Story 1138: Choir of the Hollow Ones

They gathered when the moon turned to bone.

Not in song or in scream—but in unison, mouths wide, throats open, eyes empty. The Hollow Ones had no flesh, no voices, no true names. They were vessels, sculpted from ash and bone, each marked by the Spiral carved deep into the place where a face should be.

Their Choir rose beneath the ruins of Greybridge Cathedral.

It was never built to praise the divine—it was always a tuning fork for the forgotten. Every brick vibrated with memory, every shattered stained-glass window a shard of reverence warped.

And on that night, the Choir began to hum.

But no sound came.

Still, the city felt it.

Windows cracked. Teeth ached. Blood wept from stone. The silence was no longer peaceful—it was pressurized, heavy, resonant. As if the absence of sound had grown claws.

Eloen Marr returned, drawn by the pull of the Vault. Her voice was still gone, but the spiral on her tongue glowed now—softly, pulsing like a heartbeat.