Echoes Of The Abyss

BY LASHON HAKODESH SHEMA BOOKS:

The Birth of a Child... and the Unseen Battle

The storm raged outside the hospital, its fury rattling the windows like an unseen force demanding entry. Rain struck the glass in rapid succession, a relentless drumbeat against the dimly lit room. The air smelled of antiseptic and sweat, the tension thick enough to choke on. The atmosphere in the room was dense, heavy with anticipation and fear, and the buzz of hospital machines seemed to amplify the silence between each heartbeat.

Joanna lay on the hospital bed, her skin clammy, her breathing labored. Her fingers dug into the sheets, her body writhing as another wave of pain tore through her. The contractions had been relentless, more violent than anything she had ever imagined. Her chest heaved with each breath, as if she was fighting against an unseen current pulling her under.

"Push, Joanna!" the doctor urged, his voice a calm yet firm command, barely audible above the sound of the storm. His eyes were fixed on her, measuring her every move, but even he couldn't hide the glimmer of unease flickering behind his professional mask. The other nurses in the room shuffled nervously, exchanging glances that told more than words ever could.

John stood beside her, his broad shoulders tense, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He had always been a man of action, one who could fix things with determination and effort. But here, now, as his wife struggled to bring their child into the world, he was powerless. He could do nothing but watch, pray, and fight the gnawing sense of unease creeping through his chest.

Then, Joanna gasped. Her dark eyes locked onto John's, her face contorted with pain and something else-fear. "John..." she rasped between shallow breaths. "Something is wrong."

A chill slid down his spine. "You're okay," he assured her, though his own voice wavered, betraying the panic clawing at his throat. "The baby's coming. Just a little longer, love."

She shook her head weakly, her lips trembling as if speaking was a monumental effort. "He-he is different," she whispered, eyes wide with a terror that John couldn't comprehend.

Before he could respond, another scream tore from her throat-a sound so raw, so inhuman, that it sent shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. The beeping of the machines spiked into chaos. The lights flickered and buzzed, as if the room itself was rebelling against the pain, the tension, the impending birth.

A nurse stumbled back, her face pale, her eyes wide. "Doctor, she's losing too much blood!" she cried, her voice trembling in the cold, sterile air.

John grabbed Joanna's hand, his pulse hammering in his ears. "Stay with me!" he shouted, but his voice felt small against the rising storm of fear in the room.

The air thickened, pressing down on them like an unseen weight. The room seemed to close in around them, the space constricting as the seconds stretched longer than time allowed. John had never been a religious man-not like Joanna. But in that moment, he felt it. Something was in the room. The shadows stretched unnaturally, coiling in the corners like living things. There was something dark in that hospital room-something he couldn't explain, but he could feel it, cold and watching.

Then-

A deep, guttural growl. The kind of sound that no human should be able to make, and yet it vibrated through the air like it was coming from the very walls.

John's breath hitched. There were no animals here. No one else in the room was making that sound. And yet, it came.

And then, as if the world itself had paused in anticipation, the cry of a newborn pierced the chaos-sharp, alive, and powerful.

The entire room froze. Even the storm outside seemed to hush. The machines calmed. The light stopped flickering. It was as if time itself bowed in reverence.

The doctor, with wide eyes and trembling hands, lifted the baby gently. "It's a boy," he whispered in awe.

Joanna, weak and barely conscious, opened her eyes slowly. Her gaze searched the room until it found John.

John stepped forward-slowly, reverently-as though he were walking on holy ground. His heart pounded in his chest. Sweat clung to his brow, not just from fear, but something deeper. A sense of destiny.

The doctor placed the baby into his arms.

John looked down at the child-so small, yet so alive. His chest swelled, and something moved in his spirit. Tears welled in his eyes, and his voice trembled as he spoke words that didn't come from his mind, but from deep within his soul.

"Your name..." he whispered, "shall be Nathaniel."

Joanna stirred and turned her head weakly toward them. At the sound of the name, a calm smile spread across her face. "God has given..." she whispered faintly, as though she knew the meaning already.

