There was a disquiet in Blackwood Hollow. It wasn’t a feeling you could see or touch, but if you were visiting, you would know it, the way you know a storm is rolling in before the first raindrop falls. It crept in slowly, like the shadows that lengthened under the cypress trees just after sundown, stretching over the swampy edge of town.
At first, it was easy to ignore. The townsfolk dismissed the oddities and brushed them off as coincidences or the natural quirks of life in a small southern town. But after a while, even the Hollow’s oldest residents—the ones who had seen hurricanes level fields and watched snakes slither into places they shouldn’t—began to whisper that something wasn’t right.
Each breath taken seemed to drag, the air slowed by something unseen, like walking through cobwebs in the dark. The swamp, always an unpredictable neighbor, had grown unusually loud at night. Bullfrogs bellowed, and cicadas sang like always, but underneath their symphony was a hum—a low, almost imperceptible vibration that was felt more than heard.
People started locking their doors earlier, too. Not because anything had happened—at least, not yet—but because the darkness seemed darker, and the quiet seemed quieter.
It wasn’t one big thing. It was a thousand little things. Birds had always flown south in tight formations, their migrations as predictable as clockwork. But now, the flocks were scattered and chaotic, their cries sharp and discordant. One morning, a dozen blackbirds flew straight into the front windows of the Silverleaf grocery store. The glass didn’t shatter, but the sound of their bodies thudding against it leaving bloody smears and the birds with broken necks and wings falling to the sidewalk, made customers shiver for hours after.
Another day, Delia’s dough refused to rise until she pulled it from the warming oven, and then it nearly expanded over the side of the extra-large bowl in an instant. Mr. Wilkes's little dog, the one he always carried with him, wouldn’t get out of her bed to go for a walk. The old man’s heart broke a little as he tried in vain to coax her out of bed with a piece of chicken. The street lamps that lit the town square at night sometimes flickered or dimmed. The cracks in the sidewalks seemed wider, the milk tasted off too soon, and the town’s only street light had been stuck on red for three days.
There was something else, though, and it wasn’t so easy to explain. It wasn’t just the shadows or the strange sounds. It was a feeling—a growing, gnawing unease that settled into the bones of the townsfolk. It left them staring out their windows longer than they should, checking over their shoulders as they walked home from the bakery or the hardware store.
Even the weather seemed to conspire against them. The air smelled like rain for days on end, but the sky never opened up. The clouds hung low and swollen like they were holding something back. The sun, when it did break through, seemed pale and watery, its warmth hollow.
No one wanted to admit it, but deep down, they all felt the same thing: Blackwood Hollow was waiting for something.
Something dark.
The dream started like any other—a quiet evening, the soft glow of a setting sun casting long shadows over Blackwood Hollow. Faith found herself standing in front of Ava’s house, the overgrown garden trembling as if in a stiff breeze, though the air was unnervingly still.
She stepped closer, her bare feet sinking into the loamy soil, cool and damp. The house loomed ahead, its windows black and unreflective, the air around it heavy with the scent of something sweet and rotting. Vines crept over the facade, winding up the columns and walls like greedy fingers, their leaves glinting unnaturally in the fading light.
Then the vines began to move.
Faith froze, her breath catching as the greenery twisted and writhed, swelling grotesquely. The vines thickened, bulging as they coiled tighter around the house, reminding Faith of her sketches. Glass shattered as branches punched through windows, snaking into the darkened interior. The roof groaned, splintering under the crushing weight.
And then she saw Ava.
She was inside, visible through the broken windows, standing perfectly still in the center of the collapsing room. The vines circled her like predators, closing in with deliberate malice. Her face was eerily calm, her sharp eyes tracking the encroaching greenery as if assessing its intent.
Faith took a step back, her heart pounding. The ground beneath her feet shifted, roots curling around her ankles, but they didn’t pull her down—they seemed to urge her to stay, caressing her legs.
Ava didn’t scream. She didn’t struggle. The vines wrapped around her legs, her arms, her torso, constricting like snakes. The walls of the house groaned, the foundation trembling as the structure bent inward. Ava tilted her head slightly, her eyes meeting Faith’s through the fractured glass. Her lips curved into a faint smile—mocking, knowing, resigned.
