Prelude

Echoes of the Past

The dream began as it often did, with the soft hum of his mother’s voice. Viorel was drifting, somewhere between sleep and waking, wrapped in the familiar warmth of her presence. He saw flashes of light—a soft, ethereal glow—and felt the comforting press of her arms around him, holding him as if he was the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

His mom gently whispered, “What a lovely baby you are! Your blue eyes, your curly hair—I’m sure that others would call you chubby too! I wonder if the popular rhyme was written for you! Yes, you are my pet, darling! Mother’s pet! And I won’t let anybody even touch you! You just turned one three months ago. . . and I dread what’s to follow.” She held him tight on her lap.

He clearly remembered the green dress that she was wearing at that moment. Her eyes, with emerald tinge, were certainly unique and he hadn’t seen anyone having such eyes.

In his dream, he could almost make out her face, the shape of her gentle smile, and the way her eyes sparkled, filled with secrets she had yet to share with him. She was singing a lullaby that he half remembered from his earliest days. The song wasn’t in words he understood, but there was a beauty in it, a steady, soothing melody that made him feel safe. It was only now that he wondered about the sentences said and the ones left incomplete.

But as the dream deepened, shadows began to take shape around them. He was getting older and was certainly more inquisitive than other kids in his neighbourhood. He was twelve already and he didn’t even remember since when his mother went missing from his life. It was only recently that one of the cousins of his father called upon when his father wasn’t home and told him that his mother had been missing for six years. Six years! It was quite a number! Figures drifted at the edges of his vision—ghosts, he thought, though he couldn’t remember ever seeing them in his waking life.

They hovered there, watching, as if waiting for something.

His mother’s light grew brighter, casting an aura that kept the shadows at bay, her voice steady even as the darkness closed in.

“Viorel,” she whispered, her voice both close and far away, as if carried by a breeze. “You must learn to see beyond the living. I realise that you are only four right now, but there’s a prophecy which I want you to understand. You are going to be the bridge. You are a Pariah who will save the Banshees. . .”

As her words echoed, her form began to fade, her light dimming as the shadows pressed closer. Viorel reached out, desperate to hold onto her, but his hands passed through empty air. The figures around him grew sharper, more menacing, and just as he felt the dream slipping into a nightmare, her voice came again—a final whisper that kept ringing continuously in his ears, like a thread that tied him to her.

“Look for the bridge, Viorel. You are the bridge. . .”

The dream faded, leaving Viorel in the silence of his room, the warmth of his mother’s presence lingering like the memory of sunlight after dawn.

Viorel lay awake, staring at the ceiling, fragments of the dream still echoing in his mind. He had an identical dream before, always the same comforting beginning, the soft light of his mother’s voice, only for it to shift into something darker, something filled with shadows and ghosts.

His thoughts drifted back to his early childhood. Ever since he could remember, he’d sensed things—things he now understood were ghosts—though back then, he hadn’t known the word for them. There were cold spots in the house, odd flickers of movement in the corners of his vision, and a feeling of being watched that made him shiver even in the warmest rooms. He had tried to talk about it once or twice after his mother’s disappearance, but his father’s reactions had quickly taught him to stay silent.

One evening, when he was no older than five, he remembered sitting with his mother while she tucked him into bed. He blurted out, “Mom, why do I see people that aren’t there?”

She paused, her expression thoughtful, before giving him a soft smile. “You have a special gift, Viorel. One that not everyone has. It’s something to cherish.”

“Like superpowers?” he’d asked, wide-eyed. That time, he wasn’t frightful of these creatures and he had loved the thought of having superpowers.

She chuckled, brushing his hair back from his face.

“Maybe, but it’s more than that. It’s a way to see beyond the world we know.”

He continued, “Why are they faceless? Why do they not have a body like us or like the ghost stories you have told me?”

She chuckled, “They too have forms that are invisible to the common eye. The forms appear when either you wish it a lot or when those creatures feel like.”

