Gnarpy

The year was 3042, and in the coastal town of Aethelburg, the morning of the Ceremony of Bonds dawned cold and golden. Mike Ashgrove had barely slept. He'd lain awake in his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling of his family's modest clifftop home, listening to the distant crash of waves against the harbor wall. Today was the day. The day every fifteen-year-old in Aethelburg had dreamed about since they were old enough to understand words. Today, he would receive his Circlet.

The first time I heard it, I thought it was the wind. A low, mournful hum threading through the gaps in the old farmhouse windows. My wife, Sarah, was already asleep, her breathing a soft, steady rhythm beside me. We’d moved in a week ago, seeking silence from the city. The house was a steal, a crumbling Victorian relic with good bones and a bad reputation that we’d laughed off.