The TERRIFYING Fate of a Medieval Rabies Victim

Hey guys . tonight we step softly into a world lit by fire and fear, into a night where history breathes close enough that you can almost feel it on your skin.
you probably won’t survive this.

And that’s said gently, almost with a smile, because you are not here to panic. You are here to listen, to drift, to learn, and to let the strangeness of the past rock you slowly toward sleep. And just like that, it’s the year 1247, and you wake up in a small medieval town where the stone streets still hold the day’s cold, and the air smells faintly of smoke, animals, and damp earth.

You lie still for a moment. Notice that.
The way your body sinks into a bed layered carefully with linen sheets, rough but clean, then wool blankets, then a heavy fur pulled up to your chest. You imagine adjusting each layer slowly, carefully, because warmth is survival here. Cold is not romantic. Cold kills. You feel it pressing through the stone walls, seeping upward from the floor, and you instinctively tuck your feet closer to a warm clay bottle filled earlier with heated water.

The room is dim. A single tallow candle burns nearby, its flame wobbling gently, sending shadows up the walls where faded tapestries hang. You reach out—yes, go ahead, reach out—and touch the woven fabric with your fingertips. It’s coarse, dusty, warm where the candle’s glow has kissed it for years. The designs are crude but comforting: animals, vines, shapes meant to protect. Protection matters here.

You hear the night breathing.
Wind rattles the wooden shutters. Somewhere outside, a horse shifts in its stall. A dog barks once, then quiets. Embers pop softly in the hearth, releasing the dry, comforting scent of old oak and ash. Underneath it all is the smell of herbs—lavender, rosemary, mint—bundled and hung along the wall. They are not decoration. They are belief. They are medicine. They are hope.

You inhale slowly and taste the faint bitterness of a warm drink lingering on your tongue. Something brewed earlier. Honeyed ale, maybe, or thin broth with thyme. Water is precious here. Clean water even more so. You sip carefully, always carefully. You don’t gulp. No one does.

Before we go further, before you get comfortable, take a moment to like the video and subscribe—but only if you genuinely enjoy what I do here. This space is meant to feel safe, curious, and calm. And if you feel like it, tell me where you’re listening from and what time it is there. Night has many accents.

Now, dim the lights where you are.
Lower your shoulders. Let your jaw soften. You are not running. You are not working. You are simply arriving.

This medieval world does not know what rabies is. Not as you understand it. There are no microscopes, no vaccines, no post-exposure protocols. There is only experience passed mouth to mouth, superstition layered over observation, and fear disguised as wisdom. People know animals can carry madness. They just don’t know why.

You feel oddly warm tonight. Not the comforting warmth of blankets and fur, but something deeper, closer to the skin. A restless heat. You shift slightly, linen whispering beneath you, straw mattress creaking. It’s nothing, you tell yourself. Everyone feels off sometimes. The body has moods.

Earlier today—earlier, but not spoken aloud—you remember the bite. Small. Almost laughable. A dog startled in an alley. Teeth breaking skin. Blood. Quick apologies. Someone joked about it. Someone spat to ward off bad luck. You washed the wound with wine, maybe with vinegar. That’s what people do. You did everything right, by medieval standards.

Notice how calm the room feels now.
How safety is built layer by layer. Thick walls. Low ceiling. Bed placed away from drafts. Curtains drawn around the sleeping space to trap heat and create a pocket of warmer air—a microclimate, even if you don’t have a word for it. You imagine animals nearby, maybe a cat curled at your feet, a living heater, purring softly in its sleep. Humans and animals share warmth here without thinking about it.

The philosophy of this time is simple: balance. Too much heat, too much cold, too much moisture, too much dryness—any imbalance invites illness. And right now, you sense something tipping. Not dramatically. Not yet. Just a faint unease, like wind shifting before a storm.

Your throat feels dry. You swallow. It’s fine.
You notice the sound of dripping water somewhere in the house. Slow. Rhythmic. Drip. Drip. Drip. It should be comforting. It isn’t. You pull the fur closer, feel its weight anchoring you.

Outside, the moon is thin, pale, watching. Torchlight flickers along the street as someone passes, footsteps echoing briefly before fading. Life continues. It always does, until it doesn’t.

You think about survival without knowing you’re doing it. You adjust your position to conserve heat. You tuck your hands beneath the blankets, warmth pooling around your fingers. You breathe slowly, because fast breathing wastes energy. These habits are instinct now, passed down through generations who learned the hard way.

And here’s the quiet truth that settles into the room with you: this story isn’t about monsters. It’s about misunderstanding. About a disease so efficient and cruel that it turns thirst into terror, touch into threat, and love into distance. But tonight, it hasn’t revealed its teeth yet.

