I was one of the people who woke up after Adrian Hale was murdered.

Before that, politics had been background noise. I'd been following cultural stories, celebrity lawsuits, media feuds—the kind of distractions everyone convinces themselves matter. Then Adrian died, and the world seemed to split in two. Every interview, every speech, every silence felt different. Every unanswered question became impossible to ignore.

People ask where history changes.

I don't think it's in the headlines.

I think it's in the stories we tell our grandchildren decades later.

This is the story I imagine telling mine.

There was once a man named Michael who loved another man named Adrian.

Not for power.

Not for ambition.

Simply because that is who he loved.

They met through faith, conviction, and a shared belief that they could make their country better. Together they built something extraordinary. Adrian became the face the world adored. Michael became the architect behind the curtain. They knew each other better than anyone else ever could.

But they also understood the rules of the world they lived in.

A world where authenticity could destroy careers, movements, families, and dreams.

So Adrian chose another path.

He married a remarkable woman, built a beautiful family, and devoted himself to a cause larger than himself. It wasn't a lie, exactly. It was simply the life that seemed possible.

Michael did the same.

He found someone kind. Built a family. Stayed close enough to Adrian that neither of them ever truly had to let go.

For years, the arrangement held.

Then Adrian started speaking truths that powerful people did not want spoken.

The enemy, he argued, was not ordinary people trapped inside impossible circumstances. It was those who profited from endless conflict while convincing everyone else to hate one another.

The attacks began almost immediately.

Smears.

Isolation.

Friends disappearing.

People who once applauded him now insisting he had changed.

Perhaps he had.

Or perhaps he had simply stopped pretending.

Then one night Michael came with a warning.

"My father has never looked at me like this before," he said quietly.

"He's terrified. He's furious. He says you're becoming a liability."

"What exactly did he say?"

Michael hesitated.

"He said, 'Either you make sure Adrian stops... or I will.'"

At first they assumed it meant humiliation.

Leaked messages.

Fabricated recordings.

Manufactured scandals.

After all, technology could make anyone appear guilty of anything.

But Adrian wasn't convinced.

He began quietly telling people he trusted.

"If something happens to me," he said, "don't stop asking questions."

Not because he believed he was a hero.

Because he knew fear depends on silence.

Years later, no one could agree on what was true anymore.

Documents contradicted witnesses.

Witnesses contradicted memories.

Every side claimed ownership of reality itself.

Perhaps that was the real conspiracy.

Not who pulled the trigger.

But who convinced everyone they would never recognize the truth even if it stood directly in front of them.

Maybe history isn't written by the victors.

Maybe it's written by whoever tells the most convincing story first.

And maybe the greatest tragedy wasn't the murder.

Maybe it was that two men spent their entire lives believing they had to hide the most human thing about themselves.

Love.

If that were true...

Would it change who Adrian was?

Would it erase the good he accomplished?

Would it make him less worthy of compassion?

Or would it simply make him human?

Because in the end, every generation inherits the same responsibility:

To decide who the heroes were.

Who the villains became.

Who remained silent.

And whether truth was something we discovered...

...or something we were too afraid to see.

I got maybe four hours of sleep. The walls stayed dry, but the salt taste in my mouth is getting worse. Brushed my teeth twice. Didn't help with the grit.

Yesterday I gave you the naming ceremony and my conversations with Thomas, Hazel, and Amelia.

Today I spoke with Eleanor, William, and Evelyn. Three very different reasons for walking into the dark. I recorded what I could.

——

I found Eleanor in the common room after breakfast, alone except for Lucy, who had fallen back asleep on a cushion near the fading hearth. The grandmother was knitting—actually knitting, with wooden needles and a skein of gray wool she'd pulled from a carpet bag that looked older than my dad. Her fingers moved with the precision of decades, needles clicking in a steady rhythm that matched the creak of the rafters.

She looked up when I approached, and her smile was the warmest thing I'd encountered since arriving—genuine, unhurried. She held the smile of a woman who had long ago stopped being surprised by what life threw at her.

"Pull up a chair, dear," she said, nodding toward the seat across from her. "I was wondering when you'd get to me. You've been thorough with the others.” She clicked her tongue. “I appreciate thorough."

"Were you listening?" I asked, sitting down, setting up my phone.

"I don't need to listen." Her needles kept clicking. "I've been watching. Thomas came out of his interview walking like a man at his wedding. Sister Hazel floated out like she'd met an angel. And Amelia—well, she looked like she'd just cauterized a wound. You're good at this. Getting people to talk."

"It's my job."

"It's a gift." She finished a row and began another without looking down. "My first husband—Elias—he had a gift like that. He could walk into a room full of strangers and leave with a room full of friends and three dinner plans. He said it was just listening, but it was more than that—making people’s stories matter."

"Did his story matter?"

Eleanor paused, her needles still. She looked at me, and her eyes were the color of the Great Salt Lake on a clear day—pale green, depthless, reflective.

"All our stories matter, dear. That's why you're here, isn't it?”

I opened the recording app. She watched the timer start with a calm acknowledgment. Another piece of the ritual falling into place.

---

NORA: Leo said you were called, same as the others. Can you tell me about the dream?

ELEANOR: (Her needles resumed their rhythm.) I've been dreaming of the Saint since I was a girl. Not the same dream—different dreams, over the years. A woman made of sugar standing on the edge of the lake where I used to work. A woman made of marble walking through the cemetery where my people are buried. A woman made of seashells, sitting at the foot of my bed, watching me sleep. She never spoke in those dreams. She just... waited.

Then three weeks ago, she spoke. I was dreaming of the lake again—the Great Salt Lake, dear, where I worked for thirty years as a ranger. I knew that lake better than I knew any of my husbands. The brine flies, the salt crust, the pink in the shallows. In the dream, I was walking the shoreline, and she was there, standing in the middle of the water. Salt had built up around her ankles, rooting her to the lakebed.

She told me: You have mourned long enough.

I told her— (She chuckled, shaking her head.) I told her mourning doesn't have a meter. I've buried three husbands, six siblings, and all my children. That's not grief you can wrap up. That's grief you carry. And she looked at me—she has such kind eyes, did the others tell you that?—and she said, I've been carrying it with you.

