They were not ghosts. They were not demons. They were something older. Translucent figures with faces like crumpled parchment, drifting through walls and windows, searching. Always searching. Their hands reached toward the sleeping, fingers twitching as if plucking invisible threads from the air. And when their hollow gazes met a pair of open eyes, they would stop. Tilt their heads. Smile.
And in that moment, with death curling its fingers around his soul, Zaviel made a choice he had never made before. zaviel
“Close.” The voice was directly in front of him now. Too close. “Open your eyes.” They were not ghosts
The sun rose. The Weeper faded with the shadows, but not before pressing something small and warm into Zaviel’s palm. When he looked down, it was a key—old, iron, rusted. And when their hollow gazes met a pair
He opened his eyes.