A new sense

The evening air is thick with the smell of damp stone and distant fires as we walk through the darkened streets. The city is winding down—merchants packing up, inns filling with the hum of conversation, only a few stragglers left wandering between the pools of light cast by flickering lanterns.

“I don’t think we’ll be coming back,” I say, adjusting my pace to match Nate’s. The food was decent, but we can eat cheaper on our own or just buy provisions. No need to waste money.

“Well, the music was a nice touch,” Nate says, his voice lighter than before.

“You know we have music back home, right?” I glance at him, amused.

“Well, I haven’t heard any.”

“Ahh, that’s right,” I say, as if suddenly remembering. “There was no occasion.”

“Such as?” He sounds genuinely curious.

“Weddings, festivals. Those are the two most common. I wonder if we’ll make it back for the festival?”

I keep my eyes ahead, mapping our path in my head. One square, then the side streets. This city’s layout is thankfully simple—geometric, predictable. I’ve been memorizing every street sign and marker we passed. If I had to, I could find my way blindfolded.

Nate is scratching his arm again.

I’ve noticed it throughout the day—absent-minded at first, but it’s becoming more frequent. It’s starting to irritate me. Does he have lice or something? If he does, I swear I’ll force him into a boiling bath the second we get back.

Then—

“Io… something’s wrong.”

His voice is weak, unraveling as he leans against the side of a building.

I stop dead, my mind racing. “What?”

He’s shaking. Not just a little tremble—his whole body is trembling, his hands twitching like he’s trying to swat away invisible insects. His breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow.

“What’s going on?” His own panic is setting in now.

I grab his wrist. Clammy. Pulse is too fast. His fingers drag over his own skin, clawing at his arms like he’s trying to scratch something just beneath the surface.

We’re too exposed. People are still in the streets. I can’t let anyone see him like this.

I grab his arm, dragging him toward the nearest alley.

“Come on,” I whisper, forcing calm into my voice. “This way.”

We slip into the shadows, the noise of the street fading slightly. I press Nate against the rough brick of a building, gripping his face between my hands.

“Nate. Focus.”

His eyes are unfocused, pupils blown wide. He’s drenched in sweat.

“Agh—” He grabs his head, squeezing his temples. “Too loud. Everything’s too loud—”

“What’s too loud?” I demand.

He gasps, his breath stuttering like he’s drowning in open air. His hands clench into fists, nails digging into his palms.

This is bad.

The only thing I can do is keep him moving. If I let him collapse, I’ll have to drag him back. I don’t even know if I could.

“Come on, Nate.” I wedge myself under his arm, taking on as much of his weight as I can. He’s burning up. “The inn is just down the street. One step at a time.”

His legs barely respond at first, his muscles stiff and uncoordinated. But I keep talking, grounding him in something—anything.

“We’re almost there. Just a little more.”

Then, suddenly, he jerks away from me—drops to his knees and vomits into the gutter.

I freeze, glancing around. No one’s watching. Good.

He coughs violently, arms braced against the stone. His whole body heaves, like he’s trying to expel something that isn’t there. What the hell is happening to him?

People?

No—the crowd.

He was fine when we were alone. This started in the market, with the crowd.

The inn. We have to make it to the inn.

I grab his shoulders, steadying him. “Nate. We need to move.”

He nods weakly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks pale, shaking, hollowed out. But his breathing is slowing. The worst seems to be fading.

I hook his arm over my shoulder again and half-carry him forward. Every step feels like a battle.

Why did this stop? Why did it change?

We reach the inn’s entrance. I don’t stop to check for the innkeeper—I just push forward.

“Almost there, just one last push,” I say, as we reach the stairs.

Nate grits his teeth and climbs, step by step. I feel every ounce of his weight against me, but I won’t let him stop.

We reach the door. I shove it open and practically throw him inside.

I don’t breathe until the door is shut behind us.

###

Nate lies on the bed, his breathing uneven, his fingers twitching every now and then as if trying to shake off something crawling beneath his skin. He isn’t sleeping. I can tell by the way his jaw is clenched, by the way his eyes flicker open every so often like he’s waiting for another wave of whatever this is to hit him again.

I pull a chair close, sitting so I can see his face clearly. What the hell is going on?

