Tempus Fugit, Memento Mori.

Three weeks pass before Silas reaches the Chapel of Last Mercy. The hospice’s earned reputation travels ahead of him, though no current commission accompanies his steps.

A cracked funerary bell hangs above the chapel doors, its bronze surface veined with age. Inside, candles burn blue and unwilling, throwing thin light across empty pews.

Ysra Fen, a human, an elderly woman with a sturdy frame, dark brown skin, and white hair bound beneath a charcoal veil, waits beneath the bell. A silver key-ring hangs from her ocher sash.

She turns toward the chapel’s inner room, where a man’s uneven breathing stirs the silence. The blue flames lean after her, refusing to warm the dark.

Silas enters beneath the cracked funerary bell and crosses the blue-lit chapel. He kneels beside the miller, a gaunt middle-aged man with a weathered face, thinning brown hair, and a loose brown work shirt, whose uneven breathing trembles through the inner room.

His prayer settles into the chapel’s silence. The unwilling flames bow toward the dying man, and the unseen pressure around his spirit loosens.

The miller’s breath leaves him without struggle. A pale radiance gathers at the bedside, carrying him beyond the threshold while the blue candles steady.

Ysra lowers her head beneath the cracked bell. For one clear moment, the chapel feels warm, and the dead man’s final fear no longer clings to the room.

Ysra removes a small iron key from her silver ring. The blue candles settle into steadier flames as the chapel’s solemn warmth returns.

She leads Silas through a side passage to the vestry stairs. Dust lies undisturbed along the stones, and the old timbers creak beneath their measured steps.

Ysra unlocks the chamber and leaves the key in the door for him. A small hearth holds sleeping coals, while folded linens wait beside the narrow bed.

Silas pauses at the chamber door, then gives Ysra a gentle hug in thanks. She accepts the gesture, her sturdy frame softening beneath the charcoal veil.

Ysra steps back into the vestry passage. The blue candlelight rests across her silver key-ring as she leaves him the privacy he requested.

Silas enters the small chamber and draws the door closed behind him. The hearth’s sleeping coals cast a faint red glow over the narrow bed and folded linens.

He turns the iron key in the lock. The click carries softly through the timbered room, sealing away the chapel’s corridors and every waiting voice.

Beyond the shuttered window, the cracked funerary bell hangs motionless above Last Mercy. Within, silence gathers around Silas without threat or interruption.

Silas kneels beside the narrow bed, facing the shuttered window, and begins his prayer to the Reaping Angel. The chamber remains still around him.

Hours pass beneath the locked door. The hearth’s coals fade to ash, the stone chills his knees, and his healed ribs grow stiff with the unbroken vigil.

He does not rise. His prayer continues through the deepest dark, steady and reverent, while the cracked funerary bell outside gives one distant note without wind.

A pale skull-shaped gleam gathers briefly beneath the door, touching the floorboards before withdrawing. No voice follows, but the prayer is heard.

Dawn thins the darkness behind the shutters. Silas remains kneeling when gray light enters, his knees aching sharply and his muscles cramped from the night’s devotion.