The wind howled against the walls of his room, a voice carried on the wings of winter, cold and unyielding. Snow drifted in thick, choking waves outside his window, a veil of white that blurred the line between night and day. Cal lay on his bed, the blankets twisted around him like some half-forgotten dream, and yet, the real world felt distant, fading.
His eyes stared up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster as though they might hold the answers he sought. His thoughts, no longer tethered to any firm reality, drifted like the storm outside—whirling in a chaos that left no clear path, no steady ground. He couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed, something irreversible.
The ring on his finger felt heavy, as though it had taken root in his skin, a part of him that shouldn't be there. He had tried to pull it off again, in the quiet moments of solitude, but it refused to yield. It was no longer just metal—it was a presence, an unspoken promise that chilled him to the bone.
The wind whispered through the cracks in the window, sending a shiver down his spine. Was this how it would always be now? He wondered. The world felt less like something he inhabited and more like something he observed. The edges of his vision seemed to blur, the sharp lines of reality softening into something distant, something unreachable.
Outside, the storm roared on, but inside, the air was suffocatingly still. The candle on the bedside table flickered weakly, casting long, dancing shadows that stretched across the walls like the fingers of ghosts, reaching for him, pulling him deeper into himself. Cal swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat didn't vanish. The question lingered, heavy and thick in his chest—What have I done?
In the silence of the room, he could almost hear the echo of the words, the strange language from the page, the hum that had filled his ears. "annglacanntúnafocail?." The phrase looped in his mind like a broken song, each repetition deepening the sense of something untold, something ancient that had now begun to unfurl, just beneath his skin.
He closed his eyes, the weight of exhaustion pressing on him, but sleep eluded him. His mind wouldn't stop turning, spinning its endless web of thoughts, each one tangling with the next. The storm outside was relentless, but it no longer mattered—everything was distant, hollow, like the world itself was locked away behind a thick pane of glass. He could see it, he could hear it, but it no longer felt real.
A soft breath escaped him, and he turned his head, staring at the faint reflection in the window. He saw himself, but it wasn't him—not truly. The boy in the glass was a shadow, a fragment, a stranger whose face he couldn't quite recognize. Cal swallowed, feeling the pit in his stomach deepen. Was it fear? Or just the crushing weight of insignificance, the hollow realization that everything he thought he knew had just cracked wide open?
He had always dreamed of a different life—one where he wasn't stuck in this loop of errands and empty days, always chasing something just out of reach. He had felt it for years, the dull ache in his chest—the desire for change, for something more. But it was always just a dream, wasn't it? A fantasy built of wishes, nothing more. And yet, even as the familiar weight of insignificance pressed down on him, the thought lingered, uninvited and heavy: maybe this life, this boring fate, could change. Maybe it didn't have to be this way forever.
The thoughts spiraled, racing faster than his mind could follow, and he could feel the tug of something, a quiet push urging him toward the unknown, toward the possibility of something else. He couldn't help but wonder—was this it? Was this the moment, the crack in his existence that had always been waiting to happen? He had felt undersimulated in this life for so long, had felt the endless stretch of time that led him nowhere, but the possibility that something could change now, something profound, tugged at him in ways he didn't fully understand.
His heart thudded painfully in his chest. Was this what he had been waiting for? This sudden awareness that the life he had resigned himself to could, maybe, become something else entirely?
The snow outside continued to fall, each flake a fleeting thing, vanishing before it could settle, like the thoughts he tried to catch in his mind—slipping through his fingers, never staying long enough to make sense. His breath fogged the glass, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw something in the reflection—something behind him, moving.
His heart stopped.
He twisted around, but the room was empty, the shadows unmoving. Only the wind, ever present, whispering through the cracks in the walls. The storm raged on.
Cal's eyes returned to the window, staring at the blizzard outside, as the weight of the ring seemed to grow heavier, pressing against him like an invisible hand.
What had he done? The question didn't seem to have an answer.
And yet, in the quiet, in the strange emptiness of the room, he could almost hear it. The faintest whisper of the voice, distant but unmistakable, as though it had never truly left.
"Let another never stand as I did—watching, wishing, too late."