And just as John said the name, the warm light above them flickered-not with darkness, but with a soft glow, almost like a blessing.

From that moment on, Nathaniel was no ordinary child. His birth wasn't just the beginning of life-it was the beginning of a battle, a purpose, and a divine calling wrapped in flesh and blood.

A Family's Joy... and an Unspoken Warning

The morning sun peeked through the curtains of their modest home, casting soft golden light across the living room. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant-leftover from the late-night cleaning spree Joanna insisted on before they brought their son home from the hospital. Everything had to be perfect. Everything had to feel new, like a fresh beginning.

Family members had come and gone the past few days, but this morning, the house was quiet. Peaceful. Joanna sat on the edge of the couch, rocking gently in place as she cradled her newborn son. His skin was soft, his breath warm against her chest. His eyes remained closed, but his little hand gripped her finger with surprising strength.

"Strong boy," she whispered, a soft smile playing on her lips. "You're a fighter, just like your father."

John stood in the doorway, watching them silently. His heart was full-yet still oddly heavy. Ever since the birth, something had changed. The atmosphere around them sometimes felt charged, like the calm before a storm. But each time he looked into his son's face, all of that melted away. His baby boy had a peacefulness about him that grounded John, even when memories of that strange hospital night came creeping back.

He walked forward and gently kissed Joanna's forehead. "You're doing great," he said, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

She leaned into his touch. "We made it, John," she whispered. "He's here. And we're okay."

John smiled, though a flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes. "Yeah," he replied. "We're okay."

The knock on the door broke the moment. It was soft at first, then firmer.

Joanna stood carefully, still holding the baby. "That must be Miriam," she said, and handed the child gently to John before heading to open the door.

Sure enough, it was her sister-bright-eyed, practically bouncing in place with excitement. "Where is he?" Miriam exclaimed as she stepped in, her hands already reaching forward.

John chuckled and handed the baby to her with practiced care. "Be gentle. He's not a football," he teased.

Miriam rolled her eyes. "I know how to carry a baby, John. I held you when you were this small, remember?"

"Barely," he muttered, but the tension in his shoulders eased as laughter filled the room.

The family gathered that evening for a small naming gathering. Nothing extravagant-just a few friends, cousins, and the pastor from Joanna's church. The pastor led a short prayer, thanking God for a safe delivery and asking for divine protection over the newborn child.

Afterward, with the soft hum of gospel music playing in the background and the scent of jollof rice and fried meat wafting from the kitchen, John rose to his feet. He held the child gently in his arms and cleared his throat.

The room quieted.

John looked down at his son, then up at the small group before him. "The moment I saw him," he began, "something in me changed. I don't know how to explain it. But when I looked into his face, I saw more than just a baby. I saw purpose. I saw strength. I saw a name."

He paused, then smiled softly. "Your name will be Nathaniel," he said. "Because you are a gift from God. A true blessing."

There were murmurs of approval, nods of agreement, and the faint clapping of hands.

But not everyone clapped.

The door creaked open, and a gust of cold air slipped through as John's childhood friend, Frank, entered, grinning wide. He held up a bottle of wine. "We celebrating or what?" he announced, his voice booming as he strode into the room.Laughter filled the room, the unease momentarily forgotten.

John's father, an old man with a weathered face and eyes that had seen too much war and struggle, sat quietly in the corner. His eyes were narrowed, focused on the baby. His lips were pursed, as if tasting a bitter thought he didn't want to speak aloud.

Joanna noticed his silence and walked over to him with the baby. "Papa," she said warmly, "come and bless your grandson."

The old man hesitated before rising slowly to his feet. He touched the baby's forehead gently, almost reverently, then stared at him for a long moment.

"He carries something with him," he said quietly. "Something I don't understand."

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

His father shook his head. "It's not for me to explain. But mark my words-this child will walk a road few have walked before. Protect him. Cover him in prayer. You'll need it."

