I wake to the sound of silence.
A thin beam of light slips through colored glass, painting the room in red and gold. For a moment, I don't know where I am. The air smells of incense and cold stone. My arm throbs, wrapped tightly in white bandages that cling to my skin like a second layer.
I push myself up, the wooden bench creaking beneath me. The place is wide, empty, echoing with a faint hum that could almost be the wind. My eyes adjust slowly, tracing the shapes around me – tall pillars, cracked tiles, and rows of pews lost in shadow.
Then I see it.
At the far end of the hall stands a statue – towering, carved in pale stone.
A goddess.
Her hands rest open, her face calm, eyes downcast as though in mercy or judgment. The colored light touches her features, letting a long shadow fall across the floor. For a heartbeat, I swear she's watching me.
I stand, my boots quiet against the floor. The walls are covered with worn symbols, prayers etched in languages I don't understand. Everything feels… old. Older than the city outside. The kind of old that remembers.
Then I hear it.
A whisper.
At first, I think it's just the wind brushing through the cracks. But the sound grows clearer, crawling behind my ears. Dozens of voices, layered one over another – faint, broken, heavy with something between hate and sorrow.
"He shouldn't have been saved…"
"They burned… all of them…"
"We wait... for your..."
I freeze. The words echo through the empty hall, soft but sharp enough to cut through the stillness. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs. I can't tell if the voices come from the shadows... or from inside my head.
The statue seems closer now. The light behind it trembles.
A chill runs down my spine. I grab the edge of the bench to keep steady, but the wood feels strange – slick with something that isn't there. My wound burns, and I feel a pulse beneath the bandage – slow, deep, wrong.
The whispers swell, rising into a low wail that fills the space around me. My breath catches. The world blurs at the edges – the light twisting, the air thickening – until all I can hear is that endless murmur.
—and then they vanish.
The silence slams back into place, so sudden it hurts. I jolt upright, gasping. My vision swims.
And I see him.
A priest stands beside me, his robes pale, his eyes gentle but unreadable. For a moment, I don't know if he's real. His presence feels too calm after what I just heard.
"You're awake," he says softly. "You can leave, if you wish. You're healed."
I glance down at my arm. The bandages are clean. The pain is gone, only a faint soreness left behind – as if the wound had never been real.
"I can go?" I ask.
He nods.
"Then… what about the payment?"
He tilts his head, surprised. "What?"
"The payment," I repeat. "For the treatment."
He smiles, faintly. "I will never ask money from my patients."
His words feel oddly final, like a prayer or a rule older than him. I nod slowly. "Thank you," I say, though it comes out quiet, uncertain.
As I step toward the door, I look back one last time. The light still glows behind the statue, but the face seems different now – softer, almost human. I blink, and it's stone again.
Outside, the air feels sharp and alive. The morning sun makes the city shimmer, and yet everything looks distant, like a painting seen through glass. I walk toward the inn, my boots tapping softly against the cobblestone.
The dream, or whatever it was, clings to me. The voices, the words. The way the statue almost breathed.
Maybe I should've asked the priest who they worship here. Maybe I should've asked about the statue. But I discard the thought quickly. That kind of thing… it's probably common knowledge. Something I should already know.