The skies above Drevane were painted in a strange stillness. The clouds hung low like cotton soaked in dusk, and the wind seemed to carry whispers through the trees. It wasn't stormy—but something in the air made even the crows quiet.
Axel sat under the wide-barked rainwood tree behind their house, scratching the dirt with a stick. The lines he drew didn't mean anything. He just needed his hands to stay busy.
Maria sat beside him, braiding grass into rings.
"You're doing it too tight," he muttered, watching her work.
Maria didn't look up. "No, you just don't know how to make them."
Axel leaned back against the trunk. "Don't need to. Grass rings don't do anything."
She squinted at him. "They keep bad spirits away. Mama said."
Axel raised an eyebrow. "Did she also say the chapel bell was cursed and evil dreams come from the east wind?"
Maria shrugged, holding the ring up to the light. "Maybe."
Axel wanted to tease her more, but a strange sound crept through the air—gonnnnnng—a low vibration, like a bell from deep underwater.
Both children froze.
Axel stood quickly. "You heard that, right?"
Maria nodded, slowly.
They waited, but it didn't come again.
Later that evening, Ilena brought back a new basket from the weavers' market. It was filled with dried herbs, glowing stones, and little red-wrapped candies that Maria immediately pounced on.
Axel stayed near the hearth, watching the flames. "Mama," he asked, voice quiet, "what's in the chapel?"
Ilena didn't answer right away. She set the basket down gently and began sorting the herbs.
"The chapel is a place of memory," she said. "But also of silence. There are things we leave behind there."
Maria was still unwrapping her candy. Axel turned fully toward their mother. "But… why was it locked? And why don't they ring the bell anymore?"
Ilena paused with a handful of rosemary, then looked at him—serious, but soft. "That bell hasn't rung since before you were born. It's not cursed, Axel. But it does carry something heavy."
"Like what?"
"Grief," she said simply. "And sometimes… grief should be left alone."
Maria's chewing slowed. She looked at Axel, who only stared into the fire again.
That night, Axel couldn't sleep. Again.
He stared at the ceiling, then at the wooden beams that crossed above them like old scars.
Maria was asleep. Her chest rose and fell gently.
But something—something—pressed against his thoughts.
He rose quietly, slipping into his tunic and pulling on his worn boots. The night air bit his skin as he stepped outside, careful not to make the porch creak.
He didn't know why he walked toward the chapel.
It wasn't like he was possessed, or being controlled. It was more like… a pull. Like his feet were moving because they knew something his brain didn't.
The village was asleep. Lanterns flickered faintly in windows. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once and fell quiet again.
The chapel stood on the hill, quiet and pale under the moonlight. Its door was still closed, thick wood and old iron locking it tight.
Axel stepped closer.
There was no sound. Not even the wind.
He raised his hand and touched the handle.
It was ice cold.
And then—behind him—a voice whispered.
"Axel."
He spun around. No one there.
His breath caught. Something moved past the window of the chapel, just a flicker of shadow.
He turned and ran. All the way home.
The next morning, he didn't tell Maria. Or his mother. But he kept glancing at the hill all through breakfast.
"Eat your stew," Ilena reminded him gently.
Maria was drawing shapes in the steam on her bowl.
"Can we go see the dancers again today?" she asked.
Ilena smiled. "Of course. But only after we finish the chores."
Maria groaned.
They spent the afternoon collecting wildroot and cleaning pots. Axel couldn't focus. His eyes always drifted back to the distant chapel, where the sky seemed just a little darker.
That night, Maria had the dream again.
This time, it was worse.
She was standing inside the chapel. The walls were warped, the windows melted. No benches. Just a single chain, hanging from where the bell used to be. It was swinging.
Then the sound came again. That gong—low and deep—shaking the floor.
And behind her, a whisper:
"Help me…"
She turned, but no one was there. Just the altar.
She woke up screaming.
Axel sat up instantly, heart pounding.
"Mama!" he shouted.
Ilena burst in seconds later, wrapping Maria in her arms.
Maria cried against her chest. "It was there. The bell. I heard it."
Ilena didn't speak. She just held her.
Axel watched, a strange pressure growing in his chest.
He wasn't sure if it was fear… or something else.
The next morning, the village was different.
Everyone was quiet. The decorations were still being hung, the dancers still practiced—but the joy had faded.
"Someone went missing last night," Ilena told them over breakfast. "Old Man Terin."
Maria's spoon stopped in her bowl. "Where?"
"They think… near the chapel."
Axel's heart thumped once. Then again.
"Why would anyone go there?" he asked.
Ilena looked away. "Maybe to remember something."
At the festival rehearsal later that day, Axel noticed more adults carrying charms around their necks. Some had ash marks on their wrists—warding symbols. Maria asked what they meant, but no one answered.
Then, as they walked home, Axel spotted something strange.
A crow. Dead.
Its wings were spread, body untouched, like it had simply fallen from the sky.
Maria looked at it too. "That's the third one today."
He didn't ask how she knew.
That night, Axel had his first dream.
He was in the chapel.
The bell was gone.
The altar was open.
And Maria stood in front of it, her eyes glowing faint blue. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.
Then—behind her—a face.
Not quite human. Not quite anything.
Axel woke up gasping.
The final day of the festival was only hours away.
But in the village of Drevane, something had already begun.
Something that would not wait for music or lanterns.
Something that had been locked behind a chapel door for too long.
And now...
It was listening.