The roof collapsed, the weight of the monstrous vine dragging it down, and Ava disappeared beneath the rubble.
Faith didn’t move.
She watched as the house caved in entirely, the vines devouring it like some malevolent beast. The air was filled with dust and the sickly-sweet scent of crushed flowers. Faith’s chest tightened, her pulse loud in her ears, but she stayed rooted in place, her limbs as heavy as lead.
The thought of saving Ava had never crossed her mind.
When the dust settled, the house was gone, consumed by the pulsating green mass that now sprawled across the yard like a grotesque crown. The vines coiled lazily, sated, their tendrils glinting in the moonlight that had replaced the sun.
It wasn’t Ava’s death that unsettled her.
It was her own inaction.
Faith stared at the ruins, her breath hitching as the vines around her feet loosened their hold. She wasn’t the kind of person who let people die—was she? Even someone like Ava, who unsettled her in ways she couldn’t name. She was supposed to care.
She dropped to her knees, the soft earth cold against her skin, and pressed her hands to her face. “Why didn’t I help her?” she cried into the silence.
The vines rustled, whispering back, though she couldn’t understand the words.
When she looked up, Ava was standing in the ruins, untouched, her black dress pristine. Her sharp eyes bore into Faith, the faint smile tugging at her lips.
“You didn’t save me,” Ava said, her voice soft and low, almost amused. “But I didn’t need saving, did I?”
Faith’s throat tightened as she tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Ava stepped closer, her shadow stretching unnaturally long across the broken ground.
“Not everyone deserves saving, Faith,” Ava murmured, crouching down so their faces were level. Her voice was almost tender, but her smile was amused and eerie. “Sometimes, it’s better to let them go.”
Faith jolted awake, her breath ragged and her heart hammering. The room was dark, the air still, but the scent of crushed flowers lingered faintly, as though the dream hadn’t quite let her go.
She sat up, her hands trembling, and stared at the faint outline of her window. The idea that she could let someone—anyone—die, and feel nothing… that was what disturbed her most of all.
She made up her mind to help Ava with her garden again, wether she wanted it or not.
The little table in Edith’s cozy kitchen was set as always: two delicate porcelain teacups, slightly mismatched saucers, and a teapot that looked as though it belonged in a fine English manor rather than a small house tucked behind Blackwood Hollow’s library. Edna the grocery clerk, sat primly in her usual chair, her wiry frame poised as she carefully spooned sugar into her tea. Across from her, Edith the librarian, poured milk into her cup, the pale liquid swirling like clouds in a stormy sky.
“This week’s weather’s been something else,” Edna said, stirring her tea. “I can’t remember the last time we had frost this early. It nipped the edge of my tomato plants right off.”
Edith nodded, her tiny hands clutching the cup like a lifeline. “It’s odd, isn’t it? Yesterday, I thought I saw snowflakes, but surely I was mistaken. Snow in South Georgia? Unheard of.”
They both chuckled, though the sound was thin as if the air between them had suddenly grown too thin to hold sound.
“And how’s the market been?” Edith asked, her voice a touch higher than usual.
Edna hesitated, her spoon pausing mid-stir. “Busy. The holidays always are. But…” She set the spoon down carefully, her blue eyes darting toward Edith’s. “Some folks have been acting a little… strange.”
“Strange?”
“Mm-hmm. Mr. Hargrove came in yesterday, ordered a whole ham, and then started hollering at me about the price. He’s never done that before—he’s always been as sweet as pie. I just don’t understand it.”
Edith frowned, a shadow crossing her delicate features. “Well, it’s not just the market. At the library, I had to remind Mrs. Pickens - you know, the Kindergarden teacher? I had to tell her twice to keep her voice down. Twice! And then she told me to ‘mind my own damn business.’ Can you imagine?”
Edna gasped softly, one hand fluttering to her chest. “Mrs. Pickens? Why, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Edith sipped her tea, her expression troubled.
For a moment, they sat in silence, the warm aroma of tea filling the space. The familiar ritual should have soothed them, but instead, the quiet seemed to hum with a strange tension.
“Edna,” Edith said, at last, her tone careful, “do you think it’s… something in the water?”
