In utter darkness, with no walls and no ground,
Tharos returned to a corner unseen.
Seated on the floor, his body folded in on itself, he clutched his left eye with a trembling hand— as if trying to extract an old voice buried within it.
Silence.
His breaths were slow,
seeping through his lips like whispers soaked in fear.
He murmured, his voice barely a breath,
as if he feared someone might hear—though he knew no one was here…
except it.
"Vilmer… answer me… what's wrong…"
He waited.
Long moments passed.
No response.
He called again, once, twice, three times.
Each time his voice grew weaker, and his fear deeper,
as if he were sinking into himself and finding nothing to hold onto.
"Vilmer… don't do this to me…"
He whispered at last,
a final plea,
a last request.
But the darkness remained unchanged.
The eye—silent.
Still.
No pulse.
No voice.
Fear gnawed at Tharos' heart bit by bit,
and the darkness around him grew denser,
as if it were breathing… crawling toward him.
Then, suddenly— the scene trembled.
He awoke.
---
He lay there, his face drenched in sweat despite the cold.
Before he could rise or speak,
a heavy hand clamped over his mouth.
He opened his eyes in terror— and met a familiar face: that mysterious man,
his blue eyes glowing in the gloom.
He whispered in a low, sharp voice,
as if each word had been measured not to break the silence:
"Shhhh… don't move… the fire has gone out."
Tharos didn't understand.
The fire?
What fire?
Who? What? Why such fear?
He tried to speak, to ask,
but the hand remained.
Then the man continued, more softly, but more urgently:
"They're here… don't make a sound."
The words stuck in Tharos' throat.
The only light entering the room was a faint thread of moonlight,
sneaking through a broken window,
brushing against the dust in the air…
barely lighting anything.
---
The room was dark.
The air—still.
The walls—silent.
But beyond that silence…
something moved.
Something crept behind the walls,
moved slowly,
its footsteps soft… but many.
As if dozens of feet were crawling outside,
stepping over dampness and debris,
without haste,
without clear sound…
yet unmistakably there— and their presence sent a shiver down the bones.
---
Tharos, barely regaining consciousness,
stared at the masked man before him.
All he could see were those blue eyes— serene on the surface,
yet beneath them, he sensed an ocean of unspoken dread.
The man noticed his gaze,
leaned in slowly, and whispered:
"Don't worry… as long as we stay silent… we'll be fine.
I pray they leave soon."
Then, after a pause, he exhaled—
but even his breath was cautious…
as though air itself could turn into a curse.
He added, barely audible:
"They're sound-sensitive, so—"
He didn't finish.
Something else cut him off.
---
A knock.
Soft.
Rhythmic.
As though a small hand was gently tapping the wood.
The door quivered slightly,
as if someone stood behind it… waiting.
Tharos didn't know what frightened him more:
the possibility of a child behind the door— or something far worse.
The man turned toward the door,
his body frozen.
He whispered, without looking at Tharos:
"Don't answer. Don't move. No matter what."
The knocking continued…
gentle, monotonous, like a quiet pleading against cold wood.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice…
Then silence.
---
The moment held its breath.
Tharos held his.
His gaze locked on the door,
while his heart pounded like silent war drums.
But silence didn't last.
Seconds later,
the knocking returned.
This time— it wasn't soft.
Not a child's.
It was forceful.
Heavy.
As if a man's fist struck the wood slowly, deliberately.
Knock… knock…
Without the door opening,
fear began to seep inward,
gnawing the walls from within.
No one moved.
Not the masked man.
Not Tharos.
Both remained rooted,
as if their bodies had grown into the floor.
---
Outside,
other sounds began to reveal themselves.
Footsteps— dozens, maybe more— passing behind shuttered windows,
brushing against the walls,
sometimes scratching them with something—unclear if a hand… or something else.
They moved slowly,
as if they knew someone inside was breathing…
but couldn't see or hear—unless a mistake was made.
The night pressed heavy on their chests.
They didn't move.
Didn't speak.
As if any sound, any breath,
could summon the end.
The knocks faded…
but the footsteps remained,
coming and going,
as if those things weren't hunting fiercely…
but waiting for an error.
---
Every minute stretched into eternity.
The darkness swelled, breathed, and devoured time mercilessly,
until Tharos felt the night would never end,
that the sun had been forgotten forever.
But he was wrong.
With the first pale thread of light,
the sounds began to retreat, then vanish—
melting into dawn as shadows melt into beams of sunlight.
---
The masked man watched in silence,
eyes locked on the cracks of the windows,
listening, tasting the air,
waiting to see if the footsteps lingered outside.
More minutes passed…
Nothing.
He exhaled slowly,
like releasing a soul trapped between his ribs all night.
He stood,
his steps cautious,
as if the ground were still full of snares.
Approaching the window,
he gently moved aside a torn curtain,
looked out… and stared.
The light was dim.
The air reeked of old dampness.
But the streets beyond the house looked empty—empty as if they had never been inhabited.
He stepped back, then whispered to himself, barely audible:
"…The sun has risen."
---
He turned to Tharos,
who was watching him with weary eyes— eyes that seemed to ask:
Who were they? What happened?
The man stepped closer,
his voice calm, with no hesitation, only quiet inquiry:
"Can you stand now?"
Tharos slowly lifted his head,
looked into those blue eyes,
as if trying to grasp— Is this voice real?
Is this question for me?
Then he shook his head— once to the right, once to the left.
That was all he could do.
It wasn't just refusal.
It was confession—of helplessness.
He tried to feel his legs, to move his toes, to confirm his body still belonged to him… but found nothing.
His body was there— but not his.
He tried to speak, opened his mouth, but the sound that emerged was fractured, barely a whisper.
Not even a word.
Not even his own name.
He wasn't used to speaking to people.
The years in the darkness had taught him to speak only to that being— that eye… Vilmer.
Silence was his language.
Whispered murmurs—his only prayers.
And now— everything was different:
light, a man, a fire, a house, life.
But he had not changed.
And he did not know how to begin.
---
The man studied him for a long moment,
then sat beside him,
as if he understood that what Tharos needed wasn't a command— but time.
He leaned back against the crumbling wall,
gaze drifting to the cracked ceiling,
where gray light slipped through the fractures,
as if the sun itself hesitated to enter.
Then, in a voice meant to soothe still waters:
"Since you cannot speak, when I ask a question… just answer by moving your head. Alright?"
Tharos, still lost in fatigue and confusion, looked at him slowly, then nodded.
A slight motion— but enough.
The man's eyes smiled, even if his mouth remained hidden behind the scarf.
"Good…" he said, leaning slightly closer, his tone careful:
"How did you reach the mountain peak? Did you go there alone?"
Tharos shook his head—no hesitation.
"Hmm… were you with someone? Or… were you taken?"
Another shake—another no.
The man paused,
as though the answers only deepened his concern.
He had expected something—an explanation, even by gesture— but the replies were empty… bitter.
Then he asked:
"Have you been there a long time?"
This time, Tharos hesitated,
then slowly bowed his head.
Yes.
The man's brows rose slightly,
as though something inside him cracked— or became clear.
One last question, whispered softer than before:
"Were you… alone?"
Tharos froze.
His eyes searched the shadows, then closed for a moment.
And then—he turned his head to the right.
No.
Silence broke open between them— a silence that spoke louder than anything before.
The man asked no more.
He simply looked at Tharos for a long moment,
then said quietly:
"…I understand now."