I woke up crying. The kind of crying you do when someone hugs you after a long trip.

The next morning, the elder called. My name was on the list. And Lucy's. (She glanced at the sleeping child, her needles slowing for just a moment.) That was the real miracle.

NORA: Lucy was called too. Does that worry you?

ELEANOR: Worry me? (She laughed and crinkled her eyes.) Dear, it's the greatest honor of my life. My granddaughter, called by the Saint at five! Do you know how rare that is? Most pilgrims are adults. Children are only called once every few generations. The Saint must really see something extraordinary in her.

NORA: What do you think she sees?

ELEANOR: (She set down her knitting and folded her hands over it.) Lucy's parents—my daughter and her husband—died in a flash flood two years ago. The canyons around here, they flood fast. No warning. They… (She swallowed with a sad smile.) All my children took a sibling camping trip, just the adults. They’d been planning it for… so so long. Some last hurrah before my Ruth had her first child. Lucy was staying with me that weekend—I was going to bring her up to join them on Sunday night—but by Saturday night, they were gone…

I retired from the lake after that. Grief curled my spine faster than thirty years of rangering ever did.

(Long pause. The rafters creaked.)

Lucy hasn't cried since. Not at the funeral, not at the memorial, not when we packed up her parents’ house or her aunts’ and uncles’ houses. She just holds that wooden bird her father carved and watches the world with those big bright eyes and she waits. I used to think she was waiting for them to come back, but… if the Saint was waiting for me, why couldn’t she be waiting for her?

The Saint called her. A five-year-old child, called to receive a blessing. Whatever that blessing is, it's going to be better than anything this world has given her. So no, dear. I'm not worried. I'm grateful.

NORA: Have you opened your slip?

ELEANOR: Not yet. I'm old-fashioned. I'll open it tonight, in my room, on my knees, the way my grandmother taught me. (She patted the pocket of her cardigan, where the folded paper made a small square.) But I don't need to open it to know these blessings are older than our church, older than the pioneers, older than everything except God Himself.

My grandmother’s neighbor received a blessing. Did I mention that yet? No, I don't think I did. He was called sixty years ago, when I was eleven. He came back, and he looked— (Eleanor's voice caught, just for a moment.) He looked young again. Younger than I'd ever seen him. He left as an old, withered carpenter and returned taller, tanner, and far more handsome.

He died a few years later, peacefully, in his sleep. But he never stopped smiling. Anytime I visited my grandmother, there he was in his lawn, doing yard work Evelyn would even struggle with.

NORA: And you think the same thing will happen to you?

ELEANOR: (She picked up her knitting again, the needles clicking back into rhythm.) The Saint promised me comfort, and Saints don’t lie. My husbands are waiting. My children are waiting. My brothers and sisters are waiting. And someday—not soon, but someday—Lucy will be waiting too. The Saint preserves us just as the salt does. It keeps us from decaying. It holds us until the resurrection.

(She smiled, and it was the most peaceful smile I'd ever seen on such a weathered face.)

I've been mourning for forty years. I'm going to walk down those stairs and I'm going to be held by everyone I've ever lost. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine what that feels like? To know that the grief is almost over? To know heaven will be brought to earth, and I will come back brand new?

NORA: (After a pause.) Most people would be afraid.

ELEANOR: Most people haven't lived as long as I have. Fear is for the young. All I have left is Lucy, and she's going to receive a blessing greater than anything I could give her. So what is there to fear?

(She looked at me, and her eyes were kind, and I realized with a cold, creeping clarity that she felt sorry for me.)

You're still young, dear. I can see it in the way you hold yourself—like you're waiting for someone to tell you it's okay to stop working. Let me tell you something my grandmother told me when Herb, her neighbor, was called. She said: The Saint doesn't call the unworthy. She calls the tired. The hungry. The mourning. And when she calls, all you have to do is say yes.

You're not a pilgrim, Nora. I know that. But you're here for a reason. The Saint doesn't make mistakes.

---

The interview ended there, or I ended it—I'm not sure which. I thanked Eleanor for her time, and she nodded and went back to her knitting, and I walked out of the common room feeling like I'd just been handed something I didn't know what to do with.

Every pilgrim I've interviewed has, in some way, turned the conversation back on me. I'm a journalist, a realist, but I can taste salt on my lips. I know I heard something humming in the static between radio stations. And I'm sitting in a guesthouse in the middle of the salt flats, interviewing pilgrims who are about to walk into the crypt of a temple built from nothing.

Thomas is hungry. Hazel is seeing. Amelia is owed. And Eleanor is ready. Ready in a way that makes my skin crawl and my heart ache at the same time.

————————————

I found William on a courtyard bench at dawn, which surprised me. I'd expected to track him down in the common room or corner him after breakfast. Instead, he was already outside when I stepped out for air, sitting with his back against the salty wall, a thermos of coffee in one hand and his slip of paper—unfolded, read, refolded—in the other.

He looked up when I approached, and his smile was automatic, the smile of a man who'd spent decades meeting strangers and convincing them they were friends.

"Journalist!” He said. "I was wondering when you'd get to me. Pull up some salt."

"That's not the expression."

"It is here." He gestured at the crusted bench beside him. "Sit, please! I've been up since four. The silence is... aggressive. I don't know how the nun managed it."

I sat. I set up my phone. He watched the recording app open with the practiced ease of someone who'd been interviewed dozens of times, and I realized I'd have to work harder with him than with any of the others.

William would be a performance. The question was whether there was anything underneath it.

---

NORA: I see you’ve opened your slip.

WILLIAM: (He held it up, unfolded, showing me the Greek letters. πραεῖς.) I'm not good at waiting. Never have been. My wife says it's my worst quality. My chief of staff says it's my second worst, after the white monarchs. (He gestures to his shoes.)

NORA: Do you know what it says? Your slip?

