The world didn’t speak. It whispered—and only his name.

  Casimir moved through the fog like a man half-called, half-dragged. The trees bowed. Not from wind, but from attention. Shrubs, trees, and all else that grew rustled in unison, not randomly, but rhythmically.

  He knew better than to listen to its hypnotic lure, but something sweet pulled at the edge of his thoughts—something that kept him moving forward without hesitation.

  It wasn’t memory, nor was it hunger, but the echo of something just for him.

  Below, fog coiled, damp and warm, clinging like breath from a mouth that wasn’t there. Flowing over his feet like a frothy tidal wave at the shoreline.

  Out of the blue, his stomach twisted again—but this wasn’t just his body begging for a morsel.

  He gripped his chest, winced. Briefly. Quietly. This hunger wasn’t of his own making.

  Breaking the pain, somewhere ahead unseen, a bell tolled.

  Once.

  Muted, like it passed through water, or faint as if it were muffled in a dream.

  “You hear that, Hal?” Casimir whispered. “Or am I imagining things again?”

  “I don’t hear much where you keep me,” Hal Muttered. “But your stomach’s louder than you are at prayer.”

  Casimir didn’t smile, but he did open up Hal’s satchel a bit more for him to hear and see the wilds abound.

  “Surely you jest, Hal—” Casimir started with a whining growl from within. “...say nothing of it.”

  “I don’t have to. You’re already very clear without speaking on what you truly need.” Hal pointedly stated.

  “Hunger is forever,” Casimir’s tone shifted, gravelly almost. “Relics are forgotten. They’re lost to time. Buried under stone and never seen again.”

  “And the whispers,” Hal snorted. “They’re forever too—if you allow it.”

  A deafening quiet fell upon both their ears. Eerie. Casimir leered into the fog, but it was like a thick pasty wall. The dew dropped from leaves and soddened his clothes. Every step forward felt like a stroll through sorrow—like something wept overhead for him.

  “What was it that old goat said,” Hal broke the dampening silence. “Something about a bell not tolling for the living? How did she say it?”

  Casimir remembered the woman from the last town—voice ragged and drawn, hoarse with age and a life of hardship left uncared for.

  “If you hear the chapel bell, keep walking. It don’t toll for the living—it tolls for those still pretending to be.”

  “Oh… her,” Casimir sighed. “Hal, her breath, her teeth, her everything. She wasn’t a wealth of knowledge—she was a loon.”

  “Besides… the church is abandoned,” Casimir sidled a smirk across his cheeks “Who in their right mind would be out here—”

  Somewhere unseen—far off, but aimed only at them—the bell.

  It tolled again.

  A metallic clang that pierced the forest’s thick brush.

  The ghostly ring sent a chill down Casimir’s spine. It was abnormal. Not the usual procession for a gathering mass.

  Casimir flinched. “Perhaps it may not be abandoned….”

  “No chapel ever is,” Came a reply—from Hal in the satchel at his hip. “Abandonment in flesh differs from abandonment in spirit. I should know….”

  Gut growling again, like a rippling groan tumbling over itself.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Hal asked. “I mean for food—not greed!”

  “I am!” Casimir snapped. “End of discussion… we’re getting bread.”

  Lost in thought, Casimir stood patiently. Drinking in a deep breath. Inhaling the lush green, the wet, even the rot….

  This forest was alive. Like a large beast breathing. The fog was as warm and wet as its breath, and the trees stretched out like its protruding limbs. But every cautious step felt like something or someone was watching.

  Observing.

  Through the brush the bell rang.

  It wasn’t louder, but it sounded closer.

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  Casimir leaned forward, squinting into the mist.

  The fog recoiled—as though the forest had just inhaled.

  Then he saw it.

  Drawn across a pale grey canvas, rising from lush green pasture, a crooked silhouette formed slowly. First the steeple, then the bell tower. Its point was bent like a broken finger beckoning him closer. The chapel emerged not from shadow, but from intention. It didn’t feel discovered—it felt delivered.

  “Charming,” Hal muttered. “Do you think it’ll offer that bread you seek, or just the body?”

  Casimir said nothing. He shook his head—slow, uncertain.

  “Something doesn’t seem right,” Hal added, voice pitched now—unsettled. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  Casimir didn’t stop walking. “Hal… What other massive church would just emerge forward through the fog like it was on wheels?”

  “I’ve seen outhouses more inviting. At least they’re honest.” Hal poked.