The words chilled him to the bone, and the room felt colder still, as though something was waiting, something that had always been there but had never been seen—until now.Cal's heart pounded in his chest as the words echoed in his mind, the whisper of something more that had always been just out of reach. He had always dreamed it, a life of purpose, of meaning, of something more than the empty, monotonous days that bled into one another. For as long as he could remember, he had felt trapped, like a bird in a cage too small for its wings. He had been tethered to this life, this errand he called his existence, unable to break free from the dull routine that suffocated him.
But now, as the storm outside raged on and the weight of the ring pressed on his finger like a constant reminder, the thought crept in—could this life change? Could it really?
For a moment, the uncertainty paralyzed him. He had been stuck in a world that felt so narrow, so limited, that it was hard to even imagine another reality. He had resigned himself to this fate, telling himself that the dreams he once had were just that—dreams. Nothing more. He wasn't the type to change anything. He was the type who watched life pass by, like a spectator in his own story.
But now… now, as he lay there, the faintest glimmer of possibility shone through the cracks in his mind. The words whispered in his ear—"watching, wishing, too late." It was like a call to action, an invitation to break free from the shackles of his old self, to finally step out of the shadow of the life he had always known and into something unknown, something different.
What if this was it? What if this was the moment that changed everything?
The world felt strange, almost surreal now. The way his thoughts were untangling from the confines of the mundane, how the ring on his finger no longer felt like a burden, but something that had unlocked a door he never thought possible. The sense of something more stirred inside him, a seed planted in the quietest corner of his soul, waiting to grow.
Could he change? Could he finally live the life he had always imagined? A life not bound by the chains of routine, but one that unfolded with purpose, with direction? He had always felt like something was missing—like there had to be more to life than this.
His gaze drifted once more to the window, watching the snow fall, each flake a perfect, fleeting thing that seemed to disappear before it could ever settle. It was like his life, he realized. Fleeting. Full of potential but never truly taking shape. But maybe, just maybe, he could change that. The winds outside whispered to him, urging him to take the step, to stop wishing for something different and make it happen.
The question still lingered—could this life really change? The thought terrified him, but it also filled him with a strange exhilaration. It was the kind of feeling he had longed for, the kind of feeling that made him believe that there could be more than just the endless monotony.
For the first time in a long time, Cal felt something stir deep within him. The words from the strange language—the hum that had filled his ears earlier—began to pulse in his chest, resonating with the rhythm of his heartbeat. It was like a promise, a calling he couldn't ignore, no matter how deeply the doubt tried to settle.
He could feel it, that shift. The world outside felt cold, but inside, something was warming, something that urged him to make a choice. To stop wishing for the life he wanted, and to take it. He could sense the possibility in the air, thick and tangible, like the scent of rain before a storm. It was there, just waiting for him to reach out.
The wind howled again, a sharp cry that seemed to pierce through the stillness of the room. He felt it in his bones—the pull, the urge to move, to act. The ring on his finger, once a symbol of constraint, now felt like a key. A key to something larger, something beyond the life he had always known.
Could it change? Could he change? The answer wasn't clear yet, but something deep inside him urged him forward. Maybe this was the moment when everything shifted, when he stepped off the path that had been set for him and carved out his own.
The whisper, that same voice that had echoed through his mind, seemed to grow louder, more insistent: Let another never stand as I did—watching, wishing, too late.
Cal closed his eyes, a shiver running through him. He could feel it, that moment hanging in the air, thick with possibility. Maybe he wasn't meant to live the life he had always known. Maybe there was something else waiting for him out there, something he couldn't see yet, but he could feel it, just beyond the reach of his understanding.
The snow continued to fall, but the weight of the world, of his choices, felt lighter. The storm outside didn't seem so relentless anymore. There was something new in the air—a spark of change, of action, of purpose.
He wasn't sure what would come next, but he felt something stirring within him, something that had been dormant for so long. The life he had always dreamed of—maybe it was finally within his reach.
And with that thought, he stood, as if the act of standing itself had broken the invisible chains that had bound him to this moment. Something had shifted. And whether or not he was ready, he knew that he could no longer go back. The path ahead, uncertain as it was, was now his to choose.
Cal rose from his bed, the weight of his thoughts still pressing on him, but the quiet urgency of hunger drove him forward. His eyes lingered on the window, where the storm had yet to abate. The dark silhouette of the world outside seemed to mock him, a reflection of his own disconnected feelings.
