ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART TWENTY TWO
Engines hummed past in fading waves, tires hissing softly on the road as night settled into the city’s bones.
Cassian eased the car to the side of the road after dropping his last passengers. His shoulders sagged as he exhaled, hands loosening on the steering wheel.
The dashboard clock blinked faintly, its light pulsing like a tired eye. He shifted his foot to press the brake—
Nothing.
His brow tightened. The city noise dulled, as if the air itself leaned in. He pressed again. Harder.
The car surged forward.
The sound of his own breath fractured as panic rose, his voice tearing out of him before he could stop it.
Cassian (panicked):
“H—hey—”
The steering wheel jerked violently under his grip as he twisted it, tires shrieking against the road. Headlights rushed toward him, blinding white, swallowing the street whole.
Somewhere beyond the noise, unseen forces seemed to pull everything tighter, faster.
A violent impact tore through the air—metal folding into metal, glass exploding outward like shrapnel. The world spun, weightless and merciless, before slamming into darkness.
The city swallowed the sound, leaving only a stunned, hollow silence behind.
Sirens later cut through the night, sharp and relentless, echoing off buildings and soaked pavement.
Red and blue lights washed over twisted steel as unseen hands worked quickly in the chaos.
Bright hospital lights hummed overhead, steady and cold, replacing the street’s roar with sterile precision.
Machines beeped in controlled rhythms, counting time where Cassian could not.
Cassian lay motionless on the bed, one leg wrapped in thick casts, his body threaded with tubes and bandages.
A faint groan escaped him as his eyes fluttered open, pain rippling through every part of him. The machines spoke softly for him, filling the gaps where his strength failed.
A doctor leaned over him, voice calm but firm, issuing instructions as nurses moved briskly around the room.
Curtains whispered as they shifted. Gloves snapped. Monitors answered every motion with sound.
Not far away, the other driver—bruised but stable—sat upright, already being prepared for discharge, his relief tangible, his future still intact.
Hours passed.
The other driver was wheeled out, phone pressed to his ear, relief etched clearly across his face. Laughter slipped down the corridor as doors opened and closed.
Cassian remained, unmoving, tethered to beeps and breathing machines.
Down the corridor, a nurse slowed her steps. Her shoes whispered against the polished floor as she checked vitals, her badge catching the light with each movement.
The corridor’s hum felt suddenly heavier.
Something tugged at her attention.
She stopped. Turned.
Through the glass, she studied the man on the bed. Her brow knit. A stillness pressed against her chest.
She pushed the door open, and the room filled fully with the steady beep of the monitor, sharper now, closer.
She moved nearer, eyes searching his face. Her lips parted, breath catching as recognition stirred, uninvited and unwelcome.
She adjusted the sheet with careful fingers, then leaned in, her voice lowered, almost afraid of what it might awaken.
Elara (softly):
“Sir… can you hear me?”
The air seemed to hold its breath. Cassian’s eyelids fluttered, slow and heavy. His throat worked as he swallowed, pain etched into every small movement.
The monitor responded, its rhythm tightening as life pushed back against stillness. Dryness scraped his throat as his tone forced its way out, barely more than sound shaped by need.
Cassian (hoarse):
“Water…”
Elara reached immediately, her movements practiced but gentle. She lifted the cup, guiding it carefully as he sipped.
The room watched—machines, lights, unseen witnesses—as his breathing steadied inch by inch.
When she pulled back, her gaze lingered, recognition blooming fully now, like a bruise surfacing late and undeniable.
Her lips parted again, slower this time. She drew in a measured breath, her voice quieter, weighted.
Elara (gently):
“Sir… can you tell me your name?”
Cassian swallowed, his throat still raw. His eyes shifted faintly toward her, focusing through pain and haze. When he spoke, his voice was weak but unmistakably clear.
Cassian (weak):
“Cassian.”
Her shoulders stiffened as if struck. She stepped back half a pace, the hum of the room swelling, pressing in on her from every direction.
The monitor’s beep sounded louder now, too loud. She steadied herself, forcing her tone into calm restraint.
Elara (quiet):
“Thank you.”
Her fingers tightened around the chart. She looked at him again—properly this time, deliberately.
The lines on his face, the weariness, the familiarity that now settled painfully into place.
Without another word, she turned and walked quickly toward the doctor’s office, her heels clicking faster against the floor, urgency overtaking composure.
Inside the office, papers rustled softly. The doctor paused mid-page, eyes lifting as Elara stepped in.
