Chapter Text
“Come here, my darling,” your grandpa whispered.
His voice was barely audible over the hum of the hospice room's machines, the kind of place where time seemed to hang in the air like dust motes in sunlight. You pulled a faded plastic chair close and sat beside him, close enough to feel the warmth still lingering in his frail hand.
The room was quiet, save for the soft rhythm of his breathing and the occasional creak of the old ceiling fan above. It smelled of antiseptic and peppermint—the latter from the tin he insisted on keeping by his bedside, even when he couldn’t lift the lid anymore.
Your body ached. Not from physical strain, but from the kind of tiredness that nestled deep in your bones. The kind that comes from waiting. From bracing. From knowing the end is coming, and being helpless to stop it.
“I’ll be reuniting with your grandmother soon,” he said, voice raspy and dry, like brittle leaves rustling in the wind.
His eyes were distant, but soft, focused somewhere far beyond the hospital walls. Maybe even past this world entirely.
You swallowed around the knot in your throat and nodded.
“She’ll be happy to see you again.”
He smiled faintly. “She’ll scold me for being late.”
You let out a weak laugh, blinking fast.
“Better late than never.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. His hand twitched slightly in yours—an old reflex of affection. And you stayed like that, fingers entwined, while the weight of the years settled quietly between you.
Your cousins had all said their goodbyes weeks ago—those who even bothered to come. They had their own lives, their own cities, their own distractions. But you had always been the one who stayed. The one who listened. The one who asked about his stories, even when they rambled.
And you had loved those stories—about the old village, tucked between forests and forgotten gods, where he and your grandmother had built a little life out of wildflowers and ritual smoke. You never thought those tales were real. Not really. But the way he spoke of them... it had always felt like they belonged to a different world. A quieter, stranger one.
He turned his head slightly toward you, eyelids fluttering like the last flickers of candlelight.
“The land will call to you, soon.”
You blinked.
“What do you mean?”
But his eyes were already closing. His breathing grew shallower with each passing moment, until finally, it stopped.
You didn’t cry at first. You just sat there, staring at the way his face had softened—as though even death was gentle with him. Outside the window, the wind stirred the trees.
And for a moment, you could swear you heard the distant toll of a church bell.
But no churches stood near this place.
Years passed.
The seasons changed without meaning. Birthdays came and went. You answered emails. Clocked in. Clocked out. Ate dinner alone. Scrolled your phone late into the night, too tired to dream and too numb to care.
Your apartment was small and gray, tucked between buildings that all looked the same. You had fluorescent lights instead of stars. Traffic instead of birdsong. A stale desk job that drained you in slow, invisible ways.
You weren’t even sure what your title was anymore. Assistant? Coordinator? Some flavor of “replaceable,” no doubt. Your coworkers were polite enough, but they never looked anyone in the eye. Everything smelled faintly of burnt coffee and unspoken misery.
You still visited the hospice sometimes. Not for anyone, really—just to walk the halls. To remember.
To listen for ghosts.
One rainy Tuesday, your manager pulled you into a meeting and asked you to start coming in earlier. No raise. No promotion. Just “more dedication.” You nodded because that’s what you did.
That night, you went home and stared at the ceiling for hours, the rain drumming steadily against your window like a slow, ticking clock.
And then, sometime before dawn, you opened your grandfather’s old chest—the one you’d kept sealed for years.
Inside was a yellowed envelope with your name on it, written in his unmistakably careful hand. Beneath it, folded maps. Pressed flowers. A worn photograph of your grandparents, smiling in front of a crooked little farmhouse, wild roses growing up the side.
You unfolded the letter with trembling fingers.
His handwriting, though shakier than you remembered, still held the same deliberate care.
My dearest,
If you're reading this, then the world has likely worn you thin. And if that’s the case—good. It means you're ready. The farm is yours now. It always was, in time.
I left you something more than just land and soil. You’ll see, soon enough. There are things in that village—things the world has forgotten. But they haven’t forgotten us.
I was never alone there. Not really. Even in the quiet, I was surrounded by friends. Family. The land itself.
Nihil—yes, old Nihil, the mayor—he’ll know what to do when you arrive. Tell him you’re mine. He’ll pretend he doesn’t care, but he’ll help you. He’s a grumpy bastard, but he has a soft spot for lost things.
The others will find you too, in their own time. Don’t be afraid when they do. They’re odd. But kind. In their own strange ways.
I hope you’ll find what I found there: peace. Love. Maybe even something sacred.
When the moon is high, listen to the wind. It carries whispers, if you’re quiet enough.
Rest when you need to. Dig your hands into the earth. Let it remember you.
And remember—nothing is ever truly gone.
With all my love,
Grandpa.
You stared at the page for a long time. Outside, the rain had stopped. The city was still dark, but you felt something shift. Something small. Like a door unlocking inside you.
By morning, you had submitted your resignation, packed a suitcase, and bought a one-way train ticket to a place the world had long since forgotten.
You didn’t know what waited for you out there.
But something was calling.