CHAPTER TWENTY: VEIL-LACED WHISPERS

The fog grew thicker as they traveled east. Trees, once proud and skeletal in winter's breath, now loomed like silent sentinels, their trunks bending subtly as though listening. The wind carried little sound, yet every rustle felt amplified—as though the forest wasn't silent but waiting.

Tony's mind drifted. With each passing hour, it became harder to tell if the sensations were real or dream-born. He caught glimpses in his peripheral vision—figures that weren't there when he turned, flickers in the mist that moved against the breeze. Yet Clara didn't seem to notice.Nor did Lib.

Their guide was in high spirits, whistling tunelessly and rambling about local folklore. "This patch of land—mark it—used to be a burial field. Unmarked, of course. Plague era. Some say the earth here remembers its

sorrow."

Clara shot him a look. "Very comforting, Lib."

He grinned. "I do what I can."

They made camp that evening near a weathered stone wall, half-buried in moss. The fire was reluctant, coughing smoke into the fog. Lib produced a pot and began boiling herbs and roots he claimed had

protective qualities. Clara helped prepare a thin stew.

Tony sat apart, the box resting silently in his lap. He hadn't dared to open it again. But it had started to vibrate faintly in the evenings, like a heartbeat beneath wood and metal.

That night, as the fire crackled low, Tony sat beside Clara under a blanket. "You don't hear it?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head. "Hear what?"

"The melody. At night. It's always just there, like it's being played in another room. And sometimes…

someone speaks."

She watched him carefully. "What do they say?"

Tony's throat tightened. "Not words I recognize. It feels like laughter and weeping at once."

Clara took his hand. "You're not alone in this. We'll find someone who understands. Maybe this 'thin place'

Lib keeps talking about will lead us to answers."

Lib, overhearing, chimed in. "Veil's thin in certain parts. Folklore says things come through more easily.

Spirits, curses, memory echoes. Old things that want to be remembered. You've got the look of someone being remembered at."

Tony shivered.

Sleep came in fragments.

At some point in the night, Tony found himself standing. Not dreaming—standing. On the edge of camp.

The fog pulsed gently. A figure stood just ahead.

Not a person.

Tall. Bright.

Its form shimmered like sunlight through water. Humanoid, yet alien. Its eyes held no pupils—only light. Its presence was calming, despite the strangeness.

Tony stepped forward, whispering, "Help me."

The being cocked its head. It spoke without sound, a ripple of emotion and memory. He wakes. You hold the seal. You are not ready.

Tony reached for it. "Please—what am I supposed to do?"

The being flinched, as though burned by his voice. A low tremor echoed through the air. Something else was coming.

The entity took a step back, glowing dimmer.

Then fled—vanishing into the trees.

Tony collapsed, breath ragged.

When he awoke, it was morning. Clara shook him gently. "Tony? You were sleepwalking. Are you alright?"

He looked at the woods.

"I saw something," he said.

She glanced at Lib, who looked suddenly very sober.

They packed quickly and moved on.

And behind them, unseen by all, the fog thickened again, curling hungrily around the remnants of last night's fire.