Something in the way she stood—still, guarded—made him straighten. His voice lowered, edged with concern, as he spoke.
Doctor (concerned):
“Elara… what’s the matter?”
She did not sit. Her spine stayed straight, her tone firm, resolve rising above hesitation.
Elara (firm):
“Please put his bills on my account. I’ll take responsibility.”
The doctor paused, surprise flickering across his face. The room fell briefly silent, save for the distant echo of carts rolling down the corridor.
His voice came low, measured, as if testing the ground beneath him.
Doctor (careful):
“Are you family?”
She hesitated for half a breath—long enough for truth and memory to collide. Then she lifted her chin and answered, her tone steady despite the weight behind it.
Elara (calm):
“No… but I know him.”
The doctor studied her, weighing what was unspoken. At last, he gave a short nod and signed, the pen scratching softly, sealing the moment.
Night had settled fully by the time Elara stepped out of the hospital.
Cool air brushed her face, carrying the city’s breath—cars passing, a distant horn, the scent of rain that hadn’t arrived yet.
The building’s lights glowed behind her like watchful eyes.
Streetlights burned amber as she walked to the bus stop, her thoughts heavy, her heart unsettled.
The bus doors sighed open. She boarded, sitting in silence as the city slid past, shadows stretching and retreating.
Later, in their modest rented apartment, the ceiling fan hummed softly, pushing warm air around the room. Curtains stirred faintly at the window.
Zionel sat at the small dining table, a Bible closed in front of him, sleeves rolled up. He looked up as the door opened, concern already gathering in his eyes.
Elara stepped inside, set her bag down slowly, and leaned against the door for a moment before removing her shoes.
The room felt smaller with what she carried in. Zionel’s chair shifted as he stood, his voice gentle but alert.
Zionel (gentle):
“You’re late.”
Elara crossed the room, putting her bag down with care. She sank into the chair opposite him, shoulders sagging as a quiet sigh escaped her.
Her eyes found his, and when her tone came, it was soft and uneven, carrying more than the words alone.
Elara (quietly):
“I saw someone today… at the hospital.”
Zionel’s brows drew together. He did not interrupt. His eyes stayed fixed on her, steady and present, the fan stirring the air between them like a slow pulse.
She drew in a sharp breath, fingers curling into her palm. For a moment, she held it there—steadying herself—then released it slowly.
When she spoke, her voice was controlled, measured, almost too calm.
Elara (steady):
“The accident victim. It was Cassian.”
Her palms rested flat against the table, pressing down as if to anchor herself while the name lingered between them.
She swallowed, concern threading into her breath before her tone followed—quiet, edged with urgency.
Elara (concerned):
“He’s alone. No one came. They were waiting for family… for payment.”
Zionel leaned closer, the space between them closing, the room listening. His voice came softly, carrying weight without force.
Zionel (soft):
“What did you do?”
Elara lifted her eyes to his. Resolve settled in her gaze—steady, deliberate—softened by tenderness and a quiet ache she didn’t try to hide.
She drew a slow breath, then spoke, her words calm and unyielding.
Elara (firm):
“I told them to put the bill on my account.”
Silence settled, deep and unhurried, broken only by the fan’s steady rotation.
Zionel’s chest rose and fell slowly. He leaned forward, fingertips brushing hers, warm and sure, anchoring her in the stillness.
His tone came soft, measured, carrying calm like a steady hand over a storm.
Zionel (gentle):
“The Lord sees.”
He glanced down at the Bible, opening it as the pages whispered softly.
His eyes found the verse, then returned to her, steady and unflinching. His words carried the ease of conviction and warmth.
Zionel (calm):
“The Scripture says, ‘Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.’”
Elara nodded, her throat tightening. She leaned into his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her. The room seemed to hold them, walls listening, air softened.
They bowed their heads together. Outside, the city noise dimmed, retreating into a distant hush.
Zionel inhaled slowly, lips parting in a quiet, steady rhythm before the prayer emerged—soft, measured, each word deliberate.
Zionel (praying):
“Lord, order our steps. Let mercy speak where words cannot. Keep us faithful.”
Elara’s voice followed, barely above a whisper, but carried with faith.
Elara (whispering):
“Lord, cover Cassian. Heal him. Let light find him.”
The room stilled further, as if something unseen had passed through and left peace behind. The fan continued its slow rotation.
Outside, the night breathed easier, cleansed and quiet after the weight of what had been decided.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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