The Flood’s Unyielding Tongue

The village trembled, its shadows swaying in the mist, their whispers a tide crashing through the silence—Mara's plea, Toren's shout, Lira's sigh—woven into the speaker's rusted hum. I stood in the darkened house, Raisa's form flickering beside me—or within me—her hand slipping from mine, her green-hazel eyes glinting, alive, then empty. The necklace burned in my pocket, its heart pendant a weight tying me to the 13 years, the flood I'd unleashed. The speaker's voice—He'll drown before he frees you—crackled through, sharp and steady, a thread pulling me under.

I tightened my grip, the air—or her—trembling in my hand, and shouted, "Show yourself! Face me—if you're my guilt, my flood, then face me!" The mist thickened, the whispers swelling—or stilling—a chorus of echoes pressing against my chest. Raisa's voice murmured, faint, soft, "Face it? You're brave, Lukas—braver than the boy who ran." I turned, her form wavering—or steadying—her scar a faint map in the dim light, and said, "I have to be—for you—for them—I won't run now."

The speaker buzzed, its hum splitting—or merging—a tide of static threading through the shadows, and it spoke, low and piercing: "Run? You can't run from me—I'm the river you drowned, the village you broke, the key you turned." My breath hitched, the 13 flashing—13 years, 13 steps, 13 lives—and I stepped forward, my voice rising, raw, "The key? I locked her—I didn't mean the flood—I didn't mean you—"

The air shifted, the mist coiling—or parting—and a shape emerged, faint and rusted, a speaker—not on the wall, but standing, its metal warped, its wires trailing like veins into the floor, pulsing with the whispers. "Didn't mean?" it said, its voice steady, a blade through the haze. "You chose, Lukas—you chose to lock her, to leave them—and I rose from the water you let in." My chest caved, the memory surging—rain, the gate buckling, Toren's shout fading as I fled, the river swallowing all.

"No," I choked, my voice breaking, tears falling into the dust, "I was scared—I panicked—I didn't know—" The speaker crackled, its hum swelling, "Know? You knew the gate—knew the shed—knew her screams—and you ran." Raisa's hand brushed my arm—or the air—her touch warm, then cold, and she whispered, "He's right, Lukas—you ran, and I waited—the village waited—until the water took us."

I turned, her eyes wide, searching mine, and said, "Waited? I'm here—I'll face it—I'll free you—" The speaker's voice cut through, sharp, unyielding, "Free her? She's mine—the flood's daughter, the village's echo—your guilt binds her to me." I shook my head, fierce, stepping closer, the necklace trembling in my hand, "Yours? She's Raisa—my Raisa—I'll unbind her—I'll face you all—"

The speaker hummed, its wires pulsing—or writhing—a tide of whispers swelling—Mara's "You promised," Toren's "You brought the flood," Lira's "You forgot me"—and it murmured, "Face me? Look closer, Lukas—look at what I am." I stared, the metal glinting—or bleeding—its surface shifting, faces forming—Mara's eyes, Toren's stern jaw, Lira's small smile—then melting back, a rusted shell alive with their voices—or mine.

"You're them," I whispered, my voice trembling, stepping back, "the village—the flood—my guilt—" Raisa's voice rose, soft, steady, "And me, Lukas—part of me, tied to them, to it." I turned, her form flickering—or solid—her shadow merging with the speaker's, or breaking free, and I choked, "Part of you? No—I pulled you out—I'll pull you from this—"

The speaker's laughter crackled, low, haunting, "Pull her? She's woven into me—into the flood—into the years you left." I lunged, my hands grasping the metal—or air—its surface cold, then hot, then trembling, and shouted, "Then I'll break you—I'll break the flood—I'll carry her—carry them—" The whispers surged, a tide crashing, and Raisa's voice murmured, "Break it? You're strong now, Lukas—stronger than I knew."

The speaker buzzed, its voice softening—or sharpening—"Strong? He'll shatter before he saves you—or them." I gripped harder, the metal bending—or holding—my voice rising, steadying, "Shatter? I've drowned—I've faced the river—I'll face you—I'll free her—" The room trembled, the mist swirling, the shadows weeping—or laughing—and Raisa's hand gripped mine—or the air—her voice echoing, "Free me?"

The speaker's wires snapped—or pulsed—its form wavering, the faces glinting—Mara, Toren, Lira—then fading, its voice a whisper, "Free her? You'll drown us all." I pulled, the metal groaning—or dissolving—the mist thickening, Raisa's form steadying—or slipping—her eyes meeting mine, alive—or empty—as the village trembled, the flood's hum rising, leaving me trembling, alone—or not—in its unyielding tongue.