Edna stiffened. “The water?”
“Well, you know. People say things.”
“People say all sorts of foolish things,” Edna replied, her voice sharp enough to cut.
Edith blinked, taken aback. “I didn’t mean—”
“You know I’ve worked at Silverleaf for decades, Edith. I’ve never heard a single complaint about the water.”
To be honest, the water had tasted funny lately, now that she thought of it.
“I wasn’t complaining,” Edith said, her cheeks flushing.
“It sounded like you were,” Edna snapped, her blue eyes narrowing.
Edith set her teacup down with a clatter, the sound louder than it should have been. “I think you’re overreacting, Edna.”
“Overreacting? I’m simply pointing out that you shouldn’t spread unfounded rumors,” sniffed Edna.
Edith’s tiny hands clenched into fists. “And I’m simply saying that people have noticed strange things, Edna. Even you admitted it!”
“Well, maybe people should mind their own business,” Edna shot back, her voice rising.
Edith’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Maybe you should stop being so stubborn all the time.”
“Stubborn?” Edna’s voice was sharp, brittle. “I’m not the one who spends her days in a dusty library bossing people around!”
The words hung in the air, heavy and cutting.
Edith’s face turned crimson, her tiny frame trembling with indignation. “Well, maybe if you—” She stopped herself, her lips trembling, but then it burst out, sharp and loud, cutting the quiet like a slap:
“Maybe if you weren’t such a cunt!”
The room fell deathly silent.
Edna’s mouth dropped open, her face frozen in shock. Edith’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Tears welled up, spilling over as she began to sob.
“Oh, Edna,” she choked out, her voice cracking. “I—I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what’s come over me. I—I’ve never even said that word before!”
Edna stared at her for a long moment, her thin frame stiff as a board. Then, slowly, she softened. “Hush now, Edith,” she said gently, reaching across the table to take her friend’s trembling hands. “It’s all right. I know you didn’t mean it. I… I didn’t mean what I said, either.”
Edith nodded, sniffling, her face red and blotchy. “I don’t know why I got so angry. It was like… like I couldn’t help it.”
Edna gave her hands a reassuring squeeze, though her own were trembling. “It’s been a hard week, that’s all,” she murmured, though the words felt hollow.
They sat in silence for a long time, the warmth of their tea long forgotten. The cicadas outside began their hum again, but the air between them felt stagnant, as though something unseen still lingered.
“Edna?” Edith tentatively said in a quiet little voice.
“Yes?”
“Do you think… something’s wrong with us?”
Edna hesitated, her blue eyes distant. “I don’t know, Edith. I really don’t.”
The wind rattled the windows, and in the shadows of the kitchen, the teapot seemed to shift, its delicate floral pattern bending in a way that made the tiny painted flowers look wilted and dead.
Neither of them noticed.
Howard "Hank" Carson sat at the rickety kitchen table in his old shotgun house on Foxbend Road, the single bulb overhead casting flickering light on the cracked linoleum floor. Outside, the cicadas had gone quiet, their usual hum replaced by the occasional rustle of wind through the Spanish moss hanging heavy from the cypress trees. The swamp’s scent crept in through the screen door: damp earth, brackish water, and something faintly rotten that he told himself was just the usual smell of the Hollow.
The whiskey bottle on the table was nearly empty, and his hand shook slightly as he poured the last of it into a stained mason jar. He didn’t drink often—never had, really. But tonight, the memories wouldn’t leave him alone.
“You shouldn’t have taken point, Carson,” a voice rasped, low and accusing, from the corner of the room.
Hank froze, his blood running cold. Slowly, he looked up from the glass, but the corner was empty—just his fishing gear leaning against the wall, like always. He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “You’re just tired, Hank. Too many hours on the water.”
But the voice came again, sharper this time, and closer. “You were supposed to wait. To hold back. But no—you always had to be the gawd damned hero, didn’t you?”
The swamp wind rattled the loose panes of the kitchen window, and Hank felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. His calloused fingers tightened around the glass, his knuckles turning white. “I didn’t have a choice,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“There’s always a choice,” the voice hissed, slithering through the room like smoke.
