Whispers of Silence

Chapter 11. The Morning Prayer

The bells of the Temple of Divine Retribution pierce the early morning silence. Their heavy tones drag me from sleep like cold hands. I pull the blanket over my head, trying to muffle the sound, but it's useless. The bells will ring until every soul in Aldenvik is inside those dark walls.

"Julie." Mom's voice comes soft through my door. "We need to get ready."

I curl tighter under the covers. "I don't feel well."

A pause. Then Mom slips into my room, her steps quiet as shadows. "I know, sweetheart." She sits on the edge of my bed. "I know it feels wrong. But we can't... we can't draw attention. Not now."

She's right. Ever since the Church strengthened its hold on Aldenvik, missing service means questions. Questions lead to soul ledger entries. And no one wants their name in those black books.

The floorboards creak as Dad paces downstairs. He hates this even more than I do - being forced to sit and listen to High Executor Thane preach about divine punishment, about accepting suffering as righteous fate. Dad was raised in the old ways, back when people could choose their faith.

Maya appears in my doorway, already dressed in her scratchy church clothes. "Do we have to go?" Her usual bounce is missing. "Last time the Witnesses kept staring at me when I yawned."

"We all have to go," Mom says, but her fingers twist nervously in her apron. "Just... just remember what we talked about. Sit quietly, don't draw attention."

I dress slowly, feeling the weight of Grandmother's journal where I've hidden it under my mattress. Part of me wants to take it - its presence feels like a shield against the Temple's cold stones. But that would be too dangerous. The Witnesses see everything.

The streets fill with families walking to service, their faces drawn and tired. No one talks. No one meets anyone's eyes. Only the Witnesses move freely through the crowd, their black robes swirling as they watch for any sign of reluctance or rebellion.

Claire falls into step beside me, her braids unusually neat. Her father makes her redo them three times on service days - the Witnesses notice everything, even messy hair. "Grandpa was up all night again," she whispers, barely moving her lips. "I heard him in his study, talking to someone."

I want to ask more, but a Witness glides past, his hollow eyes sweeping over us like ice. Claire and I automatically straighten, our faces going blank. We've learned this dance well over the past months.

The Temple rises before us, its black stones seeming to devour the morning light. As we file inside, I feel a strange shiver run down my spine - not fear, exactly, but something else. Like when you're about to sneeze but can't quite manage it. The sensation passes quickly, lost in the press of bodies and the heavy incense smell.

We take our usual places in the hard wooden pews. Up at the altar, High Executor Thane spreads his arms, his red-trimmed robes catching the candlelight. He's tall and thin, with skin so pale it seems to have never known sunlight. But it's his eyes that make people look away - they're not hollow like the Witnesses', but sharp and bright, like a warrior's blade. Some say he was chosen by the Church for that gaze alone - the way it can cut through lies and find the doubts you try to hide. His voice carries the weight of authority as he intones: "Through punishment comes understanding."

"Through understanding, acceptance," the congregation mumbles back.

I mouth the words without sound, thinking of Grandmother's journal hidden under my mattress. Of the whispers in the dark that the Church claims are signs of corruption. Of the way Elder Sven's hands shake slightly as he holds his prayer book.