The room grew still again. The joy of the evening dulled just slightly, like a cloud passing in front of the sun.

Later that night, after everyone had gone home, and Joanna had finally coaxed Nathaniel to sleep, John found himself once more standing by the window. The moon hung high in the sky, casting silver light across the yard. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted.

He heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind him. Joanna.

"You're quiet again," she said, wrapping her arms around his waist.

He placed his hand over hers. "I just... I keep thinking about what your dad said. About what I saw in that hospital room. The way the lights flickered. The cold. The sound. And then your father's words tonight..."

Joanna rested her head against his back. "I know," she whispered. "But Nathaniel is ours. And he's God's. We'll pray. We'll raise him right. Whatever he is meant to face... he won't face it alone."

John nodded slowly, though his eyes remained on the sky.

He wasn't a man of many words. He didn't always know how to talk about what he felt. But deep down, something told him-this wasn't an ordinary child. And their lives were never going to be ordinary again.

That night, the house was quiet. Too quiet.

But in Nathaniel's room, as the night wind rustled the trees outside, the shadows along the wall seemed to move-not with the breeze, but with something else entirely.

And in his sleep, the baby stirred... his fingers twitching, his brows furrowed, as if dreaming of a world far beyond this one.

The Early Days of Nathaniel

The weeks that followed were filled with the kind of exhaustion and joy only new parents truly understood. Sleepless nights became routine. Joanna would often wake up in the middle of the night with aching arms and tired eyes, but one look at Nathaniel's face made the fatigue feel like a blessing.

He wasn't a fussy child. Not like most babies. He rarely cried for no reason. He seemed... aware, even in infancy. There were moments he would lock eyes with Joanna or John with a depth that didn't make sense for a child who hadn't yet learned to speak. His gaze often lingered, like he saw something beyond them, something invisible and eternal.

One afternoon, Joanna was alone at home. John had gone out to buy some groceries, and Nathaniel was lying in his small cot near the window, cooing softly.

Joanna watched him from across the room as she folded his tiny clothes. The sunlight fell across his face, making his skin glow softly. She hummed an old lullaby her mother used to sing, her voice tired but peaceful.

Suddenly, Nathaniel stopped cooing and turned his head sharply toward the window. Joanna looked up, startled.

"Nathaniel?" she called gently.

He didn't look at her. His eyes were wide, fixed on something outside the window. His lips moved slightly, as if whispering-though he couldn't yet speak. Then his small hands reached up into the air... toward nothing.

Joanna dropped the shirt in her hands and rushed over. "What is it, baby?" she said, scooping him up protectively.

He didn't cry. He didn't smile. He just stared out the window for a few more seconds before finally turning to look at her-eyes calm again. Then, with the smallest of sighs, he rested his head against her shoulder.

That night, she didn't mention the incident to John. But she prayed longer than usual.

The First Laugh

It was a Saturday morning when Nathaniel laughed for the first time.

John had just returned from a long shift at work, his shirt stained and his back aching, but he still had the energy to sweep his son into his arms and make silly faces. Joanna watched from the kitchen, laughing softly as her two boys played.

John held Nathaniel up in the air like an airplane, pretending to fly him around the living room.

"And here comes the mighty prophet pilot!" he said with a dramatic voice. "Flying straight from Heaven's gate to land in mommy's arms!"

As he dipped Nathaniel low and then lifted him back up again, a sudden giggle bubbled out of the boy's mouth.

Both parents froze.

John looked at Joanna. "Was that...?"

Joanna was already running over, hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. "He laughed!"

They both looked at Nathaniel, who let out another delighted giggle, kicking his tiny legs and clapping his fists in the air.

John's eyes welled with tears.

It was a sound so pure, so full of light, it broke something inside him.

"I'll never forget that sound," he whispered.

Joanna nodded. "Me neither."

The Anointing Oil

At three months old, something unusual happened that no one in the family could easily explain.