Tonight is still gentle.

You listen to the soft crackle of embers.
You smell smoke and herbs.
You feel fabric, fur, stone, and warmth.
You taste the memory of something comforting.
You see shadows sway like slow dancers on the wall.

And you let yourself rest in this moment, knowing—somewhere deep, somewhere quiet—that history is about to tighten its grip, even as sleep loosens yours.

Breathe in.
Hold.
Breathe out.

This is where it begins.

Morning arrives slowly, as if even the sun hesitates to disturb this place.

You wake to pale light leaking through the shutters in thin, dusty stripes. It settles across the stone floor, catching floating motes of ash and straw. For a moment, you don’t move. You listen. The house creaks as it warms. Somewhere nearby, a rooster announces himself far too confidently. Your body feels heavy, wrapped in layers of linen, wool, and fur that smell faintly of smoke and animal warmth.

You notice your mouth first.

Dry. Uncomfortably dry.
Your tongue feels thick, as if it doesn’t quite belong to you yet.

You swallow. It works. Mostly. A small scrape of discomfort slides down your throat, then disappears. Nothing dramatic. Just… odd. You sit up slowly, careful not to disturb the careful architecture of warmth you built overnight. The fur slips from your shoulders. Cold rushes in immediately, sharp and rude, reminding you why people linger in bed here.

You reach for the cup left by your bedside. Clay. Rough. Familiar. There’s a little liquid left at the bottom—water mixed with herbs, maybe mint. You lift it, pause, then take a careful sip. It tastes stale but soothing. The dryness retreats slightly.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

Everyone tells themselves it’s fine.

As you dress, you notice the bite again.

It’s on your hand. Or your forearm. Somewhere inconvenient but easy to ignore. The skin around it is faintly red, already scabbing. Two small marks, neat as punctuation. You touch it gently. It’s warm. Not alarming. Just alive. You wrap it again in clean linen, tying it off with a practiced knot.

You remember the moment clearly now.

The alley.
The sudden movement.
The flash of teeth.
The dog wasn’t wild. That’s important. It belonged to someone. A butcher, maybe. Or a traveler passing through. The dog had been startled by a dropped pot, a shout, the chaos of everyday medieval life. It snapped, then backed away, tail low. Not foaming. Not growling. Just… wrong, in a way you couldn’t name then.

Someone laughed it off. Someone always does.

“A nip,” they said.
“Dogs bite.”
“Wash it well.”

You did.

You always do what you’re supposed to do.

Outside, the town hums into motion. You step into the street and feel the uneven stones beneath your boots. They’re cold, even in daylight. Smoke curls from chimneys. The smell of roasting grain, animal dung, wet wood, and yesterday’s rain blends into the unmistakable scent of a lived-in place.

You pass people you know. Faces you’ve known for years. They nod. They smile. They don’t look at your hand.

No one is worried yet.

You stop by a stall and trade a coin for bread. It’s dense, dark, still warm in the middle. You tear a piece off and chew slowly. The taste is comforting, but your jaw feels oddly tight. You roll it gently, work through it, swallow. It goes down. Eventually.

You pause, just for a second.

Notice how often you’re swallowing now.

You push the thought away.

The medieval mind is trained to normalize discomfort. Life hurts. Bodies ache. Illness is common and rarely dramatic at first. People don’t rush to conclusions. They wait. Waiting is safer than fear.

Later, you find yourself near the river.

The water moves steadily, catching light, murmuring to itself. You kneel and dip your fingers in. Cold. Clear enough. You cup your hands and bring the water toward your mouth.

And then something strange happens.

Your body hesitates.

Not consciously. Not fear, exactly. Just a tightening in your throat, a sudden resistance like an unseen hand pressing gently but firmly against you. You lower your hands, confused, then try again. This time, your breath catches. A small spasm ripples through your neck.

You pull back sharply, water spilling between your fingers.

Your heart beats faster.

That was… odd.

You tell yourself the water is too cold. Or maybe you leaned too fast. You wipe your hands on your tunic, stand, and step away from the river. You don’t look back.

Back inside later, you warm yourself by the hearth. Hot stones rest near the fire, placed there earlier to heat through the day. You shift one carefully closer, feel the warmth radiate into your legs. A cat jumps up beside you, curls instantly against your thigh. You stroke its fur. It vibrates softly, content.

Animals don’t lie, you think.
And then you laugh quietly at yourself.

