"Are you comfortable in there?"
Through the fog, a voice tore like a blade that had lost its edge—except, rather than worn by time, that sharpness had been intentionally taken away. As though it wasn't needed at all. The voice sounded omniscient, compelling all who heard it to listen.
The lid of the coffin slid off effortlessly, revealing an axe in mid-swing, aimed directly at him. But nothing moved. Nothing.
Time was frozen.
"You can come out now, little light."
His body obeyed, though against his will. He shuffled against the velvet lining, sitting up, facing the axe head-on.
If time were to resume, the axe would cleave through him, splitting his skull open and spilling his blood, creating a spray that would truly make it his deathbed.
Beyond the axe, the ghostly lady remained suspended in time.
"You looked so restless in there," the voice cracked, layered with sorrow, winding in and out like threads of grief, "a sleeping soul should rest in peace and comfort. Such a shame."
Fear swirled in Saluim's chest, but before it could settle, it was swept away, replaced by something far warmer—a flicker of hope.
He could hear the voice from everywhere, woven into the very fibers of existence.
He could even hear the hymn. Its rhythm sung softly, deliberately, so it wouldn't outgrow the reverent voice.
Then, he saw it.
A figure stood by the rim of the coffin. It was powerful. Imposing. Otherworldly. The fog around it crawled upward, thickening, until it felt as though it could solidify. Beyond it, nothing was visible.
The strange fog was worn like a humble, loosely fitting tunic, a cape draped over its shoulders, melting into the surroundings, becoming one with the environment.
It was a man. His skin, darker than the night, adorned with tiny details—his face, his muscles—etched with the eternal twilight that resided beneath his skin. It reminded him of the midnight car his family had driven around in.
In that moment, Saluim realized that he, too, had been suspended in time. He could not breathe, smell, or hear. He couldn't speak. He could only bear witness, controlled by the voice's command.
"To think there were still fragments of hope all the way out here."
The figure moved, slipping beyond the edge of his vision. Only the slow swaying of its fog-cape and the strands of hair, caught in the wind, marked its presence.
"Are you an outcast by chance?"
Saluim wanted to answer. But he couldn't. The question wasn't for him. The voice didn't demand his response. The figure was speaking to the world, disappointed, perhaps, by fate's betrayal of the youth.
Although Saluim couldn't see it, he could feel it—the shift in the air. The dark being was staring off where the absent sun should have been, lost in thought. A moment passed, then the voice returned.
"You shouldn't be here, boy."
Again, sorrow seeped through, thick and tangible.
"You're too fickle to fight."
With each word, the voice began to sound more like a father—one who had watched too many of his sons swallowed by the dark.
"Or maybe I've lost touch with reality."
The all-knowing voice faltered, torn within itself.
"My mind... my thoughts... they're plagued."
A raw sigh followed, laden with pain. As though time itself had finally caught up with him.
"Maybe the smallest fragments of hope are the strongest," he murmured, his voice lightening with this small revelation, "to have held themselves together with such tenacity, all alone."
His voice now, too, sounded like a silent bystander, like it was coming from a perspective similar to Saluims. It was vulnerable and exposed.
"I am one of the observers of this world.
A vexed visage of voyeurism.
The witness of evil.
A god."
The figure returned into view, leaning over the rim of the coffin with a somber gaze on his midnight face.
"My name is—was—Nótt."
The words slammed into Saluim's being, leaving more than just shaken revelations in their wake. They stung—sharp and painful—as if they were carved into his very soul. The sensation ran from his nape, down his spine, into his ribs, up to his scalp, flooding his senses—eyes, ears, nose—until it culminated in his mind.
The god's name had stained him.
"I hope my gift will lead you back to the light."
Now that he had tainted a soul with his name, he was leaving the coffin behind, slowly fading into the distance as he walked away, along the lonely road.
"Stay safe, little light. I'll be watching."
And then he was gone.
The fog hung heavy in the air, motionless, no longer stirring without its master to wear it.
The hymn had finished its final notes.
And there, suspended in time, Saluim remained—frozen before an axe that only reflected the night, and the ghost that had hunted him, taunted him, and now loomed before him in the coffin.
What came next was a blur of red and blue smudges on a black canvas. Something that shouldn't have been possible in any world.
It was an unreality.