The Second Offering

Journal Entry – December 7, 1871

She didn’t struggle.

The older woman, traveling alone — quiet, polite, the one who always apologized for taking up space. I found her in the hallway before dawn, standing barefoot, staring at nothing.

When I touched her shoulder, she exhaled as though relieved.

And when I pressed my hand over her mouth, she leaned into it.

Grateful.

The fog wrapped her gently as we walked to the lake — a procession of two.

No wind.

No birds.

No sound except her steady, fragile breaths.

But when we reached the shore, the ice opened on its own.

No axe.

No effort.

Just a single widening crack, a perfect mouth waiting to swallow her.

She slipped beneath without a ripple.

The fog drifted upward, carrying a faint gold shimmer into the air — as if the lake itself approved.

I whispered the word the choir gave me:

“Ascend.”

And something deep beneath the water answered.

I feel no guilt.

No fear.

Only purpose.

The kind I was born for.