?"
The words offered no immediate comfort. The red-eyed figure loomed, and the whispers of the lost grew deafening. But the memory anchored him, just enough to focus on the cloaked figure, to recognize that he still had choice, however small.
---
The Awakening
And then, suddenly, the mist shattered.
Jabari woke gasping in his own room. The air was thick and heavy with dust and sweat. His heartbeat roared in his ears. The stone lay on his nightstand, pulsing softly, alive, almost expectant.
He reached for it tentatively. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, he felt the warmth and pulse, in sync with the memory of the mist and the whispers. The visions pressed at the edges of his mind like shadows, reminding him of the choice he had not yet made.
And then he heard it again, faint but unmistakable:
"Do not be afraid."
Not entirely from the stone. Somewhere else. Somewhere beyond his room. Somewhere greater. He didn't understand it yet, but the words gave him a small thread of courage — fragile, tentative, but real.
He sat there, frozen, staring at the stone. Every instinct told him to run, to hide, to ignore it. But the glow pulsed in a rhythm he could feel in his chest. The words lingered.
The shadows of the room seemed to stretch, pressing at him from every corner.
A whisper slid into his ear, urgent now:
"Choose, or be chosen."
The stone pulsed violently. The light in his room flickered silver. And somewhere, deep inside, Jabari felt the first hint of a path — terrifying, uncertain, and unavoidable.
He knew, in that instant, that running was no longer an option.