The cicadas outside fell silent again, and the faint hum of the swamp seemed to pull back, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
“I don’t know what you are,” Hank said, standing abruptly. His chair scraped against the floor, the sound sharp in the oppressive quiet. “But you’re not real. You’re just—”
The room flickered, and suddenly he wasn’t in his kitchen anymore.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
The damp heat of the jungle wrapped around him, suffocating and thick, the smell of gunpowder and blood choking the air. He could hear shouting, the deafening crack of gunfire, the roar of a helicopter overhead.
“Carson!”
The voice rang out, and Hank turned to see Jackson pinned down behind a tree, his rifle jammed and useless. The memory hit like a freight train.
“Cover me!” Jackson had yelled, his voice raw with fear.
But Hank had hesitated. Just for a second. Long enough for the mortar round to hit.
The explosion ripped through the jungle, and Jackson’s scream was cut off too fast. Too final.
Hank stumbled back into his kitchen, the sound of the blast still echoing in his ears. His chest heaved, his heart hammering against his ribs as he gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself.
“You left me,” the voice said, soft now, almost mournful.
Hank turned, and there he was—Jackson, standing in the doorway. His uniform was tattered and bloodstained, his face pale and gaunt. But it was his eyes that froze Hank in place—eyes like pickled onions, reflecting faintly yellow in the dim light, unblinking and blinded.
“No,” Hank whispered, shaking his head. “No, you’re not real. You’re just—”
The air around Jackson rippled, and a wave of putrid stench hit Hank like a slap. It was the smell of rot, of flesh left too long in the sun. He gagged, his stomach twisting, but he couldn’t look away from those eyes that tracked him like a hunter listening for prey.
Jackson stepped closer, the floorboards creaking under his boots. “I waited for you, Hank,” he said, his voice carrying a guttural edge that wasn’t human. “I called for you. But you didn’t come.”
“I tried!” Hank choked out, his voice breaking. “Goddammit, Jackson, I tried!”
Jackson’s head tilted, the faint yellow glow of his eyes narrowing. “Not hard enough.”
The lights flickered, and outside, the wind rose to a howl. The swamp trees groaned, their shadows stretching long and unnatural across the walls.
Hank stumbled back, his knees hitting the table, the glass shattering on the floor. “This isn’t real,” he muttered, over and over, but Jackson just stood there, the stench of him filling the room.
“Real enough for you, ain’t it?” the figure said, his dead yellow eyes focusing on the sound of broken glass crunching under Hank's feet.
The swamp outside seemed to press closer, the sounds of creaking wood and snapping branches echoing through the house. Hank could swear he heard whispers, faint and insistent, coming from the trees.
He backed against the wall, his breath ragged, his hands shaking. “What do you want?” he finally managed to choke out.
Jackson’s lips curled into something like a snarl, his voice low and venomous. “You’ll see, Carson. You’ll see.”
Jackson turned and walked through the closed door, out into the night.
The wind died, the cicadas started back up, and the kitchen was still again. But Hank’s hands wouldn’t stop their quivering, and the shattered glass on the floor seemed to sparkle in the dim light.
He looked toward the window, the swamp beyond hidden in darkness. But somewhere out there, he knew something was watching.
For the first time in his life, Hank Carson began to believe in ghosts.
Ava sat in her worn leather chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, staring into the fire that she’d coaxed to life with a snap of her fingers. The warmth didn’t quite reach her anymore—nothing really did—but it was better than silence.
Nox, her sleek black cat, stretched languidly on the hearth, his eyes half-lidded as though he could barely muster interest in her troubles. He always listened, though, in that knowing way cats had.
“I swear, Nox,” Ava said, swirling the glass of wine she hadn’t touched, “this town is unraveling like a cheap sweater. And don’t give me that look. I know I’m the one holding the needle.”
Nox blinked at her slowly, a single paw twitching as if to say Get to the point already.
She sighed, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. The fire crackled, but it sounded hollow tonight. “Do you know how many memories I had to wipe today? Three. Three, Nox. Two of them were Maggies." She rubbed her temple with one finger, the beginnings of a headache simmering just behind her eyes. “Her feeble brain is slate, and I’m wearing it thin. She’s going to notice eventually. That woman’s a bulldog in an ugly scarf.”