That night, she’d placed a small charm on his nightstand, an amulet carved with symbols he didn’t understand. “Keep this close,” she had said. “It will protect you and remind you that you’re never truly alone.”

He hadn’t thought much of it then, but now, years later, the amulet remained on his nightstand, a quiet reminder of his mother’s love—and her secrets.

After that dream, Viorel couldn’t shake the feeling that his mother was trying to tell him something, something he wasn’t seeing. Later that night, he found himself searching through the box of her belongings that his father kept in the attic. His hands shook as he lifted the lid, sifting through faded photographs, pieces of her jewellery, and letters written in her neat, looping handwriting.

At the bottom of the box, he found a small leather-bound journal. The pages were yellowed with age, the ink smudged in places, but as he flipped through, a few lines caught his eye. They were written in short, fragmented phrases, almost poetic, as if his mother had been trying to capture something beyond words.

“The Pariah shall walk the line between realms.”

“A bridge, neither living nor dead, but bound to both.”

“The light of the rainbow team will pierce the darkness. . .”

The words sent a chill down his spine. He read them over and over, trying to decipher their meaning. Pariah.

Bridge. Rainbow team. None of it made sense, yet he felt an undeniable connection to the words, as though they were written for him.

Just as he closed the journal, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to find his father standing in the doorway, his face shadowed, eyes unreadable. “What are you doing?” his father asked, his voice calm but with a strange tension under the surface. He was wearing his starched white cotton shirt and denims—the colours Viorel had always seen him wearing. The hair on his head thinly covered the outer periphery of a circle. Whatever hair was there was curly, unlike the silky and straight hair of his mother. He remembered that his dad used to look handsome in his older memories. He had aged fast. Three lines of strain were evidently visible on his forehead.

“I was. . . I was just looking through Mom’s things,” Viorel stammered, hiding the journal behind his back.

His father’s gaze lingered on him, a look that seemed to pierce through his defences. “There are some things better left in the past, Viorel. You wouldn’t understand.”

With that, his father turned and walked away, leaving Viorel standing alone, the journal pressed tightly against his chest, his mind racing with questions. What was his father hiding? And why did he seem to know more about Viorel’s ‘gift’ than he was willing to admit?

In the weeks that followed, Viorel couldn’t shake the sense that he was being watched. Shadows flickered at the edge of his vision, and whispers seemed to follow him, faint voices just beyond the range of hearing. He found himself reaching for the amulet his mother had given him, feeling its weight as a small but steadying comfort.

One night, as he walked home from school, he sensed a presence behind him. It was stronger than any ghost he’d felt before, a cold, piercing energy that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He quickened his pace, but the feeling only intensified, as if something was closing in on him.

Finally, he stopped and turned, his heart pounding. There, standing in the shadows, was a ghost unlike any he had seen. Its form was tall, dark and indistinct, wreathed in a faint, flickering light, but its eyes. . .its eyes were sharp, filled with a knowledge that both frightened and intrigued him.

“You carry her light,” the ghost murmured, its voice a rasping whisper. “The bridge. . .she was a part of it, as are you.”

Viorel took a shaky step back. “Who. . .who are you talking about?”

The ghost’s gaze never wavered, its words like a riddle.

“She knew. She walked the line, saw what lay beyond. And now, you must do the same.”

Before Viorel could ask anything more, the ghost faded into the shadows, leaving him alone on the empty street, his mind spinning with questions. He clutched the amulet at his neck, the words of the prophecy echoing in his mind. He felt a silver aura appear in front of him. He closed his eyes.

“My name is Sirocco,” it said, “I’ll be there whenever you need me!” Sirocco disappeared before he could question him.

As he stood there, staring into the darkness, he felt a surge of determination. His mother had left him this legacy, a path he was only beginning to understand, and though he didn’t have all the answers, he knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t turn back now.