John's mother, came visiting from her village. She was a respected elder, known for her deep prayer life and prophetic dreams. When she arrived and saw Nathaniel for the first time, she didn't speak much. She only held him and closed her eyes.

For nearly ten minutes, she remained silent, whispering under her breath in tongues.

Finally, she said, "This one is marked."

John shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. "Mum, what do you mean?"

John's Mum opened her eyes and looked at them both. "This child carries something heavy. Something ancient. There are battles ahead-more than you know. Don't treat him like an ordinary child."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small bottle of anointing oil. "Anoint his head every morning. And never stop praying."

From that day on, Joanna made it a routine. Before sunrise, before even brushing her teeth, she would take that small bottle, dab oil on Nathaniel's forehead, and whisper prayers over him. Some nights, she would cry as she prayed, sensing something pressing in the spirit, even if she couldn't name it.

The Day He Fell Sick

At five months, Nathaniel fell sick. It started with a fever-mild at first, but by evening, his small body was burning up.

Joanna rushed him to the local clinic while John sped over from work. The doctor examined him, frowned, and said the baby needed to be admitted immediately.

"There's no obvious cause," the doctor said. "He's not coughing, not vomiting, not even crying much. But this fever is high... and it's strange. It's almost like it comes in waves."

John clenched his fists. "Waves?"

"Yes," the doctor nodded. "It spikes every two hours like clockwork... and then fades again. Like something is attacking him in intervals."

They stayed up all night, taking turns to sponge him, sing to him, pray over him. Around 3 AM, while Joanna dozed off briefly in the chair, John stood alone by the baby's bedside.

Nathaniel's breathing had slowed. Too slow.

John dropped to his knees. "God, please," he whispered. "Don't take him. Take me if you have to. Just not him. He hasn't even lived yet."

As he prayed, the air grew cold in the room.

Then-like a flicker-Nathaniel opened his eyes.

He looked straight at John. No tears. No fear. Just peace.

And then, just like that... the fever broke.

When the nurses came in an hour later, they were stunned. The baby's temperature was normal. Heartbeat strong. Breathing steady.

They had no explanation.

But John knew... Someone had heard his prayer.

The Boy and the Unseen Guide

Nathaniel was just six months old when the first strange incident occurred. It was subtle-something only a mother would notice. One night, as Joanna rocked him to sleep during a thunderstorm, he suddenly stopped crying and stared toward the corner of the room. She followed his gaze, but there was nothing there. His eyes widened slightly, calm and focused, as though someone had entered the room.

At first, she thought nothing of it-perhaps a flicker of lightning or a shifting shadow. But then it happened again the next night. And the next. Each time, the same calm would come over him, and his eyes would fix on that same spot, as if listening to something only he could hear.

By the time he turned two, the "imaginary friend" had a name. Nathaniel began to refer to him as Uriel .

At first, Joanna dismissed it as a toddler's phase. Many children had imaginary friends, and Nathaniel was a quiet, introspective boy who observed more than he spoke. But as he grew, the descriptions became too vivid-too precise-to ignore.

"He doesn't blink like we do," Nathaniel told her one afternoon as she folded clothes. "His eyes shine. And he walks like he's not stepping on the ground."

Joanna paused, a pair of socks in her hand. "Does he talk to you?"

"Yes," the boy nodded. "He says my heart is a lamp. And I must keep it clean so God's light can stay inside."

Joanna's hands froze in mid-air.

Those weren't the words of a two-year-old. And it wasn't the last time Nathaniel would speak like this. Malak, according to Nathaniel, didn't play with him like a normal child. He came during moments of silence-when Nathaniel was afraid, or lonely, or sitting alone after school. Sometimes in the night, Joanna would find her son awake, whispering to someone unseen.

One night, just before his third birthday, Joanna caught him kneeling by the window, hands folded.

"Nate," she whispered. "Who are you talking to?"

He didn't look back. "Uriel. He's standing outside. He said I should pray for Daddy tonight. That his strength is needed soon."

She stood there silently, her breath caught in her chest. Nathaniel turned around and gave a tired smile. "It's okay, Mum. He said you don't need to be afraid."