Nox yawned in response, exposing sharp little teeth.
“Don’t judge me. What would you have me do? Let her remember the way Charlie’s shadow decided it didn’t like him anymore and started crawling up the wall? Or how she swore she heard her name before her fish dinner started flopping on the table?” Ava shook her head, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She’s too nosy for her own good. If she keeps this up, she’ll be more memory fog than Maggie Draper. I need to make her not want to snoop, but it’s part of who she is!”
The cat tilted his head as though he agreed, tail flicking once against the stone.
Ava dragged a hand down her face. “And Faith.” She spat the name like it was spoiled food. “How am I supposed to deal with her while I’m running around stitching reality back together? She’s not even subtle. She stomps through town with all the grace of a rhinoceros in patent leather shoes. She might as well have my face and the word ‘bestie,’ printed on a T-shirt.”
The fire sputtered, sending a burst of sparks up the chimney. Ava flicked her fingers toward it irritably, and the flames steadied again.
Outside, the wind howled, rattling the shutters. It was a cold night, but not cold enough for the frost already creeping along the edges of the windows. Ava’s gaze flicked toward it, a faint line of worry creasing her brow. “And what’s with the frost? It’s forty degrees, Nox. Forty. I’m not losing my grip that much, am I?”
Nox sat up, ears swiveling toward the window.
She caught the movement and stiffened. The wind stilled suddenly, leaving a silence that was too heavy, too present. Ava stared at the frost spreading in jagged lines across the glass.
“Nox?” she said softly.
The cat’s eyes narrowed, his body tense.
Ava was on her feet before she realized it, staring into the windowpane. For a moment, she thought she saw something moving in the reflection—something dark and shapeless that shouldn’t have been there. She blinked, and it was gone.
“Damn it,” she muttered, collapsing back into her chair. Her fingers tapped restlessly on the armrest as she stared at the fire. “One more thing to add to the list. Perfect. Just perfect.”
Nox hopped onto her lap, his warmth grounding her. Ava scratched behind his ears absently, her mind already spinning through the possibilities. The frost, the whispers, the shadows—her hold on the town wasn’t slipping. It was being pulled.
By what?
And more importantly—by who?
The cat purred softly, but Ava couldn’t tell if it was agreement—or laughter.
The alarm buzzed at 6:00 a.m., cutting through the soft hum of Josephine’s ceiling fan. She groaned, rolling over to slap the clock into silence. The faint light of dawn seeped through the blinds, striping her cluttered bedroom in pale gold.
She swung her legs out of bed and padded toward the closet, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her foot caught on something solid, nearly sending her sprawling. She grabbed the doorframe for balance, heart pounding as she looked down.
The bag sat there, looming and impossible to ignore.
It was unremarkable in itself, a plain black duffel bag with a broken zipper tab, the kind you could buy at any department store. But Josephine didn’t need to open it to know what was inside.
Cash.
So much cash that the zipper barely closed, crisp bills stuffed in bundles bound by rubber bands. Tens. Twenties. Fifties. A handful of hundreds. The sight of it turned her stomach, though she’d seen it before.
Her chest tightened as she nudged the bag with her foot, sliding it back under a pile of dirty laundry. She took a deep breath as she yanked a blouse off a hanger and shut the closet door, but the weight of the bag lingered, pressing against her thoughts like a bruise she couldn’t stop touching.
“Not today,” she muttered to herself. “Not now.”
Josephine buttoned her blouse in front of the mirror, avoiding her own reflection. She didn’t need to look to know what she’d see: dark circles under her eyes, lips pressed thin with tension, a face that didn’t quite look like hers anymore.
It had started so small.
The first time, she’d told herself it was an accident. She’d been rushing, distracted, and somehow a $20 bill had ended up in her purse instead of her drawer at the bank. She’d noticed it later, during her drive home, and meant to return it the next day.
But the next day came, and she didn’t.
“Just one time,” the whisper had soothed, soft and coaxing. “It’s nothing. You’re owed this.”
It wasn’t her voice, but it didn’t feel foreign either. It felt... reasonable. Logical.
After that, it was a $50 withdrawal here, a $100 adjustment there. She knew the system inside and out and had found ways to mask the missing funds with the same precision she used to balance her own accounts.