People here believe illness travels on bad air. Miasma. Vapors rising from rot and water and moral decay. They burn herbs not because they smell nice, but because scent is defense. So you add rosemary to the fire. The smoke sharpens, clean and green.

You breathe it in deeply.

Your chest tightens just a little.

Not pain. Just awareness.

By evening, word travels faster than you want.

Someone saw you flinch near the river. Someone noticed you avoiding your drink at supper. Someone remembers the dog bite now, and suddenly it’s no longer nothing. Memory sharpens when fear arrives.

You feel it before anyone says it.

The way conversations pause when you enter a room.
The way eyes linger just a second too long.
The way someone opens a window after you pass.

No one accuses. Accusations are dangerous. But stories begin to circulate, quiet as mice. Stories of men who feared water. Of women who raved and bit and died screaming. Of animals gone wrong.

The word “mad” is used carefully.

That night, you prepare your bed with more attention than usual. Extra wool. An additional fur. You place heated stones near your feet and one near your hands. You hang fresh herbs overhead. Lavender, this time. For calm. For sleep.

You sit on the edge of the bed and drink slowly.

Each swallow feels like a negotiation.

Your throat tightens. Releases. Tightens again. You breathe through it. Slow breaths. Controlled breaths. You’ve survived worse discomforts than this. Hunger. Cold. Loss.

You lie down.

The candle flickers. Shadows stretch. The room feels smaller somehow, closer. You listen to the drip of water again, louder now, more insistent. Drip. Drip. Drip.

You turn onto your side and pull the fur up to your chin.

You are not afraid yet.

But something inside you has begun to listen very closely.

You wake before dawn, not because of noise, but because your body refuses to stay still.

There’s a restless energy humming beneath your skin, like a quiet vibration you can’t quite locate. You shift beneath the blankets. Linen slides against wool. Fur presses down, heavy and reassuring, yet somehow not enough. The warmth that comforted you last night now feels… crowded. You push the covers away slightly, then pull them back again when the cold immediately bites.

You sigh softly.

Sleep lingers just out of reach, like something you almost remember how to do.

The candle has burned low, its wick curled into a fragile black hook. The room smells of old smoke and herbs that have given up their strongest notes overnight. Lavender has softened into something dusty and sweet. Rosemary lingers sharper, awake before you are.

You sit up slowly, letting your feet find the stone floor. Cold shoots up your legs. You pause, breathing through it, then slide them into wool-lined boots waiting exactly where you left them. People here don’t leave things to chance. Ritual is how you survive.

As you stand, dizziness brushes past you. Light, fleeting. Like the room tilted for a moment and then decided not to. You steady yourself with one hand on the wall. The stone feels damp, alive with the memory of every winter it has endured.

You whisper, almost without realizing it, “Easy.”

There is no language yet for what is happening to you.

No word for virus.
No understanding of incubation.
No concept of nerves quietly carrying catastrophe toward the brain.

What exists instead is theory.

Humors.
Balances.
Invisible forces that punish excess and reward moderation.

And you begin, instinctively, to scan yourself for imbalance.

Too hot? You open the shutters a crack, letting night air seep in. Too cold? You close them again. Too dry? You reach for your cup. The water trembles slightly as you lift it. You swallow once. Then again. The second time is harder. The muscles in your throat seize briefly, sharply, then release.

You lower the cup, breathing faster now.

You don’t spill it. You’re careful. You are always careful.

Outside, the town still sleeps. Fog curls low to the ground, wrapping buildings in a pale, cautious hush. A cart creaks somewhere in the distance. A man coughs. A baby cries and then quiets. Life, continuing its small negotiations.

You step outside to cool your head.

The air is damp, carrying the metallic smell of wet stone and animal breath. You pull your cloak tighter, fingers working the familiar clasp. Wool scratches your neck. You welcome it. Physical sensation grounds you.

You walk slowly, deliberately, counting steps without meaning to.

One.
Two.
Three.

Your heart feels like it’s beating just a little too fast for the effort you’re making. You pause, rest your hand against a wooden post, feel its rough grain under your palm. Splinters. Sap. Real things.

A woman passes you on the street. She nods politely, then hesitates. Her eyes flick to your face, then your hand. The wrapped bite. The linen is clean, but the implication has begun to stain it.

She crosses herself.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

You continue on.

At the market later, you overhear fragments of conversation drifting like smoke.

“…bitten, they say…”
“…best to bleed it out early…”
“…the air’s been wrong lately…”

You buy nothing. The smell of fish and raw meat feels overwhelming today, thick and cloying. You breathe through your mouth, then regret it when the dryness worsens. Your tongue sticks briefly to the roof of your mouth. You swallow, jaw clenching hard enough to ache.

