Night fell swiftly, like a giant shadow engulfing the village.

  It carried away the day's whining and fatigue, replacing them with quiet laughter and rare but sincere conversations. During these hours, the villagers could finally relax, stretching out on mats or rough wooden platforms, chatting in hushed tones, or simply enjoying rare moments of peace.

  This was a time of liberation.

  Especially by the sea.

  A house situated near the shore absorbed this atmosphere—joy, tranquility, a sense of simple happiness. Here, they drank cool water as if savoring fine wine and laughed, leaning carefree against the walls.

  On a hill overlooking the shore stood a house. Wooden, sturdy, with history etched into every beam and nail.

  Once, twelve children lived here.

  Now, only five remained.

  Life knew no mercy.

  Yet, despite this, they considered themselves a family.

  The fifth was absent, working in the mine, so four remained in the house.

  The silence was broken by a bell.

  A dull, heavy sound spread through the village, filling the streets with damp echoes, like a fractured shadow slipping into every crack, every hole in the walls.

  Gloomer reluctantly rose. Prayer was routine, but unlike work, it didn't drain his strength. Sometimes, listening to the rhythmic chanting, it seemed possible to forget, even for a moment, where you were.

  Lark was already stretching lazily, heading to the church, humming to himself. Vale and Ars followed him.

  At night, the village looked different—the wooden houses, cozy by day, now resembled empty skulls. The light from oil lamps flickered in the windows, weaker than usual, as if the very air was squeezing it, choking it.

  The church loomed amidst the darkness, its stone walls appearing eternal. It could accommodate thousands, but today, there wasn't such a crowd.

  They entered and knelt.

  The Mother Goddess of Nature was one of the main deities in whom the poor believed. She was cruel, and even this pouring rain reminded them that mercy was not to be expected from her.

  Yet, the poor considered suffering a purification of the soul. They believed that pain brought them closer to higher understanding, and a hard life wasn't punishment but a trial they had to endure.

  The Mother Goddess of Nature didn't require strict prayer times—some could simply bow their heads for a minute and say the necessary words, while others stayed for hours. Lark was one of the latter.

  Gloomer muttered a few words and, without lingering, left.

  Vale didn't pray long either.

  Stolen story; please report.

  —Hey, Vale, —Gloomer called out as he followed him, —while I was away... where did all the adults go? And the elders who kept order and led the prayers?

  Vale froze, looking at him in confusion.

  —What are you talking about? We've never had any elders or adults.

  Gloomer frowned.

  —Are you kidding? —He slapped his friend on the back.

  But Vale didn't even laugh, just frowned.

  —Gloomer... are you sure you're okay? We've always had only children and teenagers here. When did you see elders?

  Gloomer stood still.

  What is he talking about?..

  This is nonsense.

  He remembered that there were adults. They maintained order, assigned work, oversaw supplies from the kingdom... There were always elders in the church who scolded Lark for his overly long prayers. And it was always very noisy because of these adults.

  Now that they're gone, it's much quieter...

  —Damn it, Vale, you don't know how to joke.

  Seeing Gloomer's expression, Vale slowed his pace.

  —It seems... there was something like that... but I can't remember. Maybe it's because of the rain? You know, it's been messing with my head for three nights now.

  He shook his head sharply.

  —Let's not talk about it, okay? These conversations are just giving me a headache.

  Gloomer walked him to the house.

  But the anxiety in his head didn't subside.

  Earlier, he had asked Lark about this, and he said the same thing.

  But that's impossible.

  That doesn't just happen.

  He turned sharply and walked in the other direction.

  Gloomer walked through the night darkness, carefully stepping over puddles left by the recent rain. The air was heavy, damp, filled with the smell of wet earth and rotting wood. Somewhere in the distance, shutters creaked, torn off by the wind, but the part of the village where the elders lived seemed eerily silent.

  He approached the most remote place in the village, located in the corner near the forest.