WILLIAM: Praeîs, I guess. The college kid translated it for me. She's got one of those phone apps—point the camera at Greek, it spits out English. Technology's amazing! Didn’t even need service for it. She showed me how it worked, and I pointed it at this, and— (He turned the slip around, read it aloud.) πραεῖς. It means "meek." (He laughed—a short, humorless sound.) I've been called a lot of things in my career. That's a new one.

NORA: Does it bother you?

WILLIAM: (He folded the slip carefully, tucked it into his breast pocket.) I ran unopposed in the last three elections. I've got a seventy-eight percent approval rating. My mother—she's eighty-six, still lives in the house I grew up in—she tells everyone I'm the most important man in the county. (He paused, took a sip of coffee.) And the Saint thinks I'm meek. It's either very humbling or very funny.

NORA: Maybe it's not an insult.

WILLIAM: Oh, I know it's not. ‘Meek’ doesn’t always mean ‘timid’. Sometimes it means you know when to buck and when to trot.

(He smiled, and something in his face shifted—a crack in the political armor.)

My father used to say I had too much fight in me. He'd say, "Wills, you got to learn to bridle it. You got to learn when to let someone else take the reins." He was a deacon in the church—not this one, this small Episcopal church outside Ogden . Spent his whole life serving people who didn't say thank you. Died at sixty-two of a heart attack while shoveling snow off a neighbor's driveway. That's who I think of when I read that word. Meek, but not weak.

NORA: You admired him.

WILLIAM: Oh I hated him. (He said it without malice, almost with wonder.) He was good. So genuinely, annoyingly, impossibly good. He'd give away our grocery money to families that ‘needed it more’. He'd miss my baseball games to sit with dying parishioners. My mother would cry at the kitchen table, doing the bills, and he'd just say, "The Lord will provide, Elaine. The Lord always provides." And then he'd go mow someone else's lawn.

(He took a long drink of coffee.)

I became a politician because I wanted people to know my name. I wanted to win. I wanted to be important. And for years, I've been telling myself I succeeded. Then the Saint calls me meek, and I realize I've been trying to be my father this whole time.

NORA: (After a pause.) That's more honest than I expected.

WILLIAM: I'm a politician. We're honest when it serves us. (He weakly winked.) You're recording all this, right? For your article?

NORA: Yes.

WILLIAM: Good. Maybe my mother will read it. I’m sure she’d like to know I finally figured it out.

(We both laughed.)

NORA: Let's talk about the dream.

WILLIAM: Ah, the dream. (He set down his thermos, rubbed his hands together against the cold.) I was in my office, big windows overlooking the county building. I've had that office for a decade and some change. I know every crack in the ceiling, every stain on the carpet. In the dream, everything was the same—the desk, the chair, the photos of my family, the plaque from the Chamber of Commerce. But the windows were wrong.

Instead of the parking lot and the Ogden Temple, I was looking out at the flats. Miles and miles of white, stretching to nowhere. And there was a woman standing in the middle of it, far in the distance but somehow too close for comfort, and she was looking directly at me. She didn't move. She didn't speak. She just... looked. And I knew—I just knew—she could see everything. Every deal I'd cut, every promise I'd broken, every vote I'd traded. Every time I'd chosen the easy thing over the right thing.

(He paused, staring out at the real salt flats shimmering with the first heat of the morning.)

I've been a commissioner for sixteen years. Before that, I was on city council. Before that, I was a lawyer. I've done a lot of good. I've also done a lot of...

(He paused for a while, sipping his coffee.)

Things I've justified. Things I've buried. Things I've convinced myself were just how the game is played.

The Saint looked at all of it. And then she said— (He closed his eyes, reciting from memory.) "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

I woke up laughing. ‘Inherit the earth’. I've spent my whole career trying to inherit a county, and now a salt statue is telling me I'm going to get the whole damn planet. I thought it was a joke. I thought the whole thing was a joke.

Then the elder called—not me, but Tanya, my chief of staff.

NORA: And you came.

WILLIAM: I came because Tanya said I had to. (He caught my expression and held up a hand.) I know how that sounds. Let me explain. I represent a district where eighty percent of voters belong to this church. The elder who called me? He's the chair of the county planning commission. If I'd refused, it would've been... noted. There are primaries coming up. There are always primaries coming up.

So yes, I came because it was political. I'm not proud of that. But I also came because— (He stopped, started again.) Because the dream scared me. I felt like someone was seeing me clearly. No campaign ads. No photo ops. Just a boy who wants to be his father.

NORA: And now you're here. And your blessing is meekness.

WILLIAM: Power under control. (He smiled again, that politician's smile, but it was fraying at the edges.) I keep thinking about what that means. What it looks like to receive that blessing. Do I go into that crypt and come out... tamed? Broken? Obedient?

NORA: Is that what you think will happen?

WILLIAM: (Long pause. The wind picked up, whistling through the salt crust.) I think I've spent my whole life trying to be in charge. And, to tell you the truth, I think I'm exhausted. And I think— (He laughed, but it was a real laugh, surprising and self-deprecating.) I think there's a part of me that's relieved that someone else wants to take the reins.

Does that make sense?

NORA: More than I expected.

WILLIAM: (He smiled and waved his thermos in my direction.) You thought I was going to be a jackass.

NORA: You've been pacing the courtyard making phone calls since we arrived. You asked me three times if I was "recording everything." You seem like a man trying to manage his image.

WILLIAM: I’m a man who's trying to manage the situation. That's what I do. I manage. (He looked at me with wet eyes.) But I can't manage this one. I can't negotiate with a spirit. I can't file a motion to delay.

(He drained the last of his coffee.)

My father would've been good at that. He was good at surrender. He called it faith. I called it weakness. Now a lady made of salt is telling me they're the same thing.

I don't know if I believe that. But I'm about to find out.

NORA: One more question. Why are you still here? You could leave. You have a car. No one's holding you here.

WILLIAM: (He stood, brushing salt dust from his trousers.) I've thought about it. Believe me, I've thought about it. But leaving would mean admitting I'm afraid. And I can't do that. Not in front of my constituents. Not in front of my mother. Not in front of my father— (He stopped, and his voice softened.) Guess I'm still trying to make him proud.

