I had been waiting long before the girl knew loneliness had a name — long before her house stood upon these foundations, long before the church at the end of the road raised its crooked steeple toward a sky that had long since forgotten the prayers whispered beneath it.
Mortals counted time in years. Kings counted it in dynasties. I had forgotten how to count at all.
Centuries did not pass for something like me. They settled, one atop another, silent and endless, like dust gathering upon relics in an abandoned temple.
I waited. That was what the Veil demanded.
It is difficult to explain the Veil to a mortal mind. It is not darkness, nor light — not a place, nor a prison. It is the breath held between two worlds, stretched so thin that even eternity fears to disturb it, sustained only because one realm insists on living while the other refuses to die.
For ages I remained beyond it, listening. Listening to every desperate whisper, every prayer, every curse, every fool who believed a wooden board could command what lurked beneath creation.
Most voices vanished before they reached me. Some were too weak. Some belonged to liars. Others sought power instead of solace. None of them interested me.
Then there was her.
She never called my name. She did not know it. She never recited an ancient incantation or spilled blood upon a circle of salt.
She simply hurt.
It began years ago. Each insult carved another crack through the walls surrounding her heart. Each lonely afternoon widened it. Each tear she swallowed echoed farther than the one before.
Despair has a sound. Mortals cannot hear it. Demons can.
Her sorrow seeped through the Veil like smoke beneath a locked door — thin at first, then impossible to ignore.
Night after night, I listened. I watched. I waited. Not because she summoned me — because sooner or later, someone always opens the door.
Tonight, she did.
The moment her fingertips rested upon the planchette, the Veil trembled. The old magic stirred. A single heartbeat, a single breath — then it tore.
The cold rushed through first. Then silence. Then me.
I stepped into the attic without disturbing the dust, without stirring the shadows. The storm outside continued to rage, yet none of its rain touched me.
I did not appear as I truly was. Mortals never survive that mistake. Instead, I clothed myself in something almost human — tall, broad-shouldered, skin pale enough to rival moonlight, hair black as the emptiness between stars. Two obsidian horns curved back from my brow, polished smooth with age. Robes older than the kingdoms that once worshipped me flowed around my feet like living smoke.
Trust is easier to earn when terror has something beautiful to wear.
The girl looked at me, and the Ouija board slipped from her hands. It struck the wooden floor with a hollow crack. She stumbled backward until the wall caught her, breath quickening, crimson eyes wide.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Fear is fascinating. It changes mortals — hearts racing, pupils widening, every instinct screaming for escape. Yet curiosity always lingers a little longer than wisdom, and she was no different.
I could hear her heartbeat. Fast. Fragile. Alive.
"You called," I said, my voice filling the attic softly, carrying none of the violence it was capable of. "I answered. That is how our kind has always met."
She stared, not speaking, not blinking, only breathing.
Good — she still possessed enough sense to fear me.
"My name," I continued after a moment, "is Nevan."
She swallowed. "Nevan..." She spoke it carefully, as though expecting the syllables to cut her tongue.
Then, despite herself, curiosity outweighed terror.
"That doesn't sound—" she hesitated, "—ancient. Like you."
How delightfully observant.
"You expected thunder?" I asked quietly. "Fire? A name no human mouth could pronounce?"
She said nothing. I took one slow step forward; the floorboards never creaked beneath me.
"The names your kind gives us are conveniences." Another step. "My true name existed before your languages learned their first word." Another. "If I were to speak it—" I watched understanding begin to bloom behind those crimson eyes, "—your mind would not survive hearing it."
She lowered her gaze. At last — wisdom.
I stopped a few feet away, close enough to hear her breathing, far enough that she still believed she could run.
"Tell me," I murmured, "when was the last time someone asked whether you were alright?"
Her eyes lifted. Not with fear — with surprise. Exactly as I expected.
Loneliness opens doors. Kindness keeps them open. And I had waited an eternity to walk through this one.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDvvH9CyKrY
→ Request update
and then Add to home screen.