Chapter 7: Prophecy

The small room was heavy with the scent of smoldering herbs and a strange, primal earthiness. The woman, the shaman, leaned into the dim, flickering light of the candle, her ancient eyes appearing to contain the wisdom of centuries.

"Your past is complex, your future predetermined," she declared, her voice a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate in my chest.

A sudden chill of apprehension traced a path down my spine. "What exactly do you mean?" I asked, the sheer shock stealing my breath. I had sought this place out, driven by a singular, immediate terror—the haunting recent violence and the unsolved murder that had consumed my life. This unforeseen declaration felt like the ground shifting beneath me, hinting at something vast and profoundly unsettling.

The shaman’s intense gaze held me captive. "You are fated to walk this earth until your final hour, but you will not walk it alone. A profound, misplaced love—one thought lost to time—will return at the precise moment your need is greatest."

She paused deliberately, allowing the gravity of her words to settle. "As for the reason you came here today... I can reveal only this: the road you travel is steeped in darkness and shadow, a winding, impenetrable maze. You must find the answer to the crime before you. Only then can you fulfill your destined purpose."

My shock was visceral. A lost love? My thoughts instantly zeroed in on one face: Alex. My first love. They had confirmed his murder two years prior; the official file had long since become a monument to despair. The crushing injustice of his death was the very reason I'd sought this spiritual consultation, hoping for some form of closure.

Could this woman truly see a link? A monstrous, impossible connection between my destiny and the grave they buried him in?

"That's impossible," I whispered, the refusal sharp and absolute. My logical, desperate mind furiously rejected the chaotic information.

The shaman offered a small, knowing smile, a flicker of genuine warmth in her expression. "You will understand when you arrive home."

Before I could demand clarity from her cryptic response, the sharp chime of my phone broke the silence—a text notification.

Please come home, Uncle.

I stared down at the screen, then back at the shaman, my confusion instantly morphing into raw, frantic fear. My uncle was my only remaining family, my single point of familiarity.

"What am I going home to?" I pleaded, the composure I had fought so hard to maintain completely dissolving.

"A love that has survived entire epochs," she replied softly, "one that will mend the wound in your heart and provide shelter from what is approaching." She spoke not of spectral presence, but of tangible life.

I fumbled for my wallet, needing to ground the transaction in physical reality, to offer payment for the distressing prophecy. But her aged, warm hand covered mine, gently pushing the leather away.

"This counsel is free of charge."

"Why?"

"I am merely the initial installment of the repayment fate owes you for everything it has taken," she said, her eyes suddenly burning with intensity. "Go now. Hurry home."

I bolted from the room.

The short drive home was a blur of coursing adrenaline. My mind was a dizzying cyclone: Uncle texted me. Is he hurt? The shaman's words. Alex. The danger. The thought of losing my uncle, the last familiar pillar in my increasingly unstable life, was unbearable.

I reached the house and saw his recognizable car parked in the drive, a momentary reprieve. But my panic pushed me up the steps. I ripped the front door open, my heart hammering painfully against my ribs.

"Uncle! Are you here?" I shouted, my voice hoarse with desperation.

"In the living room!" his voice boomed back. "And I have a visitor I want you to meet."

A visitor? The shaman’s prophecy echoed, clear and strangely chilling.

I gripped the brass doorknob to the living room, my hand trembling violently. "Who is it?"

"Me," a young man answered, the voice familiar yet deeper, matured, carrying a new, rough edge.

I shoved the door open. My feet locked to the floor, my hand frozen on the brass. I visually consumed the sight of him: the jet-black hair, the familiar, sharp contours of high cheekbones, and the unforgettable deep brown eyes. He was bulkier, taller, wearing unfamiliar clothes, but the face—the face was a perfect match. The face of the man who had been declared dead two years ago.

He stood there, palpably alive and whole. My first love. My deceased friend.

"Alex?" The name was the sound of my certainty shattering, a fragile question stripped of all logic. It was the last, faint sound of my normal life collapsing.

Darkness, swift and total, flooded my vision. The very last thing I registered was the look of absolute, pure terror on 'Alex's' face as he lunged forward to break my fall.