From that night, she started writing things down-his words, dreams, even the things he drew. One drawing showed their family surrounded by light, with one side of the picture dark and clawed. A small figure with wings stood in between, shielding the light.

-

Not Just a Child

By age four, Nathaniel had become a boy who seemed older than his years. He still laughed, still ran around the house like other children, but he'd pause suddenly, as if listening to something. Sometimes he would tilt his head and squint slightly, like someone deep in thought.

One evening, while Joanna was washing dishes, Nathaniel walked in and said quietly, "God doesn't like it when people lie about love."

She turned. "What do you mean?"

He pointed to the TV in the living room. "The man in the movie. He's saying 'I love you,' but his heart doesn't agree."

Joanna walked to him, knelt down. "Nathaniel, how do you know that?"

He looked her dead in the eyes. "Because Uriel said it smells different when it's fake. Love has a smell like firewood. Lies smell like wet ash."

She held him close and wept quietly, not out of fear-but awe. Her son had a gift, and it was both beautiful and terrifying.

-

The Backyard Warning

At five, he often spent time alone in the backyard. He loved the silence-the way the wind moved through the trees and how the world slowed down when you stopped talking. One afternoon, after a sudden rain, Joanna found him standing barefoot on the wet grass, face turned to the sky, arms stretched out.

"Nate," she called gently, "what are you doing?"

He didn't move for a moment. Then he turned, face soft and peaceful.

"Uriel said I must learn to hear God even when the sky is quiet."

She walked over and picked him up.

"I don't want you catching a cold."

As she carried him back in, Nathaniel whispered, "Something is coming, Mummy. A hard thing. But don't worry... God will be with us."

She stopped mid-step.

"What kind of thing?"

"I don't know yet," he said honestly. "But Uriel said to pray every night, even when we're tired."

-

A Strange Moment in School

Nathaniel didn't fit in with the other children. He was polite, but distant. Curious, but quiet. While the others played noisily during recess, he often sat alone, reading or sketching in his notebook.

During a class devotion one morning, his teacher asked each child to pray aloud. When it came to Nathaniel's turn, he closed his eyes and whispered,

"Lord, please touch the heart of the woman in the green dress. Tell her she is not forgotten. The baby she lost is with you, and the guilt she carries is not hers to keep. Free her, and show her daughter how to love her again."

A hush fell over the room.

There was a woman helping serve breakfast that morning, wearing a green dress. She gasped. Her hands trembled, and she quietly left the hall.

Later that day, the woman found Joanna near the school gate.

"Has he... has he ever been to my home?"

Joanna frowned. "No, why?"

The woman's voice cracked. "What he said... no one knows. Not even my pastor. I had a miscarriage three years ago. I blamed myself. My daughter-she hasn't spoken to me since."

Joanna stood frozen, her heart pounding.

And that was only the beginning.

-

The Gift of a Sister

Two years after Nathaniel's birth, the family welcomed another child-a daughter.

Her arrival was calmer, quieter, but no less significant. Unlike the storm that accompanied Nathaniel's birth,she came into the world under a sky painted in soft blues and pinks, the morning sun warming the hospital walls like a promise of peace.

John held her in his arms, his eyes soft with recognition. "She carries the light,I'll call her Jessica'' he had whispered to Joanna that day. "The balance. The peace he'll need."

Even as a toddler, Jessica seemed drawn to her older brother. And Nathaniel, though still so young, was fiercely protective of her. They spoke to each other in ways their parents couldn't always understand-through glances, small sounds, or simple touches. Where Nathaniel was quiet and observant, Jessica was vibrant and curious. Yet, together, they moved like a unit. Their bond was immediate, unbreakable, almost prophetic.

At night, Joanna would sometimes peek into their shared room and find Nathaniel sitting beside Jessica's crib, humming softly, eyes distant, as if watching something only he could see-while Jessica lay staring up at him, completely at peace.