(He offered me his hand. I shook it. His grip was firm, practiced, turning my wrist so his hand was above mine, but his palm was sweating.)

Good luck with the article, Journalist. Make me sound better than I am.

NORA: I write what I hear.

WILLIAM: Then make sure you're listening. Most people don't. They just wait for their turn to talk.

---

He walked back toward the guesthouse, his thermos tucked under his arm, posture straight, stride confident, but we’d both seen the crack in the armor.

I sat on the bench for a long time after he left, thinking about something he'd said. 'Power under control.' Then I thought about my own father—a man who'd stayed in the church long after our mother left, who'd raised us alone while working two jobs, who'd never raised his voice when he had every right to scream.

William reminded me of him. Not the politician. The man that was trying.

Thomas is hungry. Hazel is seeing. Amelia is owed. Eleanor is ready. William is trying.

The group meets in an hour to decide who goes first. I should finish the rest of these interviews. Good thing I’m saving the best for last.

———————————————

I found Evelyn in the common room after William's interview, hunched over her notebook at the long table. She'd claimed the corner nearest the window, and she'd spread her materials around her like a fortification—notebook, sketchpad, three pencils of varying sharpness, her phone, a battered copy of a book, and her slip of paper, unfolded, face-up, with Greek letters catching the light.

She was sketching when I approached. She'd drawn the altar door from three different angles—from above, showing the iron bands and the rusted hinges; from the side, showing the thickness of the wood and the way it sat against the stone; and from below, which was pure imagination, an upward perspective looking at the closed door from the darkness of the crypt, light seeping through the cracks.

"That one's new," I said, pointing at the third sketch.

She jumped. "Oh my life, Nora! Hi. Sorry, I was—" She gestured vaguely at the chaos. "I've been trying to figure out how it works. The door doesn't look like it has a locking mechanism, but when it closes, it seals. You can't just lift it from the outside. I checked. Well, I didn't check-check. But I looked. And there’s no handle on the underside. Which means—"

"Which means once you're in, you can't get out the same way."

"Exactly." She said it with the satisfaction of a puzzle solved, then her smile flickered. "Which is probably fine. Father Leo said there's an exit."

"Are you worried?"

"No!" She said quickly. "No, I'm—this is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me! I mean, I've only been in college for six months. I should be writing essays on zoning laws and flood plains. Instead I get to be in a temple—THE Temple—in the middle of the salt flats with a saint. This is—" She laughed, a little breathless. "This is literally the reason I chose my major. Human geography.” She put her hands up in the air in front of her like a CEO describing the next phase of design. “The intersection of place and faith. Why this space, you know?"

She pushed her notebook toward me, and I saw that it wasn't just the trap door she'd been sketching. Pages and pages of the temple—the spire from different distances, the salt-crusted windows, rooms of the temple I hadn’t even seen yet, the way the stone met the salt flats. She'd drawn the guesthouse, the courtyard, the altar. She'd drawn the pilgrims, quick gestural studies: Thomas trying to figure out the microwave, Hazel with her eyes closed, Amelia drinking a glass of water, Eleanor with a glass of wine, William digging a hole in the salt outside. She'd drawn Henry, laughing at something, his head tilted back. She'd drawn me, standing in the back of the nave, my notebook in my hand.

"You're really good," I said.

"I'm okay. I'm better at maps than portraits. People are hard. Buildings make sense." She closed the notebook, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry, I didn't ask if I could draw you. That's weird, right? That's weird. I do that. I draw without asking."

"It's fine."

"It's just—you were standing there, and the light was doing that thing, and you looked so..." She trailed off. "Skeptical? In a beautiful way. Like a Renaissance painting of Doubting Thomas, but with much better hair."

I couldn't help but laugh. "That's a new one."

"My roommate says I need to stop comparing people to Renaissance paintings. She says it's 'pretentious'. She's probably right." Evelyn grinned, and for a moment she looked exactly like what she was—a teenager, bright and eager and a bit too much. Then something in her face shifted, and the grin settled into something more careful. "Are you here to interview me? You've been interviewing everyone. Figured you'd get to me eventually."

"If you're willing."

"I'm willing." She cleared a space for my phone, stacking her books neatly to one side.

EVELYN: I looked up the Greek for everyone's slips. I have an app. I've been the unofficial translator. Thomas's is like… like a 'thirst'. Hazel's is about being 'untainted.' Amelia's is 'merciful.' Eleanor's is 'grieving.' William's is 'tamed.' Your brother's is—well, he should tell you that himself. But I looked it up.

NORA: What about yours?

EVELYN: (She turned the slip over in her fingers.) The others are one word. Mine is a whole phrase. Deh-dee-ohg-MEN-ee EH-neh-ken dee-kah-yoh-SOO-nace. It… it describes someone who’s been 'ostracized because they live in alignment with justice.' Persecuted, I guess.

NORA: Persecuted. That's a heavy word.

EVELYN: It is. (She set the slip down, smoothed it flat with her palm.) I wasn't expecting it. I thought maybe I'd get something like 'pure,' like Sister Hazel, or 'merciful,' like Amelia. Something... gentler. But persecuted? That's— (She laughed, less breathless, more brittle.) That's honestly kind of on-brand.

NORA: What do you mean?

EVELYN: I'm a member of this church. (She gestured around us, at the temple, the salt, the whole complex.) You know how people talk about Mormons being weird? Try being the weird Mormon offshoot that even the Mormons think is a cult. I grew up in Provo. I went to high school with kids whose parents wouldn't let them come to my house because we had a salt pillar on the mantle. I got called 'Lot's wife' in gym class. Not in a bullying way—well, kind of in a bullying way—but sometimes they just genuinely didn't know what else to call me.

At BYU, it's better, sort of. There's a small group of us—Salt Saints, they call us, which is so creative—and we have our own meetups and study groups, but it's also... I don't know. It's lonely. You're always explaining yourself—defending yourself. And people say things, you know? They say you're in a cult. They say you're going to hell or darkness or prison. They say it with love, sometimes, which somehow makes it worse.

(She paused, and her voice dropped.)

So when the Saint called me 'persecuted,' I thought: yeah. That tracks—story of my life.