Poison? No, I ate the same food. Some kind of illness? But why only him?

I run through every possibility, but only one thing makes sense.

It started when we entered the crowded streets. It got worse in the square, surrounded by people. Then, as we moved back to the inn, it began to fade.

What connects all of those places?

People.

My stomach knots. The Presence.

But… how?

Nate told me himself, that very first day in the village—he couldn’t feel it. He isn’t from here. He wasn’t born into it like the rest of us. But if I’m right, if this really is what’s happening, then…

It must have been like suddenly hearing for the first time.

Not just hearing—being thrown into the middle of a deafening storm of voices with no way to block them out.

He must be terrified.

I glance at him again. He’s so tense, so lost in whatever this is that he’s not even trying to ask questions anymore. That’s not like him. If Nate isn’t asking questions, something is seriously wrong.

I take a slow breath, steadying myself.

I can’t panic. Not now. I have to help him.

I move from the chair to the bed, sitting beside him. He doesn’t react much, still lost in his own world of discomfort.

“Nate,” I say softly. “Can you sit up?”

He swallows hard. “I can try…”

I reach forward, wrapping an arm around his back to help ease him upright. He’s warm—too warm. A layer of sweat clings to his skin, his shirt damp against my arm. He must be exhausted from fighting this.

“I think I know what’s happening,” I tell him. “Just try to follow my lead, alright?”

His eyes flicker to me, hazy with exhaustion, but he nods.

Good. That’s a start.

I move closer, lifting my hands to either side of his face. His skin is burning up under my palms, but I keep steady.

“That feeling in your arms—can you still feel it?” I ask.

A weak nod.

“Does it move? Does it get stronger or weaker?”

Another nod.

“Alright. Try to focus on it. Notice how it changes.”

His breathing deepens, slowing to something more measured. I watch carefully, feeling the tension in his shoulders as he tries to do what I asked. But it’s not enough.

He’s still panicking, still holding himself too rigid, like he’s waiting for another wave to crash over him. His heart is pounding—I can feel it even through his shirt.

That’s it. His heartbeat.

It’s too fast, too unsteady. He needs something to anchor himself to. Something steady.

I pull my hands away from his face, pressing one against my own chest instead.

Too many layers. Stupid, thick clothing. I shift, loosening the fabric enough so I can actually feel something.

When I glance back at Nate, his expression is half-confused, half-concerned. He doesn’t understand what I’m doing.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. I’m not putting on a show for you.”

Before he can protest, I grab his hand and place it against my chest, right over my heartbeat.

He stiffens at first, but then—his breath catches.

“…What?” His voice is raw, uncertain.

“Feel it,” I say. “It’s steady, right? Not too fast, not too slow.”

He doesn’t respond, but I can tell he’s focusing.

“Your heartbeat is too fast, too erratic. Focus on mine. Match it.”

We sit there for a long time. The minutes stretch, the candle flickering beside us.

Slowly, the tension in his body unwinds.

His breathing evens out. The twitching stops. The hand I’m holding is still warm but no longer clammy, no longer trembling.

It’s working.

“You feel it, don’t you?” I say. “It’s the same thing. The Presence.”

His brows knit together. “But… I thought—”

“I know,” I cut in. “You shouldn’t be able to feel it. But you do.”

A pause.

He exhales slowly. “…I think it’s quieter now.”

Good.

I shift his hand away from my chest, placing it against my cheek instead. No reaction. That means he’s not overwhelmed anymore.

Now for the last test. I take his hand and gently set it down on the bed.

“Now, if it gets too much again,” I tell him, “focus on me. Just like you did now. Got it?”

He nods.

The tension that had been wound so tightly in my chest finally loosens.

It worked.

“…Was that really it?” Nate asks, voice still heavy with exhaustion.

“I think so,” I say. “But we’ll talk about it tomorrow. For now, you need to rest. If anything happens during the night, just remember—focus on me.”

He lets out a long, relieved breath and sinks back into the bed.

I don’t move immediately. I stay seated beside him, watching his breath slow, his expression relax.

For the first time since this started, he looks… peaceful.

I don’t know how long I sit there, waiting for the candle to burn lower, the wax pooling at its base.

I hadn’t ever imagined I’d have to do something like this for anyone.

But I think I’m glad I did.