A metallic taste coated Vishnu's tongue. Shame. It was a bitter, unfamiliar sensation. His 'fog' power, a phantom limb he could sometimes summon, had utterly failed him. The street performers, their mocking laughter, still echoed in his mind. He was a fraud, a ghost in a body he barely understood. He walked aimlessly, the city's ceaseless drone a jarring contrast to the quiet hum he felt deep within his bones. Buildings loomed, oppressive concrete and glass. Faces blurred past, each one a stranger, each one a reminder of his utter isolation. Vishnu wanted to scream. He wanted to shatter something. But the anger felt hollow, impotent. All he had was this vague, shifting ability, and the gnawing void where his memories should be. Suddenly, a faint tremor ran through the ground beneath his feet. Not an earthquake. Something far more subtle. A resonance, like a distant chord struck on an ancient instrument. It pulled at him, a physical tug on his very core. He veered off the main sidewalk, his steps guided by an unseen force. The city's clamor receded slightly as he turned down a narrow, forgotten alley. Grimy brick walls rose on either side, their surfaces scarred by generations of graffiti and neglect. The hum intensified. It vibrated in his chest, a soft, persistent thrum. His skin prickled. A faint, almost imperceptible scent reached him – old paper, dust, and something else, something metallic and sharp, like ozone. He stopped before a crumbling storefront. "Antiquarian’s Curios," a faded sign declared. Dust coated the grimy windowpanes, obscuring most of the treasures within. Yet, through a small, clear patch, he saw an array of bizarre objects: tarnished silver, yellowed maps, a taxidermied owl with one glass eye missing. An inexplicable compulsion gripped him. He had to go inside. His hand reached for the tarnished brass doorknob, turning it with a soft click. A tiny bell jingled above his head, its sound surprisingly clear in the hushed interior. Warm air, thick with the scent of age and forgotten stories, enveloped him. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that pierced the gloom. Shelves overflowed with relics, stacked precariously. Every surface was covered. Vishnu felt like an intruder in a museum of lost time. His gaze swept across the room, drawn to a distant corner. The hum was strongest there, a focused point of energy. It beckoned, a silent, powerful summons. Carefully, he navigated the narrow aisles, brushing past forgotten relics. He felt a strange kinship with these objects, each one stripped of its context, waiting to be rediscovered. A profound sense of longing stirred within him. Finally, he reached the corner. Hidden behind a stack of weathered leather-bound books, nestled on a low, dusty table, lay the source of the pull. It was a scroll, rolled tight and bound with a brittle, fraying ribbon. Ancient. That was the only word that came to mind. Its parchment, yellowed and cracked, seemed to hum with an internal light, though no visible glow emanated from it. Intricate, faded symbols adorned its visible edges, hinting at forgotten script. Vishnu’s hand trembled as he reached for it. The metallic scent was overpowering now, almost sweet. His fingers brushed against the rough, dry surface of the parchment. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through him. Images exploded in his mind. Not memories, not exactly. Fragments. Raw, visceral sensations. Vast, star-strewn voids. Beings of pure, blinding light, their forms shifting like nebulae. A clash of power that ripped through the fabric of reality itself. Cosmic battles, silent and deafening all at once. He saw colossal figures, their faces veiled, their power radiating like suns. A deep, resonant hum, a language of creation and destruction. Then, a profound, aching loss. A feeling of something vital, something irreplaceable, being torn away. A blinding flash, followed by an oppressive, crushing emptiness. It was the deepest sorrow he had ever felt, yet it wasn't his own. The world spun. His head swam, a kaleidoscope of starlight and shadow. A scream, silent and tearing, ripped through his chest. His knees buckled. The scroll slipped from his grasp, but the images persisted, burrowing deep into his consciousness. Vishnu collapsed onto the dusty floor, his body shaking uncontrollably. His breath hitched, raw and ragged. The faint hum of the scroll became a deafening roar in his ears, then faded, leaving a ringing silence. He lay there, disoriented, the scent of dust filling his nostrils, the echoes of cosmic warfare rattling his very soul. What was that? A hallucination? A dream brought on by the strange energies of this place? Or was it… something real? Was his 'fog' power, this peculiar ability he couldn't explain, tied to these terrifying, ancient visions? Was he more than just a man with a quirk? Was he dangerous? Was *he* the danger? He pushed himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. His vision cleared slowly, the dust motes once again dancing lazily in the sunlight. The scroll lay innocently on the table, its faint energy now a steady, rhythmic pulse. It seemed to mock his terror, a silent witness to the chaos it had unleashed. "Rough landing, dearie?" A voice, soft and dry as old leaves, startled him. Vishnu whipped his head around. Standing just a few feet away, emerged from the shadows he hadn't noticed, was an old woman. He hadn't heard her approach. Hadn't heard her at all. She was small, her frame stooped with age, but her posture held a surprising rigidity. Her silver hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and her clothes, a simple, dark dress, seemed as timeless as the artifacts around them. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, each line telling a story. But it was her eyes that held him captive. They were an unnerving, piercing blue, sunk deep in their sockets, yet sparkling with an ancient, knowing light. They seemed to look *through* him, not merely at him. Millennia of secrets seemed to swirl within their depths. A calm, unsettling smile played on her lips. "The past always finds its way home, young god."

Whispers of the Past