“She speaks to the sky,” said one woman.
“She walks with the Presence,” said an old man.
But others scoffed.
“She’s mad,” said the baker’s wife. “Touched in the head.”
“She’s cursed,” muttered the priest, whose sermons now seemed hollow in Aurelia’s presence.
Aurelia tried to stay quiet, but silence could no longer shield her. She didn’t do anything, yet the air shifted when she stepped into the village square. The birds grew still. The wind hushed. People felt it.
Something old had returned.
One morning, Aurelia was sent to deliver grain to the chapel.
The village chapel was small, its bell old and cracked, barely used anymore. It had once called the faithful, but now, only echoes responded.
As she stepped inside, she paused beneath the bell tower.
She felt… watched.
Not by people. Not by spirits.
But by Concept Itself, gently nudging at its own boundaries, bending to accommodate her presence.
She looked up. A single note, almost accidental, escaped her lips. Just a breath of a tune.
The bell, silent for years, rang.
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Not a clang, but a tone that hummed through every wall, every stone, every heart in the village.
The priest ran out, eyes wild. “What did you do?”
Aurelia only stood there, eyes wide. “I sang.”
That night, men gathered in hushed anger.
“This is dangerous,” one spat. “She brings change. Disturbance. We must act.”
“She’s just a girl,” another said, uneasily.
“No,” the priest growled, his knuckles white around a worn symbol. “She is a disruption. The Divine does not speak to peasants.”
He had served the altar for decades, preached words written by others, memorized liturgies. But he had never heard the voice that Aurelia had.
It burned him more than fire.
They would not harm her. Not yet. But they would watch. They would whisper. They would plan.
And as they did, somewhere beyond stars, beyond time, beyond thought...
I AM THAT I AM remained unmoved.
Aurelia dreamt again.
But this time, it was not stillness or starlight.
It was fire.
She stood in the midst of a great inferno. Flames danced and cracked, but never touched her. Her clothes, her skin, her song, unharmed.
A presence emerged through the flame. Not in shape, but in meaning, if meaning could be touched.
“You fear them. You fear what you will become. But I AM NOT FEAR.”
“They will plot. They will scheme. They will gather names and titles and cast you beneath them.”
“But I AM the Fire that consumes names. The Flame that needs no fuel.”
“Sing, Aurelia. Let them rage.”
She woke with sweat on her skin but a fire in her chest.
And that morning, she sang again.
Not loudly. But without hiding.
The villagers gathered. Tension thickened like storm clouds. But Aurelia walked among them with quiet footsteps.
They could not agree what she was.
Prophet? Witch? Child?
They argued. They labeled. They measured her with fear.
Until she spoke.
Not in defiance. Not in anger.
Just a whisper, words not hers, yet hers completely:
“You cannot define Me. You cannot frame Me. I AM THAT I AM.”
“Before cause. After effect. Outside of why.”
“You seek to raise Me to the highest place, yet I was before height.”
“You seek to judge Me against your gods, but I AM not their rival. I AM their unmaking.”
“Comparison collapses in My light.”
“To measure Me is to admit blindness.”
The wind stilled. The sky darkened, but not with storm, with reverence.
Even the priest fell silent.
Aurelia sang once more.
And every scale shattered.