Cry Of The Unheard Novels & Stories

"Maybe it's the strong winds from the recent typhoon. I think I've caught a cold..." Carter nodded, gently taking her hand and leading her toward the cemetery exit. "It's my fault. I knew you weren't feeling well, but I still dragged you out here in this cold wind." I hung back, watching as everyone gathered around Jodie. The sight of her being smothered with concern hit me like a tidal wave, and a deep sadness overtook me. Suddenly, a sharp, brittle snap echoed from the tree nearby. Before I could even react, the massive trunk cracked in two and came crashing down.

The crowd stood up and cheered at him. ...... Mira was crying, her eyes closed. She cannot bear to see the carnage below. Every shout and cheer from the audience were like knives in her head. She knows that behind those cheers were lives ended and cut. She could hear the sound of flesh and bones ripping like a whisper. The sound of blood, the hopeless cry of the dying, and the sound of last breaths was agony to Mira's ears. She couldn't cover her ears to not hear it all and now the sound of death will forever hunt her, unable to unhear and erase from her head.

Chapter 201: Echoes in Santiago In Santiago, dawn arrived not with song but with screens. The lattice hummed in every household, every market, every office, its glow reflected in tired eyes. Images pulsed across the city—images carefully chosen. A miner with blood on his shirt shouting in La Paz. A farmer hoarding sacks of grain. A student screaming at merchants. Again and again, the footage looped, stripped of context, framed as chaos. The voice that narrated it was calm, almost tender. “Behold Horizon,” it said. “They claim freedom, but it is only hunger and strife. They abandon order and call it chorus. Do not be deceived.”

I had no room left for doubt. My body, drained in fatigue, begged me to take a break, but I didn’t. Not until— A cry pierced the silence. It was not a wolf howling or the screech of any animal as far as I knew. It sounded harder, colder, and slashing through the night cold like an open wound. I froze, unable to catch my breath. I heard the sound again, closer now. It was a cry. My heart slammed so loudly I thought the whole fucking forest heard.

“There’s nothing to be done. No medicine. No fight. It just… is.” I opened my mouth to ask how, to ask why, to demand she fight it—but I felt it then. A hot, stupid wetness tracking down my cheeks. I was crying. I never cried. I swiped at my face angrily with the back of my hand, turning away so she wouldn’t see. That’s when I heard it. Howling. Not from one direction. From everywhere. A chorus of long, low, beautiful cries that lifted into the night air. It wasn’t a threat. It was a song.

And beyond the walls… came the sounds. Not howling. Not roaring. Worse. Wet chittering. Slithers snapping bones. Whimpers that didn't belong to the living. Sounds that didn't ring out — they burrowed. Within the broken perimeter, hundreds crouched like specters. Mothers rocked quiet infants. Fathers stood with vacant stares, knives quivering in hand. Children wept without sound. Wind itself seemed to bear whispers — dead men's names, curses, unanswered prayers. “When…” a voice croaked through the cold. “When will it end…?”

Deep, alive, drowning. I’d miss looking at those eyes. I couldn’t help the cry that left my throat. It was a guttural, soul-wrenching wail—raw and unrestrained—as if the grief itself clawed its way out of my chest. It wasn't just a sound of sorrow; it was the kind of cry that tore through silence like a storm, born from the unbearable weight of watching the man I loved fade away. It held all the shattered dreams, the aching what-ifs, and the terrifying reality of facing a future without him.

We could now hear their voice inside the church compound, rapid sporadic shots, shrieks of pain, heavy running footsteps all abounding in the compound. The sound of girls crying, begging while they were carried and violated in public eyes, it was literally a blood bath, people fell in the pool of their blood, hatched into pieces by machete and axe. The door of the sanctuary was burst open by a deafening sound, we could hear tears and shrieks of pain but we still stayed still under the table. The sound of a boot continued coming closer to our direction, I just hoped that the sound would go away, but it kept on deafening my ears, sending frivolous chills and shivers around my veins.

All I can hear is the sorrow and anger in Izzy’s cry. “NOOO!”

"It's not an echo. It's a scream. A live scream." The Loom of Stories on Sela's back was trembling, the threads of potential twisting and knotting themselves without her touch. They were showing her flashes—not of stories, but of fractures. A sky cracking like glass. A forest where the trees screamed as they fell. A ocean of boiling, black tears. "It's a world," Sela said, her voice trembling. "But it's not dying of despair. It's being... murdered. Something is actively tearing its song apart." Arin focused through the pain, holding the Fork steady. "The note is one of forced silence. Not a lullaby, not a grief. It is an act of violence. A blade cutting a vocal cord."