Every seven years, the village chooses a Witness.

A neutral eye. An outsider.

Someone who will swear nothing happened.

I signed the ledger in the chapel basement.

The ink did not dry.

At midnight, they opened the stone beneath the altar.

Something breathed out.

The next morning, the villagers asked what I saw.

I told them the truth.

“Nothing.”

They smiled.

That is when I understood what the Witness is for.

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