He slid his feet into worn shoes, the creaking of the floorboards almost too loud in the silence. The air in the hallway was colder than usual, as if it too felt the shifting of something deeper, something he couldn't yet name. As he walked down the narrow corridor towards the mess hall, he found himself observing everything more sharply. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows against the stone walls, twisting them into strange, mocking shapes. The dull murmur of other pages' voices grew louder as he neared, the buzz of their chatter filling the air.
They were already gathered at the long, rough-hewn table, eyes lowered, minds somewhere far less demanding than his. Their voices were loud with meaningless chatter, empty jokes and laughter that held no real substance. It was easy to feel distant, easy to see the gaps in their words, the lack of understanding in their eyes.
Cal slid into a seat at the far end, his usual spot, and began picking at his food without much interest. The bread was stale, the stew watery and flavorless. He watched the others, noting the way they stuffed their mouths, oblivious to the world beyond their simple, repetitive lives. They were content to be here, to live this monotonous existence, and he could hardly fathom it.
One of the younger pages, a boy named Finn, leaned over and whispered something about a game they were planning to play later. Cal caught the words, but they meant nothing to him. He simply nodded, offering a noncommittal grunt, but his eyes never left the others. How could they not see what this life was? How could they not feel the suffocating boredom, the hollow weight of living just for the sake of living?
"Don't you ever wonder about more?" he asked, his voice low, almost lost in the hum of conversation. His gaze locked onto Finn, who was too busy fumbling with his spoon to notice the quiet intensity in Cal's eyes. "I mean, don't you ever think about how pointless our missions are?"
Finn looked up, puzzled for a moment. His youthful face was still soft with innocence, and in that moment, Cal envied him. It must be nice to live without this nagging sense of something missing, of a greater purpose slipping just out of reach.
"What do you mean?" Finn asked, his tone wary, as if Cal had spoken a forbidden thing.
Cal leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing. "I mean this," he gestured loosely around the table, the flickering light, the half-eaten food, the droning voices of the others. "This is it, right? A life spent doing nothing but chores, following orders. Is this really all there is? A fate decided for you before you were even born?"
Finn froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. His eyes darted nervously toward the others, but no one seemed to have heard. Still, he leaned closer, voice lowered, urgent.
"Cal, don't say things like that," he whispered sharply, the boyishness in his voice suddenly overtaken by fear. "You're talking like a heretic, what happened to you today?"
Cal blinked slowly, the sharp word heretic still ringing in his ears like the lingering toll of a distant bell. He hadn't meant to speak so plainly. Not here. Not where shadows clung to every wall, and trust was thinner than the broth in their bowls.
His gaze flicked around the hall—quick, practiced. No eyes turned toward him. No sudden hush in the chatter. The world hadn't heard. But Finn had. And that was enough.
He looked back to the boy, who was still watching him with that wide-eyed tension, as if Cal had cracked open the floor beneath their feet.
"Sorry," Cal said quietly, just loud enough for Finn to hear, his voice losing its edge. "I was just... tired and angry. Didn't mean it like that."
Finn didn't nod, didn't speak. He only turned back to his food, stirring it slowly, warily.
Cal let out a slow breath, lowering his eyes. The moment had passed, but something inside him had shifted—tightened. The reckless curiosity from earlier folded in on itself, becoming something leaner. Something smarter.
He pushed at his stew with the edge of his spoon, making idle circles in the watery surface. The room felt colder now, like the air itself had leaned in to listen. The long wooden table creaked beneath the weight of tired arms and unspoken things. The flickering torchlight no longer danced—it twitched.
He didn't speak again.
Cal walked away from the warmth of the fire, the sound of laughter and conversation fading behind him. The cold hit him immediately, sharp and unforgiving, creeping beneath the layers of his clothes. It wasn't the kind of cold that stung or numbed you immediately. No, it was the kind that settled deep, slowly, like a creeping fog that made everything feel distant and hollow.
He didn't have a destination in mind; it didn't matter. The snow crunched softly beneath his boots, and the wind picked up, howling through the night, a relentless reminder of how small he was in the vastness of it all. The world felt like it was closing in on him, and the storm felt like a way to escape it—if only for a few moments.
