Sliding the Soul

About this track

The moon dressed itself in silver that night, bathing the Whispering Woods in a cold, sickly glow. Elara adjusted the collar of her coat, feeling the wind whisper what the forest recounts: secrets of those who ventured into the thicket and never returned. In her right hand, she carried a wrought-iron lantern, with a single lit candle struggling to stay afloat. Elara wasn't searching for treasure; she was searching for an answer. Her brother had disappeared into the labyrinth of trees a year ago, and legends said that on the night when time becomes dizzy, the veil between worlds thins as thin as paper. She took her first step into the labyrinth. Immediately, gravity seemed to fail her. The crackling of dry branches echoed behind her, not from the wind, but from the weight of shadows that followed her. Those who never made it across, she thought, remembering the village elder's warnings. She advanced, guided not by the light of her candle, but by a strange glow on the ground. There it was: a trail of coarse salt cutting through the frost. She followed the white line, venturing deeper and deeper into the mist, until the trees gave way to an ancient, forgotten structure. They were walls of ice, tall and translucent, holding within them echoes of voices. As she drew nearer, Elara could hear them: chants in a dead language, legends fallen from the sky that now bounced off the ice. The cold was absolute, but in the heart of the ruins, the air vibrated with a dense energy. She had reached the gateway to the immortal world. Suddenly, the temperature plummeted, burning her lungs. The ice of the walls began to crack. The veil is being torn, she understood with terror and fascination. A bluish light, like cold fire, began to erupt from the cracks. They were the souls, returning with the force of an old land that demands to be remembered. The ground beneath her boots began to tremble. Then she remembered the golden rule, the only one that could save her: Do not seek their faces, do not try to speak. The figures began to materialize around her. They were tall silhouettes, made of mist and starlight. Elara felt the overwhelming urge to look up, to search among them for her brother's face, to call out his name. But she knew that if she did, if she broke the silence or met the gaze of the immaterial, her soul would be dragged to the other side. She closed her eyes tightly. She clenched her teeth and focused on the sound. She heard the song of that ancient land, a sad but beautiful melody that filled the void. She felt the warmth of the souls' fire brushing against her skin, caressing her hair, whispering promises of peace and oblivion if only she would open her eyes and take a step forward. Let the wheel turn, she thought, clinging to her own mortality. Let yesterday sing, but let me live tomorrow. The pressure in the air reached a critical point, a climax where the world seemed to stop. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the pressure vanished. The trembling ceased. The cold receded. Elara opened her eyes slowly. The figures had vanished. The ice walls were intact once more, and the trail of salt on the ground had dissolved into the frost. She looked at her lantern. The candle, which had burned so brightly during the crossing, gave its last flicker and went out. Darkness had fallen, but there was no more fear. The fog began to descend from the trees, thick and white, settling over the ruins like a curtain closing a play. Elara turned and began the journey back, guided now by the moonlight. She hadn't found her brother, but she had heard his voice in the chorus of souls, and she knew he was at peace. As he walked away from the labyrinth, the wind blew one last time, and in the stillness of the night, only his song remained in the air.