Tears filled her eyes. "They said You couldn't come here."
"Light needs no permission to enter the dark."
Thecla fell to her knees. "Then help me. Help me free them."
"You already carry what you asked for — the sixpence you offered in faith. My fire walks with you."
The pendant pulsed once, twice. The air shimmered.
She looked up — and there, faintly visible through the golden haze, was Marcus, his silhouette flickering like a reflection across still water. He was reaching out.
"Thecla!" His voice echoed faintly. "Hold on!"
She stretched out her hand — their fingers touched through the shimmer.
For a heartbeat, she felt his warmth. His pain. His resolve.
Then the air trembled.
The shadow rose.
---
From behind her family, the Undying Man emerged . He was tall, faceless, wrapped in smoke. His presence blotted out the light. The chains binding her family pulsed violently, as if in pain.
"So," his voice boomed, "the Watchers whisper His name again. The Nazarene who bled once and thinks to challenge me."
The shadows bent like kneeling servants.
"Child, light does not belong here."
Thecla turned slowly, tears drying on her cheeks. "Then I'll take it where it does."
The Undying Man reached out — his arm stretching, smoke solidifying into claws. Thecla raised her pendant. The light flared, pure and gold, bursting like a sunrise through cracks in the hall.
The chains shattered.
Her parents gasped, color rushing back into their faces. Her brother stumbled, eyes wide and wet. Anne clinged to their mother crying.
"Thecla?" her mother breathed. "What's happening?"
Thecla smiled weakly, standing between them and the shadow. "We're not your prisoners anymore."
The Undying Man roared. The sound wasn't noise — it was blasphemy given voice, shaking the pillars. The ground split, blackness boiling upward like tar.
But above the noise came another sound — faint, steady — a hum like distant singing.
And Thecla knew it.
It was the same hymn her mother used to sing when the storms came.
She joined it.
The light swelled, pushing back the shadow. The hall blazed gold. The Undying Man staggered, his form unraveling, burning in invisible flame.
"Your kind has no place here!" he bellowed.
Thecla's pendant shone brighter still, forming the outline of a cross.
"Then I'll make one."
---
The world exploded in radiance.
When she blinked again, she was kneeling beside her family. The hall was gone, replaced by a boundless expanse of golden mist. Warm wind swept through her hair, and faint music — like bells under water — echoed from far beyond.
Thecla's mother reached for her, trembling. "Where are we?"
"In-between," Thecla said softly. "The place between the dark and the dawn."
Her father touched her shoulder, dazed. "How… how did you do this?"
She looked down at her pendant — now dim, cracked, but still warm.
"I didn't," she said quietly. "He did."
The mist began to swirl, forming a shape — a door of light high above, the same door Marcus had opened in the sublevel. Through it, she felt him — alive, climbing toward the surface, carrying Lila.
A connection sparked again, faint but sure.
"Marcus," she whispered. "You made it."
The air rippled. Through the shimmer, his voice answered faintly:
"Hold on, Thecla. The light's with you."
She smiled, tears glittering like dust motes in the golden air.
Her family stirred beside her. John looked around, wide-eyed. "Are we going home?"
Thecla brushed his hair back gently. "Someday. But first, I have to finish something."
He frowned. "The bad man?"
"Yes," she said. "But I'm not alone."
The wind shifted, carrying warmth — and in that warmth, she saw faint outlines moving: other souls, like candle flames — the lost guests, the forgotten victims of Shomon Crescent — all drawn to the light she had unleashed.
They weren't trapped anymore. They were crossing over.
Thecla turned toward the shining door, the pendant glowing one last time.
She took her mother's hand, whispered a final prayer:
"Thank You, Jesus… for finding me where the light was gone."
The mist brightened, curling upward. The golden air folded around them like a great, living wing.
And as she stepped toward the door, she spoke the word that had burned itself into her dreams — the word Marcus had once murmured in awe when they found the ancient inscription beneath the hotel:
> "Shomonite."
The light flared. The door opened.
And for the first time in a long while, hope : holy, human, and eternal — walked through.