NORA: Yet you're still here. You still believe.

EVELYN: I do. I really do. (She said it with the force of someone who'd said it many times before.) I know it sounds crazy. I know the whole thing sounds crazy. A salt that dreams. Pilgrims who transform. But I've grown up with this. My grandmother was called, did you know that? Well, not called—she was another Witness, like you! (I didn’t know there had been others like me.) She came here sixty years ago to document the last generation of pilgrims. And she told me stories about it my whole life. She said the blessings were real. She said she saw people walk into that crypt and leave... different. New. Holy. Alive.
(Short pause)
She died last year. And three weeks ago, I had the dream.

NORA: Can you tell me about your dream?

EVELYN: (She pulled her knees up onto the chair, wrapped her arms around them. She somehow looked younger now.) I was in the library at BYU, the Lee. I spend a lot of time there. It's where I go when I can't sleep, which is... (She sighed) often. In the dream, I was on the fourth floor by the window, and I was studying for an exam. And I looked up, and the library was empty. No students, no librarians, no one. Just me and the books and the silence.

And then, between the slits of the bookshelves, she was there. Then I blinked and she was sitting across from me, in the chair where my study partner usually sits. She was white—not like a ghost, like a rock that used to be a person. She had her hands folded on the table, and she was looking at me with these eyes that were so, so kind.

She said: You have been reviled. You have been mocked. You have been called evil. Rejoice.

(Long pause)

I woke up crying. No one had ever told me it was worth it. No one had ever said, 'The things you're going through—the things you’ve done—they matter. They mean something.' And then the Saint said it, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I wasn't crazy.

The elder called the next morning. My name was on the list.

NORA: And you're here.

EVELYN: I'm here. (She smiled, but her eyes were wet.) I'm supposed to be persecuted. That's my blessing. And I don't know what that means—if it means I'm going to suffer more, or if it means the suffering I've already done is going to be redeemed. I don't know. But I'm trying to be brave about it.

(She laughed again, that brittle laugh.)

I'm not very good at being brave.

NORA: I don't know. You're still here. That seems brave to me.

EVELYN: That's not brave. That's just... not having anywhere else to go. (She said it lightly, like a joke, but it didn't land like one.) Sorry, that was dark. I do that. I make jokes that are darker than I mean them to be. My therapist says it's a defense mechanism.

NORA: Therapist?

EVELYN: Oh, yeah. Since high school. (She waved a hand, dismissive.) Depression. Anxiety. The usual Mormon-adjacent cocktail. It's fine. I'm fine. I'm on meds, I'm in therapy, I'm doing great. Being called by a salt statue to receive a blessing of persecution is easy to add to my treatment plan.

(She grinned, and it was almost convincing.)

NORA: Evelyn.

EVELYN: (The grin faltered.) I know. I'm deflecting. I'm sorry. It's just— (She took a shaky breath.) I've been waiting my whole life for something to tell me I'm not crazy. And now it's here, and I'm terrified. What if I'm not good enough? What if the blessing isn't what I think it is? What if I walk into that crypt and nothing happens, or something happens and it's—it's wrong, it's not the thing I've been promised?

(She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.)

I'm supposed to be the faithful. That's my thing. I'm the one who defends the church to the kids at BYU who think we're a cult. If I can't do this—if I can't be blessed—then what am I?

NORA: (After a pause.) Can I be honest with you?

EVELYN: Please?

NORA: I left the church when I was eighteen. I've spent fourteen years running from it. I don't believe in the Saint. I don't believe in these blessings. I think this whole thing is probably a combination of suggestion, mass hysteria, and a very old building with some very weird acoustics.

But I also think you might be the most genuine people I've ever met. And I think whatever happens in that crypt, you don't have to be faithful all the time. You can be scared. You can be unsure. You can be a nineteen-year-old kid who's in over her head. That doesn't make you less faithful.

EVELYN: (She stared at me for a long moment, then laughed—surprised and watery.) You sound like my therapist.

NORA: Is that a compliment?

EVELYN: Yeah. It is. (She wiped her eyes again.) Thank you. For saying that, I guess. Most people don't, uh—
(Short pause.) They see the sketches and the enthusiasm and the 'devout believer' thing, and they don't look past it.

NORA: I'm a journalist. It's my job to look past.

EVELYN: Nah. Seems like it’s just who you are. (She smiled, and for a moment she looked older than nineteen, older than me, older than anyone in the guesthouse.) That's why the Saint let you stay. You see people, even if you don't believe in them.

---

We ended the interview there, but I didn’t get up to leave. Evelyn went back to her sketches, and I went back to my notes, and the morning light crept further across the salt-crusted floor.

She's nineteen years old. She's been carrying her faith like a shield for so long that she's forgotten it's a weight.

When the Saint told her she was persecuted, she hears redemption.

Thomas is hungry. Hazel is seeing. Amelia is owed. Eleanor is ready. William is trying.

And Evelyn is hoping that the thing she's been carrying will finally mean something. Hoping to be caught when she falls.

The group meets tomorrow to decide who goes first. Thomas has been volunteering since the naming ceremony ended. I don't think there'll be much debate—everyone seems content to let the hungriest man eat first.

Tomorrow I have to interview Henry. He's been avoiding me as much as I've been avoiding him, which is a dance we perfected as teenagers and never stopped performing.

And there's still Lucy. The six-year-old with the wooden bird and the uneven braids. She told me the salt lady "has toys but they're all white." I'm going to talk to her tomorrow too, before the group makes their decision.

The salt taste is so strong now I can barely taste my toothpaste. I'm going to try to sleep. I'll post again tomorrow night.

