As the last of the ground became covered in ash, I saw the memory of a perfect summer through gaps in blackened trees. It called to me, the sound of my own voice speaking through a dream I never left. I followed it down into the Howling, just as I had before my love was lost, and my heart ever had sin to repent.

Though time outside of the Hollow moved on, everything inside remained still. The gardens never died, and the wild ferns never grew. Slowly, summer bled into fall, and fall bled into winter, but the valley never changed. There it stayed, frozen in summer forever.

The only thing that moved was a single stack of smoke. It billowed from a forgotten home at the edge of the valley, breaking in short bursts like smoke signals. Voices of watchful saints begged me not to go near, but every night I woke to the sound of your voice in my sleep, calling from my dreams.

As I drew closer to the hollow home, I heard your voice again. And through an open window, I smelt the warm scent of rot. The first trace of death I’d known since I arrived in the valley.

I crawled through the window and followed the scent through dark hallways until I arrived at the foot of the attic stairs. Candles lined the steps leading upwards, toward the sound of your aching breaths.

As I pushed on the door, it broke loose from its rusted frame. You couldn’t turn to see me, but still I saw you there. A body melting into a broken down mattress, with a metal bedframe bent inward like a claw– your withered body like prey in its palm.

From your broken lips came a howl of a cry, calling down rain and fire to wash us all away.