Page 38 of Whispers of Helena
The curtain stays pinned back in her grip, framing her like a ghostly portrait against the dim glow of her room. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, loose and wild, as if she hadn’t slept either. I try to make sense of the look she’s giving me, but it’s slippery, shifting between curiosity and knowledge.
The burn that wrapped me, the fire that squeezed the air from my lungs, lingers in my memory. Was it real? Or is my mind still playing tricks on me?
"Helena," I whisper hoarsely, my voice swallowed up by the empty yard between us. I know she can’t hear me, but her head tilts again, as if in response. As if she knows exactly what I said.
I consider going inside, walking away from this strange standoff, but my legs refuse to move. My hands curl into fists, the faint dampness of sweat on my palms irritating against the rough textureof my calloused skin. For a moment, it feels as though the rest of the world fades away: the barn, the rising dawn, even the ache of grief that had followed me out here. There’s only her.
And yet, she finally moves.
Slowly, Helena lets the curtain fall back into place, breaking the connection. The fabric shrouds her figure until the window becomes a cold, reflective pane once more.
I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at that window. The thought of heading inside suddenly feels impossible. Shadow’s soft whicker echoes from the barn, breaking the spell. I glance over my shoulder, and for a fleeting moment, I consider going back to the stables, letting the quiet company of a horse ground me again.
Instead, I drag my boots up the steps, shoulders heavy with the ferocity of that gaze still clinging to me. Once inside, I let the cool of the house’s shadow drape over me, closing the door softly behind me.
The stairs creak as I take them one by one, each sound too loud in the silence. My room offers no comfort. Caroline's chair stands like a sentinel in the corner, waiting for me to confront its presence, its emptiness.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, hands braced against my thighs, watching the sliver of pale dawn creeping through the curtains.
"What's happening to me?" I wonder, my voice cracking under the weight of too many questions I can't answer.
Outside, a soft wind stirs, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls.
Unraveling
Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me.
John 14:1
Lettingthe curtain swing back into place, I retreat to my bed, the room dim and heavy with shadows that the pale dawn can’t reach. The quilt is cool against my skin as I pull it over my shoulders, though it does little to ease the deep weariness settling into my bones. Exhaustion wraps around me like an old, familiar friend, the kind I’ve worn before but never quite gotten used to.
It takes so much more energy than I can afford to call out to him like this. To reach through the veils of reality and dream. Tonight was different, though. Tonight, I walked beside him, felt his warmth again, even if only in the fragile space between sleep and waking.
The memory of his hand, the rough gentleness of it grazing mine, remains like an imprint on mine. Even in a dreamstate, his touch felt like home, a sanctuary I’ve long since been locked out of. His eyes—full of love, longing, and all the unspoken things wenever had time to say, pierce through me even now. The exhaustion I feel right now was worth it.
The sounds of the house drift into my room. The creak of the stairs under the weight of his boots pulls me back. My heart quickens at the rhythm of his approach. I don’t move. I don’t dare.
He pauses outside my door.
I don’t need to see him to know he’s there. His presence spills through the thin barrier of wood, brushing against my senses. The intensity of his conflict is tangible in the air. The storm inside him still thrashes, and for a moment, I hold my breath, afraid I might accidentally summon him closer, or push him away altogether.
Instead, I close my eyes, forcing my mind to quiet, focusing on the whispered prayer I send up. A whispered plea of thanks to God for allowing me even this small moment of closeness.
A warmth blooms inside me, elusive and fragile, as I let the stillness take over. I am breaking through, bit by bit. I can feel it. Each hesitation in his step, each fleeting second his thoughts linger on me, is a crack in the wall he’s built around himself.
I smile softly against the pillow, though it wavers at the edges. There’s so much farther to go. But for tonight, this is enough.
Six Months Ago
The voice fills the dining hall, a sonorous call that thrums with a power beyond words, reverberating through the very fabric of my being. “Caroline Hayes.”
Kiran, cradled against my hip, shifts, his small fingers clutching my gown. I can feel his warmth, his purity, his boundless love. The kind that only exists in heaven. His radiant smile fills my heart even as a fluttering hope begins to rise within me.
Guided by an instinct older than time itself, I step out of the dining hall, down the crystalline corridors bathed in a light that seems to pulse with life. The ethereal glow bends around us, as if cradling both me and the child, softening our journey toward thegreat hall. Each step echoes lightly, resonating not just through the walls, but through my soul.
"Caroline Hayes," the gentle voice intones again. "Zadkiel will see you now."
Zadkiel.My breath catches, and my steps falter for a heartbeat before steadying. The Angel of Mercy. For eons, it seems, I have waited for this—prayedfor this. I have been called by others before, charged with ushering souls to their rest, but none of those missions held the magnitude of this one. This ishiscall. The call that could reunite me with my Silas.
