Whispers of the Forgotten Gods

Truth is around

The city was soaked in the cold embrace of autumn rain, but the girl barely noticed as she stumbled through the crowded streets of Saint Petersburg. Her mind was a fog of disbelief and heartbreak. Mila ran into the subway's hall and stared at her phone, rereading the text message for the hundredth time. The words hadn't changed, but their impact hadn't lessened either.

"It's over. I'm sorry. Please don't contact me again."

Luka's message was brief, cold, and final. It was a stark contrast to the warmth and love he had shown her just days ago. Mila's fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to type a response, to beg for an explanation, but she knew it would be futile. The silence on the other end was deafening.

She looked up from her phone, her eyes unfocused as she looked around. The bustling life continued outside, oblivious to her world crumbling within these gloomy city. How could everything change so suddenly? Just last week, she and Luka had been planning their summer trip, surrounded by their tight-knit group of friends. Now, she felt like a ghost, invisible and alone.

As the days passed, Mila's isolation only grew. She noticed the whispers that would abruptly stop when she entered a room, the way her friends' eyes would dart away when she tried to make eye contact. Even Sveta, her best friend since childhood, seemed to be avoiding her.

Mila found herself retreating from the world, back to her late grandmother Yelena's small, dusty apartment on Vasilievsky Island. She hadn't planned to move back, but the familiar scent of old books and dried herbs brought a strange kind of comfort. Her grandmother had always been a peculiar woman, with her deep fascination for the old Slavic gods and myths. Growing up, Mila had brushed off Yelena's tales of spirits, gods, and magic as mere folklore.

One particularly lonely evening, Mila found herself in her grandmother's old library. The musty smell of ancient books brought back memories of warm summer nights spent listening to Babushka's tales of Slavic gods and mythical creatures. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, pausing at a particularly worn volume. "Legends of Veles," the title read.

Mila pulled the book from the shelf, a small cloud of dust rising as she did so. She settled into a comfortable armchair and began to read. As she delved deeper into the stories of Veles, the Slavic god of the underworld and magic, a trickster, a guide through shadows, and a keeper of forbidden knowledge, she felt a strange sense of familiarity. The tales spoke of a god who was neither good nor evil, but a force of nature itself, unpredictable and powerful.

Hours passed unnoticed as Mila lost herself in the world of ancient Slavic mythology. When she finally looked up, the library was dark, illuminated only by the soft glow of a nearby lamp. She blinked, disoriented, and realized it was well past midnight.

As she stood to leave, a sudden gust of wind rustled the pages of the open book. Mila froze, her heart pounding. The library windows were closed. Where had the wind come from? And then she heard it – a whisper, so faint she thought she might have imagined it.

"Mila..."

She whirled around, searching for the source of the voice, but the library was empty. Shaking her head, Mila gathered her things and hurried back to her dorm room, attributing the strange occurrence to her overtired mind.

But the whispers didn't stop. Soon, the world around Mila began to shift in subtle, eerie ways. She would hear her name whispered in the wind when she walked along the Neva River at night, or feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise as if someone were watching her from the darkness. Once, while browsing a second-hand bookstore, a strange trinket—a small bronze medallion etched with unfamiliar symbols—fell off a high shelf directly into her hands. The shopkeeper insisted she take it, saying it was meant for her.