  Casimir walked faster now—impatient, almost compelled. But the more he moved, the further the chapel leaned away. The fields stretched unnaturally. The distance grew. The steeples thinned, retreating like a mirror drawn slowly backward.

  “Can I say something?” Hal asked, tone shifted, brittle now.

  Casimir didn’t answer. He just kept walking.

  The rattling of the bell sounded off—almost like it was goading Casimir to keep trying.

  But it was still distant. Still soft. Despite being right there before their very eyes.

  “I’m going to hog-tie that bell-bearer when I get there.” Casimir steamed.

  He angrily pushed forward—but gained no ground. It was a mirage. Or worse—a memory trying to forget him.

  Again, Casimir walked forward, but to no avail… not an inch closer. Every step seemed to place him further away… not nearer.

  Tempered, he snapped.

  Broke into a sprint.

  Step after step—closer… no, further?

  His hair whipped back in the stale wind. Breath ragged. Heart pounding.

  After a dozen strides, he collapsed—knees hitting the earth, one arm across his gut, breath sawing through clenched teeth.

  “Forget it,” Casimir growled, waving his arm to dismiss the chapel. “Let it rot. We’ll find something else.”

  Hal didn’t reply.

  “I’m starving, Hal.” He spat the words like blood. “We’ll just look elsewhere.”

  Hal remained silent.

  “It never ends,” he whispered. “Not the walk. Not the Brand…”

  Then—quietly, without ceremony—he added:

  “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore… I just exist to feed.”

  That did it.

  The final toll rang out.

  Heavier. Louder. But somehow inviting. It was like a call to gather. A call to join.

  Hal’s voice, low now.

  “That’s not an echo,” He said. “That’s a welcoming. Well… best we turn back say we were here… right?”

  Casimir ignored Hal’s words and crept forward. This time, the gates did not retreat.

  He walked on—slowly, deliberately—eyes flicking left and right, daring the illusion to return. But the chapel remained tall and foreboding. Eyes heavy as he stared upon the height of the steeple—in awe that man could build so high. Its peak pierced the low bearing clouds and dripped down a stream of water, like the heavens shed tears for this forgotten holy sanctum.

  A faint smile touched his lips—cold, thin. Wet, hungry, wrapped in tattered cloth—he arrived not as a man, but as a pilgrim at journey’s end. Dusty. Dirty. Unenlightened.

  The gates awaited his arrival, however, these gates were not pearly. They were rusted over and corroded.

  Wrought iron curled above, tangled in ivy and thorn. Angels danced in the metalwork—play-frozen, their forms half-devoured by vines. The cobbled courtyard slick with moss and memory.

  Through the gate, statues lined the path. One at the center—worn near featureless.

  As he passed it, a whisper stirred the air:

  “Qui satiatur, non quaerit—He who is full no longer seeks.”

  Casimir paused. “Did you hear that…?”

  “I may not have visible ears,” Hal muttered, “But yes I can. We can scratch hearing a dead language in a dead chapel off our bucket list.”

  Casimir brushed his fingers along the statue’s cool stone—feminine, perhaps angelic. Its face half-missing. Still, there was beauty in the ruin.

  But something gnawed at him. Something was amiss… the chapel, the grounds, unkempt and lost to time, yet someone still rings the bell. Why?

  Looking at the cracked and carved bell-tower, it sat motionless. Not even slightly swaying. Did it even move? Was that sound real?

  With grace, he moved up the steps—minding for any other trickery.

  But there he was now. Motionless before the door. Looming large. Bold. If it could cast a shadow, he’d be engulfed.

  Closing his eyes briefly, he held his breath with a wince of slight pain–gripping his chest.

  “Careful,” Hal whispered. “We’re near now—the relic calls—and so too does the brand.”

  Reaching forth, he placed his hand on the door.

  And peace found him.

  Like flood water—rushing straight into his chest—it soothed his burning brand.

  “Casimir?” Hal’s voice. Shaken. Small.

  Then, softly, from the air—or his bones:

  “Inanis es, et semper esuries—You are empty, and always you hunger.”

  “I am…” Casimir hypnotically spoke. “…empty.”

  And the door moved. Not by his strength. But by hands unseen—as if the church itself had accepted his confession and opened to him.

  Swinging inward, the rusty clinks and clanks clattered the air with the grinding of the threshold as the door was pressed inward.