The first time she held a significant amount of cash—$500 tucked into her coat pocket—her heart had hammered so hard she thought it might stop. She’d barely slept that night, lying awake in the dark and waiting for sirens. But no one came.
By the end of the month, she’d moved on to bigger sums. It wasn’t about greed, not at first. It was about proving she could, about evening the invisible scales she felt tipping against her every day. The bank didn’t value her, her manager overlooked her, and her coworker Derek—useless, smug Derek—had taken the promotion she’d earned.
“You’ve worked harder than anyone,” the whisper reminded her. “You deserve this.”
Josephine leaned over the sink, brushing her teeth and staring blankly at the drain. She didn’t feel proud of what she’d done. She didn’t even feel satisfied. If anything, she felt... hollow.
The money didn’t fix anything. Her student loans still loomed, her cheap apartment still smelled faintly of mildew, and her days still stretched out in the same endless monotony. She hadn’t spent more than a few hundred dollars from the duffel bag, and yet it kept growing, fed by the quiet, efficient thefts she told herself were harmless.
But harmless things didn’t keep you up at night.
She rinsed her mouth and reached for a towel, catching her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes seemed darker than usual, sharper. Her lips curled slightly, though she hadn’t meant to smile. She shivered, looking away.
As she slipped on her shoes and grabbed her bag, the whisper came again, soft and smooth as silk.
“Just a little more,” it murmured. “One more week, and you’ll be free.”
“Free from what?” she whispered aloud, her voice shaking.
But the whisper didn’t answer.
Josephine slung her bag over her shoulder and left the apartment, her heels clicking against the cracked pavement. The morning air was cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of the swamp that bordered Blackwood Hollow.
As she walked into work, her gut flip-flopped with each step. The bag in her closet waited, heavy with stolen cash and heavier with guilt. She told herself she’d stop, that she’d find a way to undo what she’d done.
But deep down, she knew the whisper wouldn’t let her.
Not yet.
The warm, sugary air of the bakery wrapped around Sam like a hug as he pushed the door open. The bell above the door jingled cheerfully, announcing his arrival. Delia was behind the counter, wiping it down with a practiced rhythm, while Faith worked at a nearby table, carefully arranging her icing tips and bags.
“Hi, Sam!” Delia said brightly, her face lighting up when she saw him. “What’ll it be today? A cinnamon roll? Or are you going to surprise me?”
Sam grinned, his round cheeks flushing with excitement. “Cinnamon roll,” he said firmly. “With the big icing.”
“Coming right up!” Delia said, heading for the display case.
Faith glanced up from her work and smiled. “Hey, Sam. Good day at school?”
He nodded enthusiastically, but his smile faltered as he glanced out the bakery’s front window. His brow furrowed, his eyes following something—or someone—outside.
Delia returned with the cinnamon roll, placing it on the counter in front of him. “Here you go! Fresh out of the oven.”
Sam didn’t reach for it. Instead, he pointed toward the window, his voice quiet but insistent. “The light is sad today.”
The year was 1838, the season of the forced removal of the Cherokee people from their ancestral lands. The Trail of Tears stretched across the land, a winding path of suffering where the footsteps of the weary were marked by blood and tears. It was a time when Andrew Jackson's halls of power in Washington turned deaf ears to the cries of the innocent and blind eyes to the suffering they inflicted.
The wind on the ridge was colder than it had any right to be. It cut through the trees, bending branches with frozen fingers and sweeping over the campfires of the Cherokee. Smoke curled weakly into the iron-gray sky, dissipating before it could carry the prayers murmured beneath it.
Ava stood on the edge of the encampment, unseen by mortal eyes, her wings folded tightly against her back. She had been given a second chance and was sent to witness, to guide. To whisper. It had been her purpose for as long as she could remember to offer glimpses of mercy in humanity’s darkest moments and she was determined to get this right.
But this moment—this long march into oblivion—felt different.
The soldiers had pitched their tents at the far edge of the camp, a thin and pitiful attempt to separate themselves from the people they had driven from their homes. From Ava’s vantage point, the scene spread out like a painting dipped in ashes: Cherokee families huddled under threadbare blankets, their faces hollow and eyes glazed with exhaustion. Children clung to their mothers, their tears streaking the grime on their cheeks.