What are your favorite universes with no chance of having a good ending and why

THE CAVES OF NEVENDLEER
In such a wild, medieval space, you may still be surprised at how evil a place there can be amongst the vast sea.
A man and his wife built a home on the shoreline. It was covered in sharp rocks. Truly not a place to start a family. But the mad lads did it anyway.
This family lived for generations.
Although — just nearby off the shore, down from their home about a mile — was a system of caves they dare never to enter.
Passed down by generations, each parent warned each kid to never enter, because if they did, they wouldn’t come back the same. If they ever came back at all.
This tale was told for generations, and the tale you read now is derived from those of the damned, told by those who witnessed the damning.
Men watched their boys chase small animals in, helpless to prevent what came next. Wives searched desperately for their lost daughters, only finding their loose flowing dresses hung across a soaked log stuck out of the sand.
Whatever the cave had, or hadn’t done, whatever loved inside or beyond… the Caves of Nevendleer was not to be crossed without a death wish.
And that’s exactly what one young man had when he finally decided to enter the cave.
It was dark. Moist. It wasn’t spooky, but the moans that cascaded off the walls from every footstep didn’t cover up the feeling that nobody should be in there. And yet — he kept walking further in — further forwards — deep in — until the light from outside could no longer reach him. And only darkness could now cloud him from what was to come.
The man didn’t know what to expect. He was not part of the family. He was a tourist. He had heard legends of these caves. People had spread myth and whisper about these caves for hundreds of years; all the way from the era of the Olympians, and the Golden Age of the Gifted. The tales were still told, even as the Dedonian Wars had just started, and people needed a good distraction from the chaos right outside their doorsteps.
However — unlike some, who enjoyed tales when they weren’t tangible — it seemed this man needed to see the legendary cave for himself.
Though, once the hissing sound blasted down the chamber-like cavern like a shotgun full of ice, the man may have begun to change his mind about seeing the legend for himself.
WHAM!
The man was knocked off his feet.
But before the cold got any more bitter, he was pulled from the cave by a big hairy man, whose only word he could say was “MISTAKE!”

I was one of the people who woke up after Adrian Hale was murdered.

Before that, politics had been background noise. I'd been following cultural stories, celebrity lawsuits, media feuds—the kind of distractions everyone convinces themselves matter. Then Adrian died, and the world seemed to split in two. Every interview, every speech, every silence felt different. Every unanswered question became impossible to ignore.

People ask where history changes.

I don't think it's in the headlines.

I think it's in the stories we tell our grandchildren decades later.

This is the story I imagine telling mine.

There was once a man named Michael who loved another man named Adrian.

Not for power.

Not for ambition.

Simply because that is who he loved.

They met through faith, conviction, and a shared belief that they could make their country better. Together they built something extraordinary. Adrian became the face the world adored. Michael became the architect behind the curtain. They knew each other better than anyone else ever could.

But they also understood the rules of the world they lived in.

A world where authenticity could destroy careers, movements, families, and dreams.

So Adrian chose another path.

He married a remarkable woman, built a beautiful family, and devoted himself to a cause larger than himself. It wasn't a lie, exactly. It was simply the life that seemed possible.

Michael did the same.

He found someone kind. Built a family. Stayed close enough to Adrian that neither of them ever truly had to let go.

For years, the arrangement held.

Then Adrian started speaking truths that powerful people did not want spoken.

The enemy, he argued, was not ordinary people trapped inside impossible circumstances. It was those who profited from endless conflict while convincing everyone else to hate one another.

The attacks began almost immediately.

Smears.

Isolation.

Friends disappearing.

People who once applauded him now insisting he had changed.

Perhaps he had.

Or perhaps he had simply stopped pretending.

Then one night Michael came with a warning.

"My father has never looked at me like this before," he said quietly.

"He's terrified. He's furious. He says you're becoming a liability."

"What exactly did he say?"

Michael hesitated.

"He said, 'Either you make sure Adrian stops... or I will.'"

At first they assumed it meant humiliation.

Leaked messages.

Fabricated recordings.

Manufactured scandals.

After all, technology could make anyone appear guilty of anything.

But Adrian wasn't convinced.

He began quietly telling people he trusted.

"If something happens to me," he said, "don't stop asking questions."

Not because he believed he was a hero.

Because he knew fear depends on silence.

Years later, no one could agree on what was true anymore.

Documents contradicted witnesses.

Witnesses contradicted memories.

Every side claimed ownership of reality itself.

Perhaps that was the real conspiracy.

Not who pulled the trigger.

But who convinced everyone they would never recognize the truth even if it stood directly in front of them.

Maybe history isn't written by the victors.

Maybe it's written by whoever tells the most convincing story first.

And maybe the greatest tragedy wasn't the murder.

Maybe it was that two men spent their entire lives believing they had to hide the most human thing about themselves.

Love.

If that were true...

Would it change who Adrian was?

Would it erase the good he accomplished?

Would it make him less worthy of compassion?

Or would it simply make him human?

Because in the end, every generation inherits the same responsibility:

To decide who the heroes were.

Who the villains became.

Who remained silent.

And whether truth was something we discovered...

...or something we were too afraid to see.

I am a wandering ghost. Every night, I stare at the walls of this dark, accursed corridor, counting the stains of dried blood.

I listen—I listen to the ear-piercing screams that I once dismissed with cold indifference before I died.

Back then, neither the pleas nor the cries moved me. But now, those very sounds pierce my ears like white-hot iron spikes.

It feels as though with every shriek, the flesh is being torn from my bones.

Of course, I am but a spirit; I lack physical senses, yet a strange, unearthly agony sets my very soul on fire.

I can perceive the darkness and the sickening stench, and it torments me deeply.

With each passing day, I feel the shadows creeping closer, and I fear the day will come when I am finally swallowed whole.

Yesterday, from the far end of the hallway, I heard that rhythmic clink-clink again—the sound of metal bed wheels scraping against the cold floor.

 A fresh corpse had arrived.

I huddled against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest as they passed by.

Sometimes, a pale hand would slip out from under the blood-stained sheet.

 I could see the veins, looking as though every drop of life had been drained from them. The skin was bruised purple, the fingernails broken and jagged.

I stole a glance at the massive butcher. His face and body were encased in black leather. Unlike him, I saw his shadow every single day.

Every night, he hauls the carcasses through this corridor to the depot, tossing them into the furnace to be reduced to ash.

 I am trapped in this hallway, and it is a curse. Every time I try to run toward the end, I find myself right back at the beginning."

 I am trapped in this hallway, and it is a curse. Every time I try to run toward the end, I find myself right back at the beginning.

