FADED DAWN

what was taken, What Awoke

There was a silence louder than thunder, and it wrapped itself around her like a cloak—tight, suffocating, and strangely familiar. That morning, the old woman who sold prayer beads at the church gates refused to meet her eyes. She only hummed a song that had no lyrics, rocking back and forth, as if cradling a grief too deep for words.

Sefi passed her and felt something slip behind her ribcage. It was not a heart, but something older.

The room where it happened still smelled of burning frankincense. They had called it prayer. They had called it consecration. But it had the texture of performance and the scent of lust.

The man who was meant to guide her, who once spoke of spiritual disciplines and divine protection, had lost his glow. She remembered staring into his eyes that day, trying to find the light she used to see. But it was gone—burnt out, like a candle snuffed by a greedy hand.

He had asked her to trust him. And she had.

But there are touches that don't feel like hands. There are moments when time splinters, and the body remains still, but something inside runs—screaming, clawing, silent. She did not scream. She had learned early that silence was her only power. But she felt herself slip. Out. Away. Into somewhere quieter.

Afterward, he blessed her with words so drenched in holy oil, they made her skin crawl. He said, “God will heal you.” But he had not broken her body—he had betrayed something far more sacred: her spirit's sense of safety.

She walked out of that room lighter—because something had been taken. But what he did not know, what even she did not fully grasp then, was that what he took was not hers to lose.

It was borrowed. And in taking it, he triggered a debt.

The next few weeks, the man began to unravel. His voice trembled when he spoke in church. His hands shook. Once, mid-prayer, he forgot the words entirely. People whispered that he was under spiritual attack.

Sefi said nothing.

But deep in her, something began to hum. A new presence, coiled but patient. Not rage. Not revenge. It felt… knowing.

There were no visible marks on her body. No bruises to dress. But her dreams were bleeding. She saw herself on a cliff, wind pulling at her arms, a voice whispering, jump and remember. And always, there were the birds—black-eyed doves, circling.

Flashbacks came in quiet bursts. Not violent. Not theatrical. Just still images—his hand near hers, her breath caught, her spirit separating like mist from water. It felt like dying without death. But each time, when she woke, her heart would beat stronger. Slower. As though it was learning a new rhythm.

There had always been moments she thought she was cursed. The way people turned on her after kindness. The way she was blamed for things she didn't say, didn't do. The way even love—when it found her—was sharp, predatory, and jealous.

But now, a different narrative began to unfold.

She saw them: the threads.

Each betrayal left behind a piece of the betrayer. Not guilt. Not pain. But a shimmer. A fragment. A thread.

She didn’t know what they were yet—but she could feel them weaving something inside her, something dense and ancient.

Once, she watched the pastor’s son—Casimir—walk past without recognition. The same boy who once called her beautiful. Now his gaze slid over her like water on stone. She no longer longed for his notice.

She had started noticing other things.

The way children calmed when she walked into a room.

The way flickering candles stilled when she prayed, even without words.

The way the sky turned gold before storms.

There was a time she would’ve doubted these things, chalked it up to coincidence or a troubled mind trying to make sense of chaos. But no—this was the knowing. Her spirit had started walking ahead of her. She was merely catching up.

There were no guides left. Only echoes. The man had fallen—his “power” disarmed the moment he chose flesh over duty. And though the world still called him holy, she saw his essence thinning, wilting like leaves in drought.

He had been her watcher. Her guardian. His failure was not just his—it was cosmic.

And yet, she did not hate him.

She pitied him.

Because he gave up his gift for a moment of weakness. And she—she had inherited something not even he understood.

---

Somewhere else…

The old man lit incense by the river and muttered, “The path has chosen her. The old flame walks again.”

In the dream realm, where spirits spoke without tongues, her soul began to flicker. Not like a candle. But like lightning behind closed eyes. Brief. Terrifying. And divine.

She had not fully awakened. Not yet.

But the sleeping god within her had opened one eye