Chapter 2 The Voice She Never Heard

Two years. That's how long Sylvia had spent learning how to survive in the slums of the city. At fourteen, she wasn't the terrified little girl who had escaped the orphanage. Life on the streets had toughened her. She knew which alleys were safe, which vendors were easy marks, and how to blend into the background when necessary.

That morning, Sylvia sat cross-legged on the curb near the busy marketplace. Her hair fell in tangled strands over her face, and her sweater, now too small, was ripped at the sleeves. Around her, the city roared with life-vendors calling out their wares, carts clattering on cobblestones, and distant conversations rising without end.

Her stomach growled, but she ignored it, keeping her focus on the crowd. It was the only way to survive-eyes open, ears sharp, always scanning.

"Are you hungry?"

Sylvia jumped, startled by the voice that broke through the chaos. A man crouched down in front of her. He wore a black cassock, a rosary tucked neatly into his belt. His kind face was framed by silver hair, and he held a leather-bound Bible in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

She eyed him warily, saying nothing.

The priest extended the bag toward her, the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread wafting out. "Go ahead," he said gently. "It's yours."

Sylvia's fingers hovered over the bag, her hunger tearing at her insides. But she stopped. Nothing on these streets came without a price.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because you look like you need it." The priest smiled, his eyes warm with sincerity. "You don't have to be afraid. It's common practice for me to assist those in need in whatever way I can. So help me God."

Still cautious, she reached for the bag, snatching it quickly and pulling it into her lap. She tore off a chunk of bread, eating hungrily but keeping her eyes locked on the stranger.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Sylvia chewed slowly, unsure if she should answer. After a pause, she muttered, "Sylvia."

"Well, Sylvia," the priest said, his tone warm and patient, "you shouldn't be out here alone. This city can be cruel, especially for someone your age."

She swallowed hard, her instincts screaming at her to leave, but her curiosity held her still.

"Where are your parents?"

The question struck a nerve. Sylvia dropped her gaze to the ground. "Gone," she said flatly.

The priest's face softened with sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that. But listen, you don't have to stay out here. I could take you somewhere safe. Somewhere warm."

Sylvia's grip tightened on the bag. She didn't answer, but her body tensed.

The priest sighed, shifting his weight. That's when she heard it-a voice. But it wasn't coming from his lips.

°Poor child. I just want to help. Maybe give her some money and food . . . though Father Michael says I'm too trusting. What if this girl's trouble too? What if something goes wrong again?°

Sylvia froze. Then her eyes darted to the man's face.

"What did you say?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

The priest blinked. "I didn't say anything."

"No . . . you said Father Michael thinks you're too trusting," Sylvia pressed.

The man's brow furrowed. "How do you know that?"

Her heart raced. "You just told me," she insisted.

"I didn't," he replied, his voice low with confusion. But then his thoughts came again, unbidden and clear as a bell:

°What is she talking about? Is this girl possessed? How else could she know my thoughts?°

Sylvia flinched. She shook her head as if to clear it. This wasn't possible. Was she losing her mind?

The priest's face darkened slightly, though his voice remained steady. "Who are you, really?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. His thoughts followed closely behind:

°Lord, give me strength. This child is unnatural. Something foul must have taken hold of her.°

Sylvia gasped, the fear in his thoughts cutting deeper than his words. She stumbled back, pressing the paper bag to her chest.

"Thank you for the food," she muttered, her voice trembling.

"Wait-" the priest started, but Sylvia was already turning to leave.

His thoughts grew louder, more frantic:

°Is she a trick of the devil? Should I call someone? No . . . no. I need to pray for her soul. God, protect her . . . and me.°

The rosary at his belt clinked as he reached for it, his lips moving in silent prayer. Sylvia didn't wait to see what he would do. She bolted.

She ran all the way into a narrow alley, the shadows swallowing her whole. Her chest heaved as she pressed herself against the cold brick wall, the paper bag still gripped tightly in her hands.

"What's wrong with me?" she whispered.

Her ears rang with the priest's thoughts-clear, distinct, impossible to ignore. She hadn't heard his voice. She'd heard something deeper.

Her knees buckled, and she slid to the ground, trembling. After two years in the slums, she'd thought she understood the rules of the streets-trust no one, stay quiet, and keep moving. But now, a new rule began to form in her mind:

Stay away from people.

Sylvia sat in the darkness until her breathing slowed, but her thoughts raced on, denying her sleep. She didn't know what had just happened or why, but one thing was clear-she couldn't let it happen again. She felt fear in a way she'd never felt before. Not of the world around her, but of herself.

At daybreak, she sat on the edge of a crumbling sidewalk, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The memory of the man's voice-or whatever it was-played over and over in her mind. She hadn't told anyone about what happened. Who would she tell? Danny might have laughed it off or thought she was crazy, and she wasn't sure she could explain it to herself, let alone anyone else.

She stared at the crowd moving through the marketplace, her eyes scanning the faces of strangers.

What was it she'd heard? His thoughts? That didn't make sense.

"Thoughts aren't something you hear," she muttered to herself. But she had. She was sure of it.

A woman passed by with a baby crying in her arms, her face tired and strained. Sylvia closed her eyes, focusing on her.

And then it happened.

°If I could just get him to sleep for an hour, just one hour . . .°

Sylvia's eyes snapped open. It was there, faint but unmistakable, like a whisper she wasn't supposed to hear. Her chest tightened, and her stomach flipped in excitement.

It wasn't just that man.

She could hear people's thoughts.