  There lived the main village administrators—the elders responsible for order, work distribution, and interaction with royal envoys. There were large wooden houses, slightly elevated, surrounded by massive fences, behind which lights always burned. But today...

  Gloomer calmly entered this dark area.

  For the first time in his life, he wanted these adults to shout and chase him away.

  But this time, that didn't happen.

  Gloomer froze at the gate of one of the houses.

  Darkness.

  Not just the absence of light, but a suffocating, all-consuming darkness where even his own fingers seemed invisible. There wasn’t a single flicker in the windows, no faint glow of oil lamps, no muffled voices inside. Nothing.

  In his usual style, Gloomer didn’t miss the chance to complain — I was gone for just three months, and everything's turned upside down.

  Swallowing involuntarily, he pushed the gate. It opened without a sound—too silently. He expected the familiar creak, but there was only emptiness in return. His heart clenched with a sense of foreboding.

  Gloomer stepped forward. His footsteps echoed dully in the damp air as he crossed the yard. Everything felt wrong. The grass hadn't been trampled—no one had come here in a long time. He slowly approached the door. It was open.

  Inside—blackness.

  He reached out, felt for the lamp by the entrance, and lit it. The flame flickered, casting light over the empty hall. The furniture was in place, yet it looked... lifeless. Half-eaten food still sat on the table, but it hadn’t spoiled, as if it had been left there just yesterday.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Gloomer moved deeper inside, with every step feeling the tension tighten in his chest. No signs of struggle, no overturned furniture, no hint that anyone had lived here. Just a perfect, terrifying order that couldn’t be natural.

  He stopped at the stairs. Upstairs was quiet. Too quiet.

  Not wanting to waste time, he turned toward the kitchen and pulled the cellar door handle. The creak shattered the silence, and Gloomer froze, listening.

  Nothing.

  He slowly descended.

  Everything was the same as upstairs—shelves of food, barrels of water, sacks of grain. He ran his hand along a nearby sack—no dust. That meant they hadn’t disappeared long ago.

  No one was here.

  But he didn’t get to enjoy the relief.

  From above... came a sound.

  A faint, barely audible creak.

  As if someone had carefully moved a chair.

  Gloomer froze, a chill racing down his spine.

  He quickly blew out the lamp and pressed against the wall, peering into the darkness. Footsteps.

  Soft, slow.

  As if someone was silently wandering through the house.

  Gloomer waited, too afraid to breathe.

  But when he moved toward the sound, he immediately recognized it—it was just a squirrel.

  Gloomer almost sighed with relief, but then he remembered—he hadn’t seen a single animal lately. That was strange. He tried to take a closer look at the squirrel, but it darted away in an instant.

  Yet in that final moment, he noticed its eyes. Crimson, like burning coals.

  —Shit... —flashed through his mind. —Maybe that wasn’t a squirrel at all... but a monster. Just not a dangerous one.

  He decided not to linger. Grabbing a bit of food, he carefully left the cellar and moved on.

  He searched every other house.

  And they were all empty.

  Except for one.

  The one where the woman lived—the one who always sat on her porch in a rocking chair.

  Gloomer stopped at the doorstep.

  Sounds were coming from inside.

  But they weren’t voices or footsteps.

  A scraping sound.

  Something moving across the floor, but... too rhythmically.

  He picked up a lamp, slowly reached for the door handle, and stepped inside.

  The air was stale, and in the corner—where the woman used to sit—something moved.

  Gloomer raised the lamp.

  In the flickering light, he saw her.

  The woman sat in the rocking chair.

  But she was dead.

  Her eyes had fallen from their sockets, yet her body still moved.

  The chair swayed forward, then back.

  As if she were still alive.

  As if something... was making her move.

  Gloomer felt the cold clamp down on his limbs.

  He stared for several agonizing seconds, watching the chair rock.

  Then, it stopped.

  A dead silence fell.