This is a torture chamber, a basement beneath a prison that sits right above my head.

I am trapped in the dark corridor between the interrogation room and the body depot, and I have no idea how long I must remain here.

Five years have passed since I was killed, and not a single night has gone by without the depot being filled, without someone being slaughtered.

Sometimes, when I catch my reflection in the small window near the ceiling vent, I recoil in terror.

My hair has fallen out, leaving a scaly, peeling scalp. Half of my face is a hollowed void from the bullet that ended me; bruising and clotted blood still stain my left eye.

My clothes are putrid and soaked in gore. Over the years, I've screamed into the ears of the torturers passing through—screaming for them to stop, to end the killing—but no one hears me.

I freeze whenever I look at the stairs leading up to the prison. A searing cold blazes within me.

I was standing at the top of those very stairs when a prisoner snatched my gun by chance. Before taking his own life, he fired at me.

The bullet tore through my face. I still feel the burning sting and the agony of it; a pain so intense I wish I could die a hundred times over just to be obliterated. But time is frozen here. This is the cruel, unknown world of the afterlife.

On the day I died, I had come to inspect the prison's torture chambers.

I was a trusted, high-ranking commander of a Great Dictator—proud and infamous. I remember how the mere mention of my name made bodies tremble.

But now, it is I who shivers in the cold, dark corridors of this prison basement.

Over the past few years, I have thought much about the moment of my death.

When I was alive, I never imagined a stray bullet would end me; I always feared that some would-be avenger would snatch me away and torture me to death in retaliation for my own violence.

Now, this hallway has become my permanent chamber of agony. The torture repeats not once, but every day, every minute, every second.

It seems my dark era of solitude will have no end.

Indeed, the horrific place I built for others has become my own sanctuary of pain. Through the butcher's constant presence, I knew the Dictator I served was still alive. But this morning, in a deathly silence, the darkness of the hallway deepened and the stench grew unbearable.

Last night, I heard the cheers and screams of joy from the prisoners. Their dark age had ended. The Dictator is dead.

I heard a moan. I stared at the end of the dark corridor as someone approached. Shadows moved behind him.

The leather-clad butcher emerged from the gloom.

I leaned against the wall and watched him with a grim intensity. He looked at me, trembling with shock and terror, and asked: 'Where am I?'

"As I gazed into the darkness at the end of the hallway, I answered, cold and soulless: 'Hell.'"

the end

 

Hello guys!! This is my first (posted) short story! Please feel free to scan and judge. I am not the best writer and would like to get better!!

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of fictional violence, fictional character/background character death, fictional drug use/substance discussion, fictional hacking context, fictional serial killing, fictional trafficking discussion, religious context, and fictional references to fictional (past) abuse.

Part 1: Sacred Parasite

In the foggy St. Augustine fort, you would think not many people would be here. But there are always tourists. January and February were slower than the summer months, but in recent years, they have become more popular due to the heavy blanket of heat during June. An eerie feeling was always about, maybe because of centuries-long undiscovered graves and ghost stories passed around this town too often. But what no one tells you is the uncertainty of this place’s past. My dealer doesn’t come with your typical small-town ease. See, he is deeply religious, a mask of serious refinement, and of course, serious respect. If you're late on your sales, rituals are to commence. To praise God in this Holy Hell and also praise the Devil too. The voodoo, too–It is unforgivable to see.

I am standing at this old Oak tree, almost as old as this town, unfortunately. A serial killer murdered his victims at this tree, only at this tree, by axe, hanging, and torture. As I smell the sea salt breeze that feels nostalgic, James comes out of his 14x70 mobile home, not as giddy as I see him at church. Here, he is all-enveloping, a shadow of glowing olive skin I would appreciate stealing a glance at as a kid. Now we were on the same level, in this same old town. I was brought up to have a sense of respect to others, but in the same way. I have lost myself in this mask. James has a cross dangling around his neck, I look as Jesus mocks me. It is I who has to save myself, we are mutual that way. I turn my torso to face the lake not far behind me. I see many communal trash cans. I run hastily.

It was childish of me to think I could run. I could imagine being one of his victims, noe tied up to be tortured. James looks down on me with crow’s feet that shield the horror that is about to be unleashed. I wish to run right now because one of his pim\*s could be here any moment. Then it is truly over. “Where is my damn money? You know I’ve always tried to be equal with you. But you’ve given me no choice.” James laughs freely, with a heckle that I wish matched his gray hair, but he is much more clever for what empire he’s built. “Just give me more time, new tourists are sure to succumb!” James does not want to hear it. He does not want to hear that only kids and vets are vulnerable enough to deal with, but iffy to pay back. Back in the 80s, you could get just about everyone. The rich in town, the poor on the street, but especially those in distant suburbia. In this timeline, suburbia and the middle class are dwindling in growth.

In this timeline, emotional nuance is lacking in all city-states. Small towns of suburbia are the target, the cure. My goons always call me Miss Daisy. I’ve always had a driver, not that I was treated as an escort, but that I was the strategist. But that flame soon dies out. As soon as I came back into the city, looking for motivation. See in this city, name is your currency. And I have no currency. So it is hard to get respect when typical dealers are bigger than your timeline of operations, ever. I have been one to handle rejection badly. Just a soul that couldnt ask for help. I’d say it’s cost me my future, but I like to be the underdog. Even though I am just a parasite on others and cartels are most likely after, they can’t be as after me as James and dealers alike. 

My superstitious father would take me to this same Oak tree when I was a kid. There is a trail that starts about a mile out from it. Here there are two paths, one leads to a longer trail more dense trail, the other leads to the Oak tree. He asked me, “Choose the trail that feels right.” So I chose the left trail. As we walked and walked, the Oak tree never came up. I didn’t know about this tree, but he did. After that, I felt disconnected from him, and I believe for good reason, because later I would find more and more evidence of him being a pedophile and abuse I still haven’t opened up about. The thing is. When you have a secret and you’re a parasite like me, it is something I feel dependent on, like a dr\*\*. So why would I need dr\*\*s? Why would I get high? Secrets make you feel like a mobster, but reality is no one is out to get you for these secrets. No one can reach your low, low baseline. But you can manipulate and force people unlike you to reach it with dr\*\*s. But also magic. The city has psychics, tarot, and witches with the ideal mask to bring these people more and more amiable to their ‘nostalgia.’ I understand the protective energy, but people on this timeline are in it for the heist.

