"Everything has gone perfectly still after we had regulated the thorns, hasn't it?" Harith muttered, his voice oddly hushed against the deadened air.
Around them, the world held its breath—no rustle of leaves, no echo, not even the hum of distant wind. Just silence. Thick and unnerving.
They stared into the distance where all of the sudden, a chapel emerged.
Both of them now sat against a half-splintered tree. Harith's hand pressed to his side as he turned to Daphne.
The blood that once streamed down had dried unnaturally fast, a dark smear against his skin and the torn fabric. No sting. No throb. Not even the dull ache that should've lingered.
Harith slowly peeled his hand away from the wound and stared at it.
"It doesn't even hurt anymore…" he whispered. His brows furrowed. "Not even a bit."
Daphne was crouched beside him, eyes narrowed, watching the empty treetops swaying to no wind. "And that's what makes it eerie," she said quietly, brushing the hair out of her face.
