The Sunday That Waits

The room was small, but the silence was vast.

Mr. Hamlet wasn't alone when I entered. Sintia leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Two others—Vikram, the logistics officer, and Marlin, the internal ethics auditor—stood nearby, flanked by suspicion.

"You're early," Sintia said without looking up.

"Time respects those who disrespect comfort," I replied.

Hamlet gestured to the seat across from him. "Sit. If you're here to demand something, don't waste breath—make your case."

"I need clearance," I said. "Ebonveil. Sunday morning."

Marlin let out an exaggerated sigh. "Right. Because seventeen people dying wasn't dramatic enough. You want to make it eighteen."

I didn't rise to the bait.

"I'm not going to Ebonveil because I'm reckless," I said. "I'm going because I'm ready."

Vikram folded his arms. "Mentally stable people don't walk into maelstroms of biochemical horror on purpose."

"You think I'm unstable?" I asked, meeting his gaze. "You ever seen someone laugh in the face of extinction? That's not madness. That's precision."

Hamlet's fingers drummed against the desk. "You've walked too close to the edge before—and stared too long"

"No," I said. "I've had seen awakenings. And this is one of them."

"You talk like you've seen the end of the book," Marlin snapped.

"I haven't," I replied. "But I've read enough pages to know I'm in it."

Hamlet leaned forward, voice steady. "This isn't theory, Kam. It's a godless stretch of death wrapped in jungle. Nothing comes back from Ebonveil untouched."

"Exactly," I said. "And untouched things don't change the world."

Sintia raised a brow. "So what, you want to be a martyr?"

"No. I want to be a mirror. I'll walk into Ebonveil and show it something it's never seen."

Marlin rolled his eyes. "Which is?"

"A man who knows what he's afraid of… and walks in anyway."

There was a pause. A long one.

Hamlet finally spoke. "And if you're wrong?"

"I won't be."

"Why Sunday?"

I hesitated.

Then: "Because Sunday is when the pattern thins. When boundaries break. When whatever waits inside Ebonveil… listens."

He stared at me like a man staring into a storm and deciding whether it's worth stepping outside.

Then, slowly, he slid the clearance form toward me.

"This doesn't make you a hero."

I signed it. "Good. Heroes die early."

As I stepped out into the corridor, the light above me flickered—an omen I chose not to ignore.

I walked slowly, deliberately. Every footstep was a decision. Every breath was borrowed.

Because permission wasn't what I sought. What I asked for in that room was acknowledgment—that this fight had chosen me long before I chose it.

The fluorescent lights buzzed like tired wasps. The corridor seemed longer than it used to be. Or maybe I was walking further inward—into myself.

They'll say I volunteered.

But the truth is simpler.

I was already bleeding toward it. The signature just gave the wound a name.

The house smelled like rosemary and rust. My sister's little touches were everywhere—half-burned candles, discarded ribbon, a line of potted plants reaching desperately for a sun that rarely arrived.

She didn't hear me at first. The music box whined low in her lap, skipping a note that once belonged to our mother's lullaby.

"Still broken?" I asked.

"Still trying," she said without looking up.

"Like both of us then."

She chuckled faintly. "You've been thinking again. Heavy thoughts."

"Yeah."

"About time?"

"It never stops walking."

She looked up. Her gaze cut through me like a question I wasn't ready to answer. I sat beside her, cross-legged, mirroring her posture like we used to when we were kids pretending we were philosophers.

"You ever notice," I said, "that time doesn't steal like a thief. It trades. It gives us memory, and in exchange, takes presence."

"You talk like it's alive."

"It is," I whispered. "A cruel one. Sometimes kind, but never fair. You can beg it, curse it, ignore it—but it still takes. It's not a god. It's worse. It's a house."

She raised an eyebrow. "A house?"

"A cursed one. Built on the edge of yesterday. You live in it thinking it's shelter… until you realize it collects a tax. One heartbeat at a time. Some rooms hold your best moments. Others, your worst regrets. But the rent always goes up. And you can't move out. Only deeper."

She was quiet for a while.

Then, softly, "That's beautiful. And terrifying."

"Yeah," I said. "Like most truths."

The music box played again—two broken notes, then silence. A hiccup of melody that tried and failed to become a song.

"You know," I continued, "people always think silence is peace. But that's a lie. Silence is a graveyard where unsaid words are buried alive. And those we care for often disappear before they can unearth their truths. So when the silence breaks for us… we must speak, before it swallows us too."

She placed the box aside and leaned her head against my shoulder. I felt her breathe. Not just air—but weight, fatigue, time.

"So speak," she said.

I wanted to tell her everything—about Sunday, about Ebonveil, about the shape of the monster that had whispered to me beneath the bones of dreams.

But I didn't.

Not yet.

Because this wasn't a confession. It was a preparation.

So I only said, "You make the silence worth breaking."

Her breath caught. Just for a second.

"Then speak often," she said.

I touched her hand.

"I'm proud of you," I said.

She blinked. "Why?"

"For surviving the kind of pain most people never learn how to name."

For carrying music inside her even when her body couldn't dance to it.

For being my reason, when I kept pretending I didn't need one.

She didn't answer. Didn't need to. The music box clicked once more, a final note escaping like a secret that had waited years to be heard.

"You'll tell me eventually, won't you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"When?"

"When the silence is heavy enough to crush me if I don't."

We stayed there, just two shadows in a room filled with memories. The clock ticked, and I imagined time smiling—knowing it had stolen another minute from us.

And though I hadn't told her where I was going…

She already knew I wasn't planning to stay.

She didn't ask for more. But her fingers trembled slightly.

"I'll always be here, you know," she said. "Even if you're far away."

He looked at her for a long moment.

"I know.

That's the only reason I can walk into disparity."