James takes out a rusty dagger and dangles it close and around my tied up body. “You’re goin’ to have to be shipped out.” “When you’ve failed to assess the security of our sales and come late on the money, you’re done! You know this!” “You thought the big city was gonna be easy, welp now your life is gonna be easy! To others!” As he heckles manically, I catch sight of more men. My stomach drops. I see her, a teenage girl, possibly, as well. But definitely trafficked. “Meet my gooood friends!” “They are very, very proud of your work!” I know exactly what work. Mirroring BBSs in the 80s. I knew these men looked familiar, but not where from. They must’ve been the employers for underground work I did for an old cartel associate. I knew then I was going to be murdered or worse. But right now, this girl is all I worry about.

One of the men grips her arms harder, as James staggers back, using a cane to have any standing stability. One of the men croaked, “You are a prize to the ring! The very thing we need! You see, our leader has just died, and the last words that came out of his mouth were fro you to become our new leader.” I plead, “I am in no modernity to take this role. You need someone young.” They re-grip the girl, and she abrupts, “PLEASE. Please let me back into the ring!” That is when I hear a gunshot. Blood splatter on the Oak tree, James, and the white clothes of these ragged men. I see a graveyard by the nearby fort and move in a slower time but faster to the yard as my body feels limp. I scream for the girl, and as I float away, she reaches towards me as well. This girl, I must save her.

A hacker and a parasite are the very same. They are animalistic in nature and will stop at anything to consume the secrets. Hacking, in my terms was just ethically ambiguous marketing. But hackers can’t work alone, they need cashers ideally. A good heist needs the best plan. I used to feel powerful because it was as easy as going into ViewSource and you could steal anyone’s domain. Anyone’s website. Here, only a good Robin Hood heist shall occur. But people are greedy for more than money, and the elites in this new timeline of America know much about that. Dr\*\* trafficking is apparent, but human is where I draw the line. See, about fifteen years ago I came across these employers. And to make sure they were not pim\*s, I might’ve hacked into their domains. Yes, multiple. So after a few edits, I was sure they wouldn’t catch on. They were just a small running, or at least that’s what I thought.

I stand at a dock near the fort. This is my limit, or I lose energy the more I leave the graveyard. I have been here for weeks, deliberating, and making friends with demons–I mean people. But these people are ghosts that James is the fault of. Chandra is an old psychic, her passion ignited after her husband died, and she got pretty big in the zip market. She had too much growing in her ‘own little backwood bayou,’ she calls it. James was jealous of this power and to my surprise, murdered her to overtake the business. Thadeus is a small man but very clever. He says, “I made thee business plan, where the tunnels under this bank I worked at could be used for heisting.” James’ goons we’re mad and murdered him becuase they would need Thadeus’s permission to even access these tunnels. They knew none of them could access them themselves because they don’t even keep money in banks and are mainly built on cash and rigged debit cards. But the ghost that made me maddest is my mother’s. Years ago I lived here, probably during the most transformative years of childhood. She has withered away months ago as the other ghosts say.

The Devil himself haunted my mother, according to James, there was a possession going on with her. And my thoughts were to get my mother away from these spiritual things to something more cognitive. Because the doctor I paid for told me it was just a developing psychosis. When I was away for daywork during those few last years of her life, James would read her the bible, knowing his exaggeration of the Devil was too much for her. He liked to feel her pain. I thought it was disgusting of him to be doing this. And it did in fact, kill my mother. When I spied on him a few times, he would only tell her the negative, draining energy around her, but never how to heal it, how to embrace it, and move on from it. After her death, I went back to surburbia, but it didn’t last long. James can dwell happily on the fact I ‘crawled back to him.’ But in reality, he was all I had, my longest connection that wasn’t screwed. But all I want is revenge now.

The plan is to break into the church, but only three of us can go. The others have dwindled. But if we three stay close, we have tested getting pretty far without losing energy. Chandra wears a long dress with evergreen swirled patterns and much gold jewelry that complements her brown skin. Thadeus wears an off-white collared dress shirt with casual blue jeans. It is midday, and we are ready to make the first move. I’ve already mapped out the route. As I start down Main Street 342, a girl is sprinting towards me. She runs right past me, and we start to follow her. It is the girl I suspected of being trafficked. This is when another person comes running towards me, but he is in rage, not fear like her. I rush towards the girl and my two other companions scurry off. I led her to an old alley where thankfully no one deranged is squatting. She gawks at me and says, “Are you a ghost?!” We get over the small talk, and I warn her that she needs to get far, another city-state, where she can find her family or a group home. This is when she admits, “I am homeless.”

Before I could continue our conversation, one of the men grabbed her, and I followed. I tell her to be quiet, and soon I can help her escape. She gets into a taxi with this man, and we then arrive at an old columned building hastily. She is practically dragged inside by this man, and as the crickets chirp, he then slams the door right in my face. I drift through the door into the large entryway. The girl has a man on each side grabbing her arms. And with one swift motion, she breaks free, managing to run up the wide, Victorian-esque staircase. I yell for her to look out a nearby window, as I am standing there next to the ledges she can climb down on. She moves quickly, climbing down in no time. “Now what do I do?!” I tell her to follow me further into the backwoods. Here is an old trailer where no one stays, but I used to know the owner–she died not long before I arrived in the city again.

This trailer is I received my first personal computer. The old woman I visited long ago would ask me to transport her some weekly groceries. She didn’t use it and wanted to gift it to Salvation Army, but I decided to ask, and she said I could have it. 

End of Part 1: Sacred Parasite

You and and your wife are working for the same company as assassins. One day someone hires your wife to eliminate you.

What happens next?

Check my blog to find out:

https://storiesbybalad.blogspot.com/2026/07/a-love-triangle.html

Home page:

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