The silence of the town was suffocating.
Nima's boots echoed through the empty streets as she and Dmitri moved deeper into the heart of the place. The air was thick with an oppressive stillness, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the skeletal trees. The town, so perfectly preserved, felt wrong. A place that had never been touched by time, by life, or by death.
No birds called overhead. No animals scurried in the shadows. There was only the faintest hum in the air, like the quiet pulse of something far larger than this forsaken town.
The Song.
Nima couldn't shake the feeling that it was close. In her chest. In her mind. It thrummed like a heartbeat, distant and yet undeniably present. The Bell's call, deep and resonant, hung in the air, drawing her toward whatever lay at the end of the road.
But there was something else, something darker gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. The town's perfection—the absence of life—felt like a trap, a cage of flawless illusion.
She looked over at Dmitri, his face pale, his eyes wide, as though he were being drawn deeper into the town's strange pull. He had not spoken since they left the church. The look in his eyes was distant, lost. As though whatever had been left of him before had already begun to wither.
"Nima," Dmitri's voice broke the silence, hoarse, cracked. "Do you hear it?"
She stopped, her gaze sweeping over the street. The windows of the houses remained dark, their glass untouched by time. The door to the nearest home stood ajar, as though waiting for someone to enter, but the interior was completely still, no signs of life or movement.
"Hear what?" she asked, her voice soft but firm. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know.
"The Bell," Dmitri said, turning to face her. His eyes were wide with fear, but there was something else there too—something like resignation. "It's calling us."
Nima's heart tightened. She had felt it, of course. The Song, the Bell—it was all one and the same. But Dmitri's words made it feel… more real. More immediate.
"We can't ignore it," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "The Song is waiting. It's calling us to the end."
Nima looked at him, her grip tightening on her naginata. She didn't know what was waiting for them, what the end meant, but she knew she couldn't turn back. Not now. Not when they were so close.
"We keep moving," she said, her voice steady. "We have to find out what's at the center of all this. What the Bell wants from us."
Dmitri nodded slowly, as though resigned to whatever fate awaited them. They continued down the street, the silence hanging heavier than before.
As they neared the center of the town, the buildings began to thin out, leaving behind an empty space that stretched into an open square. At the far end of the square, an imposing structure loomed—a tall, narrow tower, its silhouette dark against the pale sky.
The Bell.
Nima knew without a doubt that it was the source of everything. The tolling had come from there. The Song had originated there. And whatever awaited them, it was there too.
The tower stood alone, tall and unmoving, its door wide open, as though inviting them in. But there was something wrong about it, something that made her skin crawl.
"Are you sure we should go in?" Dmitri asked, his voice trembling.
Nima didn't answer immediately. She just stared at the tower, her hand still tight around her naginata. She could feel the pull of the Bell, stronger now, as if the tower itself was alive, calling to her, beckoning her toward it.
The wind picked up again, swirling through the square, and with it came the faintest sound—a whisper.
A voice, soft and sweet, like a lullaby.
"Come."
Nima shuddered. The voice was familiar, yet foreign. It made her heart race, a cold sweat rising on the back of her neck.
"Let's go," she said finally, her voice low. "We've come this far. We have to finish it."
They crossed the square, the air growing colder with each step. The door to the tower stood open before them, its dark interior beckoning them in.
They stepped inside.
The tower was vast, its walls stretching upward into darkness. The floor beneath their feet was made of cold stone, slick with moss and age. The air was damp, filled with the scent of mildew and decay. And in the center of the room—there it was.
The Bell.
It was massive, larger than anything Nima had ever seen, its black metal surface reflecting the dim light. Chains of bone wrapped around its frame, the links rattling as if something within was stirring. The Bell was suspended by these chains, hanging motionless in the center of the tower, its surface smooth and cold.
But it wasn't the Bell that held Nima's attention. It was the figure standing beside it.
A woman.
She was tall, draped in flowing robes of tattered black, her face obscured by a veil. Her presence was commanding, yet distant, as though she were not quite of this world. She stood motionless, staring at the Bell as if waiting for it to speak.
Dmitri stopped a few steps behind Nima, his voice barely a whisper. "Who is she?"
"I don't know," Nima replied, her heart pounding in her chest. The woman's presence sent a chill through her bones, but there was something strangely familiar about her too. Something about the way she stood beside the Bell, waiting.
The woman turned slowly, as though sensing their arrival. Her eyes, pale as moonlight, locked onto Nima's.
"You've come," she said, her voice soft, almost like the ringing of a bell itself.
Nima's breath caught in her throat. "Who are you?"
The woman didn't answer right away. She simply watched them, her gaze unfathomable. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached out and touched the Bell. The chains rattled louder, and the Bell began to vibrate, a deep hum filling the room.
Nima's pulse quickened. The Song was here. It was real.
The woman stepped back, her eyes never leaving Nima. "You've come to hear the Song. To answer the Bell."
Nima swallowed hard, her hand tightening on her naginata. "What do you want from us?"
The woman's lips curled into a faint smile. "It's not what I want. It's what you want. You've been called, haven't you? Called to listen. Called to remember."
Nima's mind raced, the weight of the words settling over her like a shroud. Remember. She had forgotten something, something important, but she couldn't place it.
"You are the answer," the woman continued. "The Bell calls, and you will answer. You've already begun."
Nima shook her head. "I don't understand."
The woman's gaze softened. "The Song doesn't need to be understood. It needs to be heard. And when you hear it… when you truly hear it… you will know what to do."
Nima stepped closer to the Bell, the pull stronger than ever. She could feel it now, deep within her chest, like her heart was beating in time with its tolling. She closed her eyes, letting the vibrations fill her, and then, as if by instinct, she reached out and touched the Bell's surface.
The sound that followed was deafening.
The Bell rang.
And for the first time, Nima understood.
She understood the Song.
It was not just a call. It was a binding, a thread woven through everything—through time, through space, through the very fabric of reality. It was the heartbeat of the world, the pulse of the dead, the promise of the end.
The Song was eternal.
And it had found her.