The suffering was a living thing, writhing in the flurries of snow on air.
And at the center, of his part of the tragedy, was Captain Elias Carter.
He sat on his horse, his back straight, his uniform clean and pressed despite the mud clinging to the boots of everyone around him. He looked every inch the soldier he was supposed to be, though Ava could see the cracks. She’d seen them before in men like him—men who carried out orders they didn’t believe in because defiance was unthinkable.
“Elias,” she said softly, though her voice reached him as clearly as if she had whispered it into his ear.
His shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t look her way. He never did. Ava was used to that. Mortals didn’t see angels, not unless they were meant to. Still, her voice had weight, pressing into his thoughts like a pebble in a shoe.
“You have the power to stop this,” she continued, stepping closer. Her bare feet didn’t disturb the frost-crusted ground. “You don’t have to obey orders that break your soul.”
Elias shifted in the saddle, his hand tightening on the reins. “I have no choice,” he muttered.
Ava’s wings stiffened against her, her light dimming with frustration. “There is always a choice. The Eternal has given you free will for this very reason. Look at them, Elias. Look at the suffering you’re allowing.”
But Elias only shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I do what I must.”
Days blurred into weeks. The Trail stretched ahead of the Cherokee like a scar across the land, winding through forests and over frozen rivers. Ava followed them, her wings casting faint light over the weary and the dying. She spoke to Elias every day, though his responses grew shorter and colder.
At night, as the fires burned low, she sat beside him.
“You drink to drown your guilt,” she said desperately one evening, watching as he tipped back a flask.
Elias glared at her, his hand trembling as he capped the flask and shoved it into his coat. “You think your whispers help? They don’t. You don’t understand what it’s like. To carry this.” Sometimes, in his drunkenness, he could glimpse her. But each time the drink blurred his vision, it also took the memory of her with it in the morning.
Ava’s voice softened. “I understand far more than you think. But your guilt is not the same as atonement.”
Elias stared into the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. “If I stop, they’ll replace me with someone worse. That’s how it works. I’m doing what I can to keep it from being worse.”
“That’s a lie you tell yourself to sleep at night,” Ava said. “But you don’t even believe it, do you?”
He didn’t answer.
The day the child fell, the cold bit harder than ever. The wind howled across the open plain, whipping snow into blinding curtains. The Cherokee trudged forward, their footsteps faltering in the frozen mud.
A little boy, no older than five, collapsed by the side of the trail. His mother screamed, dropping to her knees as soldiers approached.
“Leave him!” one soldier barked, grabbing the woman by the arm.
“No!” she wailed, clawing at the man's hand. “Please, let me—he’s just tired. Please, he’ll walk again, I promise!”
The soldier shoved her back, raising his rifle.
Ava moved before she realized what she was doing.
Her wings flared, and for a moment, her light burned so brilliantly that the soldiers froze in their tracks. With a single step, she crossed the boundary between the eternal and the mortal, her feet crunching in the snow. She knelt beside the boy, gathering him into her arms.
“This child is worth more than your orders,” she said, her voice vibrating with fury.
The soldiers gaped at her, their hands tightening on their weapons. Captain Carter rode forward, his face pale.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice sharp with both fear and awe.
Ava looked up at him, her mortal form unsure under the weight of her actions. “I am mercy,” she said. “And you have forgotten me.”
Elias stared at her for a moment, beginning to breathe heavily and tears brimming in his eyes. He slid from his horse, falling to his knees. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.” The soldiers began to fall to their knees one by one as well.
But it was too late. The boy in Ava’s arms was still, his breath gone, his spirit already beyond her reach.
That night, as the camp lay in fitful silence, Ava knelt in the snow, her wings fading to nothing. The Eternal’s voice filled her mind, heavy with sorrow.
“Ava. You have broken the bounds of heaven,” it said. “...You may now ...never return.”
Tears streaked Ava’s face as she bowed her head. “I could not stand by,” she said. “If this is my punishment, so be it.” Ava’s heart was full of confused wrath and shame.
