The chapel is silent. The others are gone. Only you remain, kneeling before the altar, but you don't pray. You wait. What for though? You're not sure.

Once your eyes open, your gaze lands on something particular. You reach out, your fingers brush a floorboard behind the altar. Loose. You pull it free.

There's nothing. Only dust and stone, cold, ancient.

Then—

"You came again."

A voice. Not spoken aloud — it blooms inside you. Velvet and fire, grief and honey.

You freeze.

"Do not be afraid. I know you."

Your heart pounds.

"You speak to a god who does not answer...But I have always listened."

You should leave. Yet you don’t.

"Say my name," it whispers. "Or let me give it to you."

And for the first time, you don’t pray. You stay. You listen.