Whisper of Silence

Dusk falls over Aldenvik like a funeral veil. The clouds gather above our village in threatening masses, swallowing the dying sun's rays. In their depths, swirls of gray and purple twist into shapes that make my eyes hurt if I look too long.

I pull my cloak tighter, though the evening isn't particularly cold. Claire and I are walking back from the meadow when movement catches my eye - Gondo's massive figure slipping between shadows, moving strangely.

"Claire, at Gondo," I whisper, grabbing her arm. "He's acting weird."

She follows my gaze. "What do you mean? He's just walking."

"No, look how he keeps checking behind him. Come on!" I pull her behind old Henrik's woodpile before she can protest, watching as Gondo takes the long path behind the houses instead of the main road. Claire shrugs, but I can tell she's curious too.

"Maybe we could..." I take a step forward.

"Julie, it's getting late," Claire hesitates. "Mom will kill me if I'm not home for dinner."

"Just for a minute? Please?"

"Julie, wait—" Claire whispers, but curiosity has already won over her hesitation.

Instead of taking the main road, Gondo glances around before ducking behind the tanner's shed. I creep forward, Claire reluctantly following.

"We shouldn't..." she starts, but I press a finger to my lips.

We follow at a distance as Gondo takes an odd route - down the narrow gap between the baker's house and the candlemaker's, through old Weber's vegetable garden, doubling back past the empty marketplace. Each time we almost lose him, his massive figure reappears, moving with surprising stealth.

"Julie, it's getting late," Claire whispers as we crouch behind a rain barrel.

I pull her down lower as Gondo suddenly stops, looking over his shoulder. We hold our breath until he moves on, heading toward the forest's edge. The shadows there are too thick, too deep, and he vanishes like a ghost into the gloom.

"Okay, that was weird," Claire admits as we head back. "But maybe he just wanted some privacy?"

"In his own village? Taking those weird paths?"

The walk back is filled with our whispered theories - maybe he's planning something for the harvest festival, or hiding a gift for someone, or checking the village boundaries, or sneaking off to meet Widow Helga (Claire's suggestion makes us both giggle uncontrollably), or collecting secret ingredients for his metal work. But watching him sneak around like a thief in his own village... something about it keeps nagging at me.

The sun is setting properly now as we pass the herb garden. Ursa is there, gathering plants in the dying light.

"Ursa!" Claire calls out cheerfully. "What are you picking?"

She looks up with a warm smile. "Oh, my dears! Would you mind helping an old baba with her herbs? These eyes aren't what they used to be at my age."

Claire immediately kneels beside her. I follow more slowly, watching how carefully Ursa sorts through the plants.

"These are for sleeping draughts," Claire says knowledgeably, picking up some lavender. "Right, Ursa?"

"Clever girl! And these..." Ursa holds up some dark leaves.

"For fever?" Claire guesses.

They chat about herbs while I help gather, the familiar scents of rosemary and thyme mixing with something sharper, more pungent. Something about the air feels strange tonight - heavy, like before a storm but different.

"We saw Gondo earlier," Claire mentions casually. "Acting very mysterious, sneaking around behind the houses—"

Ursa's hands freeze for just a moment. "Time for you both to head home," she interrupts, her voice suddenly brisk. "It's getting dark."

"But we're helping—" Claire starts.

"Now, children. Your parents will worry."

The abruptness of her dismissal makes my stomach twist. "Please, Ursa, is something wrong? You seem—"

"I said go home." Her voice stays gentle but leaves no room for argument. "Some nights it's better to be inside early."

As we walk away, I can't shake the feeling that something's very wrong. "Did you see how quickly she changed when you mentioned Gondo?"

"Oh, don't start," Claire sighs. "Though..." she grins mischievously, "I suppose he definitely wasn't sneaking off to visit her!"

"I'm serious! First Gondo acting like a thief, then Ursa practically chases us away just when you mentioned him—"

"Stop it!" Claire's patience finally snaps. "Not everything is some big mystery!"

"But you saw how they were acting!"

"No, I saw normal people doing normal things. You're the one making it weird!"

"Claire, please, just listen—"

"No, you listen! I'm not saying Finn is right, but you're really acting stupid today!" She gives me a sudden push that makes me stumble backward. "I'm going home. Come find me when you're done being crazy!"

She storms off toward her house, leaving me alone in the growing darkness. I bite my lip, watching as Ursa hurries down the path, her basket clutched tight against her chest. The herbs she was so carefully gathering are now crushed and messy, some falling behind her as she walks. I know I should go home, but...

My feet move before I can stop myself. I follow Ursa at a distance, ducking behind Mrs. Hedda's rain barrel, then old Lars's woodpile. She's heading straight for Sven's house. To see better, I have to wade through that disgusting puddle by the fence - the one that never seems to dry up. The mud soaks through my stockings and the hem of my dress, but I don't care.

From behind the elder bush, I can see into Sven's front room through a gap in the shutters. A sickly green glow makes my stomach turn. Another light flashes upstairs, this one a deep blue that pulses like a heartbeat. The wind rises, carrying whispers that make my teeth ache - words I shouldn't understand but do, each one settling in my mind like frost on glass.

I press closer to the rough wood of the house, feeling the splinters catch at my dress. The whispers start again, but this time something is different. Instead of the usual incomprehensible murmurs that have haunted my dreams, individual words begin to crystallize in my mind, sharp and clear as icicles.

My hands tremble against the weathered boards as I make out the first words: "Child of the veil..." The voice is neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It speaks in a language that should be foreign, yet I understand it as naturally as breathing.

"The pact must be honored..." Another voice joins the first, then another, until they weave together like a tapestry of darkness. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn't help - the words are inside my head now, as clear as my own thoughts.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I realize I'm not just hearing random whispers anymore. These are conversations - ancient, terrible conversations about promises made in shadow and prices yet to be paid. They speak of a statue that bleeds, of doors that should never be opened, of a child who can bridge two worlds.

They're talking about me.

My legs give out and I slide down the rough wall, not caring about the splinters anymore. What terrifies me isn't just that I can understand them now - it's the hungry anticipation in their voices, the way they seem to reach for me through the veil between worlds. They've been waiting for this moment, waiting for me to finally hear them clearly.

And now that I can, I know with bone-deep certainty that everything is about to change.