Zaviel - [patched]

Then—footsteps. Light, hesitant. Dragging, as if the owner of those feet had forgotten how to walk.

Somewhere, in a house Zaviel had never seen, a old woman woke from a twenty-year sleep and smiled.

“Please,” a voice whispered. It was young. Female. Shaking. “Please, I need help. I can’t find the door.” zaviel

“Like what?”

The sun rose. The Weeper faded with the shadows, but not before pressing something small and warm into Zaviel’s palm. When he looked down, it was a key—old, iron, rusted. Then—footsteps

“Where are you?” Zaviel asked, keeping his eyes welded shut.

HOME.

“I’m here,” he said. “Where are you?”