September 22nd,
The sky was quiet. Too quiet. But we were not.
We prayed like soldiers who had seen too much to retreat.
And when heaven answered… it wasn't with thunder.
It was with eyes. Eyes that see.
And what I saw has changed everything.
***
The school chapel was dim, only the soft glow of rechargeable lamps lighting our faces as we knelt — twelve of us, scattered, broken, burning.
Tony led with scripture. Mayumi sang softly, her voice carrying more weight than volume. I knelt in the back, words frozen on my lips, heart pounding. Something in the atmosphere had shifted. Not fear. Not tension. Expectation.
Then I heard it — a whisper.
Not audible. Not external. Internal. Eternal.
"Come up here…"
And suddenly, I was no longer in the room.
It was a vision.
I stood in the middle of campus. But it wasn't the campus I knew.
The buildings loomed like ancient ruins, overgrown with weeds. Statues — I had never seen them before — lined the walkways. Not of men. But of twisted things with wings and horns and hollow eyes.
Chains hung from trees. Crows circled above.
But then, I saw it — a hill in the distance, glowing with a flame that didn't burn. And on that hill, an altar. Untouched. Clean. Waiting.
A voice thundered in my spirit:
"You are not the first to light fire here.
Others came before you — and were silenced.
But this time… the fire will not go out.
Build. Watch. Warn."
I gasped — and I was back.
Face down. Weeping. Shaking. Alive.
After the prayer chain ended, I remained seated, Bible open, unable to shake what I'd seen.
Anita came and sat beside me.
"I saw your face while we prayed," she said. "You weren't here." Anita had began to open up and gradually started joining our prayer meetings.
"I wasn't," I whispered.
For a long time, she said nothing. Then, in a voice barely above a breath, she began to speak.
"I've been having dreams since we resumed," she said. "Dark ones. The same ones, over and over."
"What kind of dreams?" I asked gently.
"A gate. Buried underground. Covered in chains and symbols I don't recognize. And voices — children crying. Sometimes a man chanting. Sometimes… a woman weeping."
She looked away. "Last night, the gate cracked."
My heart clenched. "Cracked?"
She nodded. "And I heard a name. Not clearly. But it sounded like 'Obbiah' or 'Obaya'. I don't know."
"Anita… why didn't you tell me before?"
She shook her head, eyes glassy. "Because part of me feels responsible. Like whatever's happening here… it's looking for me."
***
She spoke. She finally spoke.
And her words confirmed the vision.
We are standing on ancient soil — where something once ruled, and wants to again.
But we have fire. We have unity.
And now… we have names.