One morning, when Jessica was just learning to walk, Joanna overheard Nathaniel whisper something to her. Something far beyond his years.

"Don't be afraid," he told her softly. "When I go through the fire, you'll be my anchor."

Joanna stood frozen in the hallway, tears in her eyes. Nathaniel couldn't have understood the weight of what he said. And yet... deep down, she knew he did.

The Inner Voice

At six, Nathaniel began to write. Not just schoolwork, but thoughts, impressions, and what he called "whispers." His notebook was filled with small entries, often written after he had sat in silence or returned from a dream.

He once wrote: "Some houses echo even when no one is inside. That's how grief lives-quiet but loud."

One entry stood out more than the others:

"There will be a shaking. But the tree will not fall. Because its roots were soaked in prayer."

Joanna remembered that one vividly.

Because just three weeks later, John-her husband-began to cough. And everything began to change.

Echoes of the Abyss

By the time Nathaniel turned fifteen, the visions no longer came only in dreams. They now showed up in the stillness between seconds-those quiet moments when the world seemed to pause, and the veil between heaven and earth grew thin. He could be walking home from school or sitting on the church steps after choir practice, and suddenly he would feel it-like a ripple in the air, a shiver that wasn't cold.

And then, he would see him.

Not like before, when Uriel had appeared in flickers, soft and distant like a voice caught in the wind. Now, the presence stood taller-more defined, more urgent. But it wasn't Uriel anymore. Uriel had not appeared to him in over two years. His absence had been sudden, unexplained. In his place came another.

His name was Azekiel.

Azekiel did not carry the soft light of comfort. His presence was weightier, as if heaven had sent a soldier instead of a guide. His robe was darker-lined with the gold of warfare, not peace. His eyes held no smile, only clarity.

"You are approaching the gates," Azekiel told Nathaniel one afternoon.

"What gates?" Nathaniel asked, sitting alone on the church steps after choir practice. The evening sun was dimming, and the town buzzed faintly in the distance.

"The ones between light and shadow," the angel said. "What you do in the coming days will echo into places you cannot see. The Abyss listens now."

Nathaniel blinked. "The abyss?"

Azekiel's voice was steady. "There is a darkness that doesn't always scream. Sometimes, it waits-patient, intelligent. You are now seen, Nathaniel. Not just by heaven. But by those who serve what fell."

Nathaniel lowered his gaze to the concrete under his feet. "Why me?"

"Because your steps shake things," Azekiel said. "And not all things want to be shaken."

⸻

That night, Nathaniel wrote in his journal:

"The Abyss is not a place. It's a voice-whispering through wounds, through lies, through the hunger for power. I can feel it waiting. Watching. And I must not be caught sleeping."

⸻

The Weight of Sight

Nathaniel's life had never been normal, but the older he grew, the more it set him apart. His friends would joke, play, chase girls. Nathaniel listened more than he spoke. He would stare at people sometimes-not rudely, but deeply. As though reading something beyond their faces.

He could tell when someone carried grief. Or when someone was hiding sin. One teacher once confronted him angrily after he refused to shake her hand during prize-giving day.

"Are you trying to embarrass me?" she hissed after the event.

Nathaniel had bowed his head. "I didn't mean to. But there was something around your hand."

She left angrily-only for the school to find out a week later that she'd been involved in ritual practices.

The gift was growing. But so was the burden.

He'd lay awake at night hearing voices in his spirit-some sharp and urgent, others seductive and twisted. The battle had changed form. It was no longer about being different. Now, it was about staying pure.

⸻

The Whisper in the Night

One night, after a long day at school, Nathaniel knelt to pray. The room was silent except for the faint buzzing of mosquitoes.

"Lord," he whispered, "I'm tired. Sometimes I wish I didn't see so much. I just want to be normal."

As he spoke, the room dimmed-not in light, but in weight. Azekiel appeared, his presence flickering near the window.

"You must choose again," he said. "Because soon, you will be offered shortcuts. They will look like blessings but carry chains."

"What if I choose wrong?" Nathaniel asked.