Someone notices.

An older man, a healer—not a physician, not formally trained, but experienced in the way this world values. He watches you with a thoughtful frown, fingers stained green from herbs.

“You look heated,” he says finally.

You nod, grateful for the simplicity of the explanation.

“Yes.”

Heat is treatable. Heat makes sense.

He suggests cooling measures. Fresh air. Avoid strong drink. Light food. He offers a small bundle of dried leaves tied with twine. Mint and sage. To chew. To calm the mouth. To balance the humors.

You thank him sincerely.

You do not mention the river.

Back home, you try to rest.

You lie on the bed again, this time without sleeping. The ceiling beams loom overhead, dark and ancient. You trace their lines with your eyes. They remind you of ribs. Of cages. You blink and look away.

Your thoughts feel… loud.

Not racing. Not chaotic. Just amplified. Every sound presses closer. The drip of water is maddening now, each drop landing like a tiny удар inside your skull. You get up and wedge a cloth into the crack where it seeps. The silence afterward is startling.

You exhale.

Your hands shake slightly.

You chew the mint leaves. The taste is sharp, bright, almost painful. It floods your mouth with coolness, briefly overpowering the dryness. You swallow reflexively—and immediately regret it. A spasm grips your throat, stronger this time, forcing a gasp from you. The muscles clamp, release, clamp again.

Your eyes water.

You drop the leaves.

You stand very still until it passes.

“No,” you whisper. “No.”

Not as denial. As instruction.

In this world, people believe the mind can worsen illness. Fear invites sickness to settle. So you occupy yourself. You clean. You rearrange bedding. You shake out the furs and hang them near the hearth to air. You place hot stones in new positions, experimenting with warmth and comfort like a careful engineer.

You create a better microclimate.

Curtains drawn tighter. Drafts blocked. Bed shifted slightly away from the outer wall. You are good at this. Humans always have been.

By afternoon, exhaustion drapes itself over you like a heavy cloak. Your limbs feel weak, yet your mind refuses to dim. You sit by the fire, watching embers pulse. Red. Orange. Black. They breathe slowly, in and out.

A dog passes the doorway.

It stops.

It looks at you.

Not aggressively. Not fearfully. Just… intensely. Its ears tilt back. Its body stiffens. After a moment, it whines softly and retreats.

Your stomach twists.

Animals sense imbalance, people say. Animals know.

You rub your arms, suddenly cold.

Later, someone knocks.

Two people stand outside. Neighbors. Concern wearing the shape of politeness. They don’t come in. They stand just far enough back to pretend it’s casual.

They ask how you’re feeling.

You answer carefully.

“Tired.”

They exchange a look.

They suggest rest. Herbs. Prayer. One of them mentions, very gently, that if swallowing becomes difficult, it might be wise to stay indoors. Avoid excitement. Avoid… others.

For everyone’s comfort.

You nod.

You always nod.

That night, the candlelight feels harsher, shadows sharper. Your senses are tuning themselves too finely, like strings pulled too tight. Every creak makes you flinch. Every gust of wind feels personal.

You lie down and try to drink one last time.

The cup never reaches your lips.

Your throat closes hard, violently, your body recoiling as if struck. Water sloshes over the rim, spilling onto the floor. You gasp, chest heaving, eyes wide with shock.

You press a hand to your mouth, breathing shallowly until the spasm fades.

You sit there in the dim, heart hammering, water soaking into the straw at your feet.

Now you are afraid.

And somewhere, deep in your body, the illness has learned that.

By now, the whispers have found you.

They don’t arrive loudly. They never do. They slide in around the edges of conversation, carried on breath and hesitation, stitched together from old memories and half-remembered warnings. You hear them before anyone speaks them directly, and once you hear them, you can’t quite unhear them.

You wake again before the sun, heart already awake, body buzzing with a thin, electric tension. Your sheets are damp—not with fear, you tell yourself, but with heat. Too much heat. An imbalance. That’s all. You peel back the wool and fur, letting the cooler air touch your skin. Gooseflesh rises instantly, every nerve announcing itself like it has something urgent to say.

You sit there for a moment, listening.

The world feels louder now.
Not noisier—just closer.

A mouse scratches inside the wall. Somewhere, water drips again, despite your efforts yesterday. Each drop lands with surgical precision in your awareness. Drip. Pause. Drip. You clench your jaw without meaning to.

You stand and wrap yourself in your cloak, fingers fumbling slightly at the clasp. Fine motor skills take effort today. Not failure—just effort. You breathe through it. Slow. Controlled. You’ve learned that quick breaths make things worse.