His thoughts wandered as he walked, aimless. The flickering image of the ring, cold metal against his skin, lingered in his mind. It felt foreign to him, almost like it didn't belong, but he wore it anyway. There was something about it that pulled at him, something he didn't understand. The whispers that sometimes fluttered through his mind when he touched it... he didn't know what to make of them. It was just a ring, wasn't it? He tried to shake the thought, but it wouldn't leave. The wind picked up, swirling the snow around him, biting into his exposed skin.
His boots sunk deeper into the snow with each step, the path he was following growing more indistinct. There was nothing here. Just snow and wind, and the distant hum of something he couldn't quite grasp. He thought back to the dinner, to the faces gathered around the warmth, the conversations that seemed so far removed from him. The weight of isolation pressed in, heavier than the cold that enveloped him.
He had always felt like an outsider. It wasn't just the ring. It was the life he had, the choices he'd made—or hadn't made. Everything felt like it was moving forward without him, like he was watching from a distance, trying to figure out where he fit in the grand scheme of things. But there was no place for him. Not really.
His thoughts were interrupted when something caught his eye—a flicker in the distance. He paused, squinting into the swirling snow. For a moment, he thought it was just the wind playing tricks on him, but then it moved again, swift and ethereal. A figure, as light and fleeting as the storm itself. The figure was almost impossible to make out through the snow, but there was something unmistakable about it. Long, flowing hair, the color of the snow itself, cascading like a veil around a face he couldn't see.
Cal's heart skipped, his pulse quickening. A soft, sorrowful tune filled the air, drifting through the storm like a distant memory. The sound of an harp, delicate and mournful, as if each note was a sigh carried on the wind. He could feel it in his chest, this aching beauty. It was so soft, so haunting, it almost seemed like it belonged to the very storm itself.
He stood there, frozen, staring at the figure. She was playing something, an instrument he couldn't see, her hands moving with fluid grace. The music hung in the air, each note almost tangible, as though it could reach out and touch him. There was something ancient about the melody, something familiar, but out of reach. He couldn't tear his eyes away, even though the figure seemed as fleeting as the wind.
Then, as quickly as she had appeared, the figure was gone, swallowed by the storm. The music, too, faded into the wind, leaving only the howling silence in its wake. Cal's breath caught in his throat. His thoughts scattered, trying to hold onto something that wasn't there anymore. Had he imagined it? Had the storm conjured it in his mind, a product of his own exhaustion and solitude?
He shook his head, trying to clear the haze that seemed to have settled over him. But the feeling didn't leave. It lingered, like a dream half-remembered. His fingers instinctively brushed the ring on his finger, the cold metal now feeling heavier than before. Could the figure—could the song—be connected to the ring? It was a ridiculous thought, but something about the music, the sorrow in it, felt tied to him in a way he couldn't explain. He had no answers, no explanations, just an overwhelming sense that he was standing on the edge of something—something important, something he wasn't ready for.
The wind bit at his skin, and he suddenly felt tired, so tired. The weight of everything pressed down on him—his thoughts, the storm, the endlessness of it all. He didn't know what he was searching for. The figure in the snow, the music, the ring—it all felt like pieces of something too big for him to understand. Maybe he was too tired for this. Maybe it wasn't worth trying to figure out tonight.
With a heavy sigh, he turned, his boots crunching softly in the snow as he made his way back toward the warmth of the house. His mind felt sluggish, the questions swirling around him like the storm itself, but he didn't have the energy to follow them. Not now. He just needed to sleep, to forget it all for a little while.
By the time he reached his room, the fire in the hearth had long since burned down to embers, casting faint shadows against the walls. He sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the day settling in his bones. The cold from the storm still clung to him, but he didn't move to strip off his wet clothes. Instead, he just sat there, staring into the darkness.
His fingers brushed the ring again, the cold metal grounding him in the quiet, in the stillness of the room. It was all too much. The figure, the music, the storm—it was like trying to hold onto something that was always slipping away. He felt small, like a child lost in the woods, trying to make sense of things he couldn't understand.
With a heavy heart, he lay back on the bed, his mind racing, but his body too tired to follow. As his eyes closed, the last thing he heard was the faintest echo of that sorrowful tune, carried on the wind, just beyond reach.