The Voice That Binds the Flood

The village's shadows wept, their whispers a tide swelling through the mist, drowning the silence in a chorus of lost voices—Mara's plea, Toren's shout, Lira's sigh. I knelt in the darkened house, the lantern's flicker fading—or holding—its light glinting off the shattered mirror, Raisa's form wavering beside me, her hand in mine, warm, then cold, then gone. The necklace trembled in my grasp, its heart pendant a weight anchoring me to the 13 years, the lives I'd left behind. The speaker's voice—You can't carry the dead, Lukas—crackled through, rusted and sharp, a blade piercing the haze.

I staggered to my feet, the mist thickening, the shadows surging—or stilling—around me. "Who are you?" I shouted, my voice raw, breaking against the hum, my eyes searching the dark. "What do you want from me—from us?" Raisa's form steadied—or flickered—her green-hazel eyes glinting, her scar a faint thread in the dim light, and she murmured, "Us? It's always been you, Lukas—always you."

The speaker buzzed, its hum swelling—or splitting—a tide of static weaving through the whispers, and it spoke again, low and steady: "Me? I'm the echo you made—the flood you ran from—the key you turned." My chest caved, the 13 flashing—13 years, 13 steps, 13 voices—and I choked, "The key? I locked her—I didn't—I didn't mean—"

Raisa's hand brushed my cheek—or the air—her touch warm, then cold, and she whispered, "Didn't mean? You turned it, Lukas—and the river rose." I flinched, her words a mirror to the speaker's, and said, "The river—I didn't flood it—I left her, not them—" The speaker crackled, sharp, cutting, "Left her? You left the village—the gate—the promise—and the water took what you wouldn't hold."

A memory surged—rain lashing the riverbank, Toren's shout, "Hold the gate!" as I ran, the shed's door slamming, Raisa's screams fading, the water rising, dark and swift, swallowing the village in my wake. "The gate," I murmured, my voice trembling, tears falling into the dust, "I didn't—I was scared—" The speaker's voice rose, steady, unyielding: "Scared? You chose, Lukas—you chose to run, and I was born—the voice of the flood, the echo of the drowned."

I turned to Raisa, her form flickering—or solid—her eyes wide, searching mine, and whispered, "Born? It's—you? The river?" She shook her head, faint, her voice soft, pained, "Not me—not just me. It's them—Mara, Toren, Lira—the village you left behind." The whispers swelled, a chorus crashing—Mara's "You promised," Toren's "You brought the flood," Lira's "You forgot me"—and the speaker hummed, weaving them together, "Them—and you, Lukas. I'm the weight you carry—the guilt you can't shed."

My knees buckled, the necklace slipping, its glint catching the lantern's dying light—or her eyes—and I choked, "Guilt? I'm here—I'll carry them—I'll make it right—" The speaker's voice softened, a sigh through the static, "Right? The dead don't rise, Lukas—the river holds them, as it held her." I shook my head, fierce, tears washing the floor, and said, "She's here—I pulled her out—I won't let her go—"

Raisa's laughter rose, faint, broken, cutting through the hum. "Let me go?" she said, her tone shifting, tender, sharp. "You pulled me—or the river gave me back—but I'm tied to it, Lukas—to them." I gripped her hand—or the air—her touch slipping, and said, "Tied? You're free—I broke the chains—I'll free you from this—" Her eyes darkened, a storm brewing, and she murmured, "Free? Look closer—look at what I am."

I stared, her face clear—too clear—her scar glinting, her hair tangling in the mist, but her shadow stretched, thin and wavering, bleeding into the shadows—Mara's, Toren's, Lira's—merging with the walls, the floor, the air. "No," I choked, my voice breaking, pulling her closer, "you're Raisa—my Raisa—not them—" The speaker crackled, its voice low, piercing, "Your Raisa? She's ours too—the flood's daughter, the village's echo—your key bound her to us."

The room trembled, the mist surging—or stilling—the whispers a tide, and Raisa's form flickered, her eyes meeting mine, alive—or empty. "Bound?" I said, my voice trembling, searching her gaze. "Then I'll unbind you—I'll face you—all of you—" Her smile flickered, tender, real, and she whispered, "Face us? You're braver now—braver than I knew."

The speaker buzzed, sharp, "Braver? He'll drown before he frees you—or us." I stood, my voice rising, steadying, "Drown? I've sunk—I've faced the river—I'll face you too." The mist thickened, the shadows weeping, and Raisa's voice echoed—or the speaker's—"Face me?" as the lantern dimmed, the village trembled, her form fading—or beside me—leaving me trembling, alone—or not—in the flood's rusted hum.