04/01/2026
The air in the room was still—heavy, like it was holding its breath.
Candles flickered in a slow circle, their light bending toward the center where the necromancer stood. Across from them sat the mother, hands clenched tight in her lap, knuckles pale, eyes hollow from too many nights without sleep.
“Before we begin,” the necromancer said quietly, “you need to understand something. I don’t bring them back. I only open a door. What speaks… is what remains.”
The mother nodded too quickly. “I don’t care. I just— I need to hear him. Just once.”
The necromancer studied her for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. “Alright.”
They knelt, placing a small object in the center of the circle—a child’s worn toy, edges softened by years of love. The room seemed to tighten around it.
“Name,” the necromancer said.
“Eli,” the mother whispered, her voice breaking. “His name is Eli.”
The candles dimmed as if something unseen passed through them. The temperature dropped sharply. The necromancer’s voice shifted—lower, layered with something not entirely their own.
“Eli,” they called into the silence, “your mother is here. She’s asking for you.”
At first, nothing.
Then—barely audible—a soft, uneven sound. Like breath that didn’t belong to lungs.
The mother leaned forward, trembling. “Eli… baby?”
The necromancer’s head tilted slightly, as if listening to something distant.
“…Mom?” The voice came through them—faint, childlike, threaded with static, but unmistakably real.
The mother gasped, covering her mouth as tears spilled instantly. “Oh my God—Eli? Is that you?”
“…I was… looking for you,” the voice said. “It’s dark sometimes.”
The necromancer steadied themselves, one hand pressing hard against the floor. “You can speak,” they murmured, guiding the connection. “But not for long.”
“I’m here,” the mother said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “I’m right here. I love you. I’m so, so sorry—”
“No,” the voice interrupted softly. “Don’t be sorry.”
The room flickered again. The candles stretched, their flames bending unnaturally.
“It didn’t hurt,” Eli said. “I wasn’t alone.”
The mother broke then—shoulders shaking, the sound tearing out of her like something that had been trapped too long.
“I should’ve been there,” she choked. “I should’ve protected you—”
“No,” Eli’s voice said again, a little stronger now, steadier. “You did. You always did.”
The necromancer’s breathing grew uneven, their body trembling as the strain deepened. The air thickened, pressing in from all sides. The candle flames began to gutter violently.
“You don’t have much time,” the necromancer warned, voice strained. “Say what you need to say.”
The mother wiped her face with shaking hands, trying to hold herself together. “Are you… are you okay? Are you somewhere safe?”
There was a pause—not empty, but full. Like something vast standing just beyond the edge of understanding.
“I’m not alone,” Eli said softly. “There’s… light. And people. They feel like home.”
The temperature shifted again—not colder this time, but strangely calm.
“I miss you,” the mother whispered.
“I know,” he replied. “I miss you too. But you have to stay.”
Her breath caught. “I don’t want to without you.”
The candles flared suddenly, their flames stretching tall and thin. The necromancer gasped, gripping their chest.
“The door is closing,” they forced out.
“Mom,” Eli said quickly, urgency threading into his voice now. “You have to keep going. You still have things to do. You still have love to give.”
The mother shook her head, tears falling freely again. “I don’t know how—”
“Yes, you do,” he said, gentle but certain. “You taught me.”
The light around him began to thin, his small form flickering like a reflection on water.
“Wait—no, please, don’t go,” she reached forward instinctively, stopping just short of the circle.
“I’m not gone,” Eli said, his voice fading but warm. “Just… not there.”
The necromancer slammed their hand against the floor, breaking the circle.
The candles extinguished all at once.
Silence.
The weight in the room lifted abruptly, like a storm passing in an instant. The air warmed. The darkness became ordinary again.
The mother sat frozen, her hand still outstretched toward where he had been.
After a long moment, she pulled it back slowly, pressing it against her chest.
“He said it didn’t hurt…” she whispered, almost to herself.
The necromancer remained where they were, breathing hard, drained but composed. “They often say what the living need most to hear,” they said carefully.
The mother looked up—not with the same hollow emptiness as before, but something different. Fragile. Unsteady. But not empty.
“Do you think that was really him?”
The necromancer didn’t answer right away. Their gaze drifted to the small toy still lying in the center of the circle.
Finally, they said, “I think… whatever answered you knew him. And it cared about you.”
That seemed to settle something inside her.
She nodded slowly, wiping the last of her tears. “That’s enough.”
She stood, unsteady at first, then stronger. Before leaving, she stepped into the circle and picked up the toy, holding it close like something sacred.
At the door, she paused.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.
The necromancer inclined their head, saying nothing.
When she was gone, the room fell still again—but not the same kind of stillness as before.
The necromancer looked down at their hands.
For just a second, faint and almost imperceptible, a small warmth lingered there—like the echo of a child’s presence.
Then it, too, was gone.