The voice faded, and Ava felt her light extinguish entirely. She was flesh and blood now, bound to the suffering of the world she had once tried to guide.
Ava walked the Trail of Tears with the Cherokee, her once radiant wings gone, her light reduced to the faintest flicker. She trudged through mud and snow, her bare feet blistering and bleeding like any mortal’s. The Eternal’s voice no longer whispered guidance to her, but her heart burned with purpose nonetheless.
The Cherokee saw her as something between a guardian and a curse. She carried the fragile and dying in her arms, murmuring prayers in a language they did not understand. Her presence soothed the sick, though she could no longer heal them as she once might have.
When the first winter claimed many lives, she built fires alongside the elders, her fingers clumsy and numb with the cold. She foraged in the woods for food, learning to dig up roots and gather herbs, often eating less so others could have more. But she learned, and the Cherokee began to accept her.
They gave her a name: Aseyi Utana, meaning “Last Light.”
Elias left the army soon after, unable to bear the weight of his guilt. He spent the rest of his days trying to atone, though he knew his soul could never be clean.
When the march ended, and the survivors were herded into their new lands—barren, unfamiliar, and unwelcoming—Ava stayed. She could have wandered, faded into history, but she chose to remain. She learned to sew skins into clothing and grind corn into meal. She learned their songs and their grief, though she rarely sang herself.
In her heart, she bore the agony of humanity’s cruelty, seeing it as the ultimate failure of the Eternal’s design. “What use is free will,” she often muttered to herself, “if it is wielded only to destroy?” Yet even in her bitterness, she vowed to help where she could, to mend what she saw as a flawed experiment.
As Ava grew more accustomed to her new form, her perspective began to shift. She saw humanity’s capacity for resilience and love, but it was forever eclipsed by their propensity for cruelty. She watched with weary eyes as settlers encroached on the Cherokee’s new lands, breaking treaties almost as soon as they were signed.
She saw the scars left on the people around her—not just physical wounds but the deeper ones, the ones etched into their spirits.
“This is what you made,” she whispered to the sky one night, her voice raw. “This is your grand creation: a species that builds monuments with one hand and tears each other apart with the other.”
Yet even as she cursed the Eternal, she found herself unable to abandon the humans she had once served. She resolved to help them, to fix what she could, even if it meant bending—or breaking—the rules she had once obeyed.
At first, her interference was subtle. When a settler’s child wandered too close to the edge of the forest and nearly drowned in the river, Ava pulled the boy to safety and carried him back to his parents. They called it a miracle.
When sickness swept through the settlement, she stayed awake for days, using her knowledge of herbs and medicine to tend to the dying. Though her remedies were rudimentary, they often worked. Whispers began to spread about the strange woman at the edge of the Cherokee lands, a healer who seemed otherworldly.
But as time went on, Ava’s actions grew bolder. When she saw a settler strike a Cherokee man in the street, she stepped in, her voice booming with a command that made the settler drop his weapon and stumble back in fear. The Cherokee man looked at her with a mixture of gratitude and unease.
“You’re meddling,” he said softly. “That’s not our way.”
“It should be,” she replied, her tone sharp.
Her anger became harder to contain. One night, when a group of settlers set fire to a Cherokee barn, Ava confronted them in the darkness. She didn’t speak, but her presence—her eyes blazing with a green intensity no mortal could have—sent the men fleeing into the night.
The Cherokee began to fear her as much as they respected her. “You’re not one of us,” they told her, though they never drove her away.
Her sense of justice, once tempered by mercy, became rigid and unyielding. She saw herself not as a guide but as a force, a hand that would correct humanity’s wrongs where the Eternal would not.
But the more she interfered, the less she recognized herself. Her body began to feel heavier, her heart darker. She realized with dread that her actions were not making things better—they were deepening the wounds.
“Maybe humanity isn’t broken,” she whispered to herself one night, staring at her reflection in the river. “Maybe I am.”
By the time Ava realized the weight of her overreach, the damage had been done. The Cherokee she had tried to help grew wary of her, sensing something unnatural in her presence. The settlers who once called her a miracle worker now whispered of curses. Ava, left the village to wander the wilderness, but...
One day, she would feel the familiar and instinctual pull towards a human again…a new ward.