THE NAME IN THE LIGHT
It happened the next morning.
The sky was cloudless. The house quiet. Daniel had stepped outside to take a call on the back terrace, the glass doors closed behind him. Velma sat on the sofa, half-listening to the clinking of dishes in the kitchen and the faint hum of birds outside.
She hadn't mentioned the bench.
Not yet.
But the image of it lived at the center of her thoughts — blackened, cracked, warm — like a word waiting to be spoken.
She had just poured herself a cup of tea when the bell rang.
Once.
Clear. Crisp. Not urgent, but intentional.
Mrs. Williams passed her in the hall. "I'll get it," she said.
Velma stayed seated, distracted — until she heard Mrs. Williams' voice in the foyer.
Then silence.
Then: "Sir… I wasn't expecting—"
A low voice cut her off. Calm. Male. Unfamiliar.
"Is Daniel in?"
There was a pause.
Mrs. Williams lowered her voice, but Velma heard the weight in it. "He's not expecting visitors."
The man responded with something soft. A single word. She didn't catch it — but she felt it in her spine, like a sudden cold gust in a still room.
Then came a second voice: Daniel's.
"It's alright, Mrs. Williams. Let him in."
Velma turned in her seat.
Daniel was standing at the top of the staircase. Calm. Barefoot. Wearing a loose white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. But something in his posture was alert.
Mrs. Williams stepped aside.
The man entered.
He was tall. Taller than Daniel. Dressed in a sleek black suit, no tie. Clean-shaven. Skin pale, eyes gray. Not cold — just unreadable. Like fog in the shape of a man.
He looked at Daniel, and then…
He smiled.
"Azrah'el," he said.
Velma felt her body freeze.
The tea cup in her hand trembled slightly.
She looked to Daniel — and saw his entire body still.
Not visibly afraid.
But unmoving.
As if that name had touched something inside him that words alone could not reach.
The man continued walking forward, his eyes never leaving Daniel's face. "You don't remember me, do you?"
Daniel didn't answer.
He came down the steps slowly.
"I remember you," the man added. "I always will. Even if they scrubbed your mind clean. Even if they put you in this… pleasant little cage."
Velma stood now.
She wasn't sure why. Maybe instinct. Maybe something deeper. But her eyes stayed locked on Daniel.
"What do you want?" Daniel said finally, voice low, careful.
"I came to remind you," the man replied. "Of who you are. Of what you were. And of what's coming."
Velma stepped closer now, the air suddenly colder.
Daniel took one slow breath. "You've made a mistake."
The man chuckled softly. "You may not know the name. But your blood does. Ask her."
He turned to Velma.
Their eyes met.
And in that second, she knew he wasn't like anyone she had ever seen before. His gaze wasn't cruel, but it wasn't normal. He looked at her the way a historian looks at a monument — with fascination, but distance.
"You've felt it, haven't you?" the man asked her. "The cracking. The shifting. The wrongness under the surface."
Velma didn't answer.
Daniel stepped in front of her slightly. "That's enough."
The man tilted his head.
Then took one step back.
"Very well," he said quietly. "I've said what I came to say. I won't push. Not yet."
He turned back toward the door, his steps unhurried.
But just before exiting, he looked once more over his shoulder.
"Azrah'el," he said again. "When the fire wakes… don't say you weren't warned."
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The silence afterward was deafening.
---
Velma didn't speak right away.
Daniel stood still, staring at the door long after the stranger had gone.
She touched his arm gently.
"Daniel."
He turned.
His face was pale. His jaw clenched. But his eyes…
His eyes were afraid.
Not of the stranger.
Of himself.
She whispered, "What does that name mean?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he stepped back, rubbing a hand over his face.
"I don't know," he muttered. "I swear… I don't remember. But when he said it—" He cut off.
"What?"
Daniel looked up.
"It felt like mine."