The town of Everglot never woke up — not really. Even when the morning sun touched its roofs, the streets stayed grey, the people stayed quiet, and the air hung heavy with rules and secrets. It was the kind of place where even laughter felt out of place, and dreams were things one only whispered about.
Victor Van Dort sat by the window of his parents' grand but lifeless manor, sketching a sparrow that had somehow lost its way into the gloom. His mother's voice echoed down the corridor — sharp, hurried, and perfectly rehearsed.
"Victor, do try not to embarrass us tomorrow. The Everglots are very respectable people."
Tomorrow. The word pressed against his chest like a weight. His wedding to Victoria Everglot — a girl he had never spoken to for more than a few nervous seconds. A marriage arranged not for love, but for status. His parents hoped it would drag their family up from merchant class into nobility, and the Everglots hoped it would pull them out of financial ruin.
A fair trade, perhaps.
But no one had asked Victor what he wanted.
He dipped his quill again, adding feathers to the bird, and whispered, almost to himself,
"Maybe... maybe she's kind."
Outside, the streets were filled with fog, and a funeral procession passed by — slow, solemn, and almost invisible in the mist. In Everglot, the line between life and death had always been thin. People here lived like ghosts long before they were buried.
That night, Victor couldn't sleep. His fingers trembled as he practised his vows in the candlelight.
"With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.
Your cup will never be empty, for I will be your wine…"
The words sounded wrong in his mouth — too perfect, too forced. He closed the book, heart racing. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, he'd find a quiet place to practise properly — away from his mother's scolding, his father's sighs, and the stares of strangers. Somewhere no one could hear how unsure he really was.
The wind outside whispered through the trees, brushing against the glass.
Somewhere beyond the town, in the old forest, something long forgotten stirred beneath the earth — waiting for a promise to be spoken again.