Seer of the Forgotten

“Some souls die once. Others keep returning until someone listens.”

There was once a girl born beneath a blood eclipse, in a village where names were carved into bark and burned when forgotten. She never spoke. Not once. But when she was near, the candles lit without flame. The air grew thick with voices no one else could hear.

They tried to drown her in the river. It froze solid.

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They tried to bury her in the forest. The roots spat her back out.

So they built her a temple of wax and ash, far beyond the road, and filled it with candles — one for each soul no longer remembered. She sat among them, unmoving, eyes glowing like dying embers. Every time a soul faded from memory, a new flame appeared beside her.

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She became the Seer of the Forgotten. Not a god. Not a ghost. Just a vessel for what the world chose to ignore. She burns with their stories. She weeps with their rage.

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Some say if you visit her shrine and whisper the name of someone lost — truly lost — she’ll give them one more chance to be heard.

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But if you lie?

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She adds your name to the flames.