Crimson streaked the floor, pooling wherever it pleased, following the path of least resistance. It crept quiet, almost polite, waiting to be noticed.

  The smell of iron, thick and sharp, lingered in the air. Sister Lucia had spent years trying to forget that scent, years suppressing the visions that dragged her back to it.

  “Sister,” a faint voice called out. “Sister!”

  Sister Lucia’s eyes shot open. She was mid-chant, prayer beads clutched tight between her thumb and forefinger, when she realized her voice had stopped. The chanting had halted. Her distracted gaze met the room staring back at her, a tight space packed with a half dozen frustrated, confused, and disappointed faces.

  Just in time, the dying patient on the bed coughed. More blood dripped out of his mouth making the patient's rather large family, for this day and age, to rush for another round of clean cloth.

  Despite their attention veering away, the most important pair of eyes remained locked on her.

  Sister Teresa’s glare seared into Lucia’s skin. Despite her old age, Teresa still knew how to whip her younglings into order. But Lucia was no fresh recruit, nor one considered too young to be devout. Ten years of dedication to the Faith of the Bound Word should’ve made this ritual second nature.

  “It–it’s her fault. She stopped the prayer halfway,” a shaky voice of a disheveled relative cried out, finger pointing squarely at Sister Lucia.

  “Now now,” Sister Teresa said, her voice rising above the muttering, “Sister Lucia was only giving the analog spiritual waves some time to gather there.”

  She signaled for her underling to keep going at once. Without missing a beat, Sister Lucia resumed, chanting from the top of her lungs.

  “Blessed—blessed be the true high spirits of the new age divination, the true lords of the realm, waves as old as time, the true champions of the order of the world. Blessed be the bound word…”

  *

  “It is a pity indeed that we lost one of the best, most brilliant souls so early in life…”

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  It had been a good few hours since Sister Lucia’s stumble. Sister Teresa remained frosty, standing at the head of the room as the mourners gathered before the holy workers. Lucia stood behind her, silent.

  “...Trent Barker was a good man. A man who devoted his life to our denomination ever since its founding nearly fifty years ago. It is such a sad time to lose him at the ripe age of—”

  A sudden pause. Sister Teresa’s head tilted slightly. The family looked up in confusion.

  “Hundred and twenty four,” Sister Lucia whispered.

  “—at the ripe age of a hundred and twenty four years,” Sister Teresa recovered seamlessly, “which is indeed a relatively short time to spend with his wonderful family.”

  “Yeah, and he should have agreed for us to just mirror his mind and save his consciousness for fuck’s sake,” a younger man muttered, grief sharp in his voice.

  “Sadly, Mr Barker, in our religion, preserving one's conscience while its body gives up is—how should I put it—not advised,” Teresa replied. “We believe in the analog way of living. That the spirits guide us both body and mind, hand in hand. When our time comes, we learn to let it go, the idea of eternity.”

  The young man rolled his eyes, turning away. “Ridiculous.”

  “Your grandfather was a great man, Mr Barker. He helped us gain recognition as an official religion—”

  “I’m not sure how that helps us mourn his loss,” the man snapped. “We have the tech and the means to keep his soul here, if it wasn’t for your backwards traditions convincing him to write himself a proper death sentence into obscurity. Blessed be the algorithm for letting you still have an ounce of relevance. An analog faith? What is this, some vintage death cult?...What a perfect way to scam people—”

  “The denomination helped save lives during the collapse of the old world,” Sister Lucia blurted out, making the room fall silent at once.

  She continued, “If it wasn’t for the religion being officially recognized as a stand alone self-sustaining and servicing sector of the new world order, many women and children would have been left to starve on the streets. Your grandfather’s quick thinking saved many lives, including—”

  “That’s enough, Sister Lucia,” Sister Teresa interrupted. Lucia fell silent at once. She had crossed a line.

  Teresa turned to the family at once. “It is a sad day. Emotions run high. But we must honor Mr Trent Barker and his legacy he is leaving behind—including his wonderful family that cares deeply for a man that often described himself as a man unworthy of such familial love.”

  It was as if Sister Teresa cast a spell, the family turned silent, even the confrontational grandson.

  The old nun’s voice took a melodic tune. Eyes closed, she began to hum a gentle hymn.

  The golden sun dipped low behind the narrow window of the basement-level super senior care center. The room quieted. Yet Sister Lucia only felt her heart still pounding in her chest.

  It’s back…it’s back…

  She thought to herself as memories of blood pooling on the dirty tiled floor began invading her mind once more.

  …Blood, again…always the blood.

  Was it a warning? A sign of what was to come?