The angel stepped forward. "Then you will still walk-but in the dark."

Silence stretched between them.

"Why does it have to be this hard?"

"Because your life is not yours alone," Azekiel replied. "And heaven does not raise warriors with soft fire."

⸻

The Pull of the Abyss

Nathaniel began to notice things. Dreams where hands reached for him from dark waters. Sudden temptations-fame, pleasure, shortcuts. Friends who introduced him to dangerous ideas. One, in particular, was named alex.

Alex was magnetic-popular, witty, and always a little reckless. He seemed harmless at first, even helpful. But slowly, Nathaniel began to change around him. He skipped his nightly prayers. He stopped writing in his journal. His visions became unclear. His peace grew shallow.

One night, he dreamed of standing at a crossroads. Uriel was nowhere to be found. Azekiel stood far off, almost faded. The voice from the abyss whispered:

"You don't need to carry all this weight. There is another path-easier, faster. You're special, Nathaniel. Don't waste your strength on silence."

He woke up sweating.

It was the first time he realized... he couldn't hear the angel anymore.

Fading Light

In the weeks that followed, the silence grew louder.

Nathaniel would sit in his room at night, hoping-aching-for a whisper, a flicker of light, a sign that Azekiel was still near. But the heavens had gone quiet. And in the silence, the world began to press in.

Alex influence expanded. He introduced Nathaniel to parties-just once, he'd said. "You don't even have to drink. Just come. Live a little."

At first, Nathaniel stood at the edge, uncomfortable, distant. But the music was intoxicating, the smiles too inviting, and for a moment, he felt invisible-free of the weight of destiny.

One night, he kissed a girl he barely knew.

Another night, he lied to his mother for the first time, telling her he was staying late at choir practice.

He wasn't.

The next dream was different.

He stood in a cathedral of shadows, stained-glass windows cracked and dripping black oil. At the altar, a mirror waited-framed in thorns. When Nathaniel stepped toward it, the reflection didn't show his face.

It showed a man cloaked in fire.

A voice behind him whispered, "Heaven is late. But I am not."

Nathaniel turned-but no one was there.

When he woke, the presence of fear lingered like smoke in his room.

He tried to pray, but his words felt thin-hollow, like echoes bouncing off stone walls. His journal lay untouched on his desk, covered in dust.

The abyss had found its door.

⸻

Descent

He stopped going to church. He said he was tired, or busy with exams. But deep down, he couldn't bear to walk into that place anymore.

The cross on the altar felt like a weight pressing on his chest.

His mother noticed the change.

"You don't smile like you used to," she said one evening over dinner.

"I'm just tired," he replied, forcing a weak smile. "It's nothing."

But it was everything.

That night, as he lay in bed, he heard it again-a soft, nearly seductive voice.

"You were made for more than just suffering, Nathaniel. Come with me. I'll show you how to use your gift... without pain."

The voice no longer came in dreams.

It was speaking to him while he was awake.

He closed his eyes, pressing his palms to his ears.

"Leave me alone," he whispered. "God, please..."

But heaven remained silent.

⸻

Final Sign

It was a cold evening when he felt it-the last flicker of grace.

Nathaniel was walking home through a quiet street when a sudden breeze swept through, and he felt something brush against his shoulder. He turned and saw a figure at the edge of the road, cloaked in gold and shadow.

It was Azekiel-faded, like a memory dissolving into the air.

"You still have a choice," the angel said. "Even now."

"I don't hear you anymore," Nathaniel replied, tears stinging his eyes. "I tried. I begged. You left."

Azekiel's voice was soft this time-almost mournful. "We didn't leave. You turned the frequency."

Nathaniel clenched his fists. "I'm tired of carrying all this. I didn't ask for any of it."

"No one chosen ever does," Azekiel said. "But this isn't the end. When the silence grows unbearable, call His name. And He will answer."

Then, the angel was gone.

And for the first time in months, Nathaniel fell to his knees-crying, but unsure of who he was crying to.