Outside, fog hangs low and thick, muting the world. It presses against buildings like something alive, something curious. You walk through it carefully, boots scuffing stone, cloak brushing damp air. The smell is heavy—wet straw, old wood, animal breath, smoke that never quite leaves this place.

You pass a group of women drawing water from the well.

They fall quiet when they see you.

One of them pulls the bucket up just a little faster. Another steps back, creating space that feels polite and pointed all at once. You nod to them. They nod back. Their eyes flick to your mouth when you swallow.

You feel it too.

Every swallow is now an event.

Not impossible. Just… watched. By your body. By the people around you. By the illness itself, which seems to pause and observe, curious how you’ll respond.

You move on.

At the edge of the square, an old man tells a story to no one in particular. He always does. Stories are how people here test ideas before believing them. You slow without meaning to, pretending to adjust your cloak.

“…fear of water,” he mutters, voice rasping like dry leaves. “That’s how you know.”

Someone laughs nervously. Someone else spits, quick and sharp, to ward off bad luck.

“Men who scream at the sight of a cup,” the old man continues. “Dogs that foam. Bodies that twist. Madness sent by bites.”

Your stomach drops.

You don’t stay to hear more.

Back inside, you try to focus on the practical. Practical keeps panic at bay. You rebuild your warmth carefully, deliberately. Linen first. Clean. Dry. Then wool, tucked around your shoulders. Fur last, heavy and grounding. You position the hot stones again, rotating them with a cloth so they don’t burn. You’ve done this a hundred times before. Muscle memory steadies you.

You hang fresh herbs.

Lavender for calm.
Mint for the mouth.
Rosemary for clarity.

The scents layer gently, familiar and reassuring. You breathe them in, slow and deep, feeling your chest rise and fall. The smoke curls upward, lazy and patient.

For a while, it helps.

Then someone knocks.

You freeze.

The knock isn’t urgent. It’s careful. Measured. The kind of knock meant to announce concern, not demand entry. You cross the room and open the door just enough.

It’s the healer again.

He doesn’t step inside.

He looks at your face for a long moment, eyes sharp but not unkind. He watches the way you breathe. The way your jaw tightens when you swallow.

“There are stories,” he says finally.

You nod. No point pretending otherwise now.

He explains what everyone knows but no one wants to say plainly. That sometimes, after a bite, people change. That thirst becomes agony. That the body fights itself. That these people rarely recover.

Rarely is a generous word here.

He offers remedies anyway. They always do. Because doing nothing feels worse than failing. He suggests bleeding—just a little—to release bad humors. Cold compresses. Isolation, gently phrased as rest.

“For your comfort,” he says.
“For theirs,” he doesn’t say.

You agree.

The bloodletting is quick. A shallow cut. A bowl. The smell of iron joins the room, sharp and unmistakable. You look away, focusing on the steady crackle of the fire. The healer murmurs reassurance. When it’s done, he binds the cut neatly.

You feel no better.

You feel no worse.

Which somehow feels worse.

As the day drags on, your body grows increasingly restless. Sitting is uncomfortable. Lying down is worse. Your muscles twitch unpredictably, small jerks that feel like your nerves are misfiring. You rub your arms, then your legs, then clasp your hands together to keep them still.

Your thoughts grow… strange.

Not irrational. Just persistent. You fixate on small details—the way the tapestry thread catches light, the rhythm of your own breathing, the faint sound of wings in the rafters. Each detail feels oversized, too important.

Late afternoon, someone brings you food.

They leave it at the door.

Bread. Broth. A small cup of watered ale.

You stare at the cup longer than necessary.

You pick it up, hand trembling just slightly, and bring it toward your mouth. Your throat tightens in anticipation, muscles already bracing. You stop before the liquid touches your lips.

Your heart pounds.

You set the cup down carefully, deliberately, as if sudden movement might provoke something worse.

You eat the bread slowly. Chewing is safe. Chewing doesn’t betray you. The taste is dull, but grounding. You savor it, focusing on texture, on the simple act of nourishment that still works.

As evening approaches, the whispers grow bolder.

A child asks why you don’t come out anymore.
Someone suggests moving you to the edge of town.
Someone else insists prayer will help.

No one suggests touching you.

That night, the fear of water becomes unmistakable.

Not fear, exactly. Aversion. A visceral recoil that begins deep in your chest and radiates outward, commanding your body with authority you don’t recognize as your own. Even the sound of liquid pouring makes your breath hitch.

You plug your ears at one point, embarrassed by the gesture, but desperate for quiet.

You sit in the dim, wrapped tightly, rocking slightly without meaning to. The cat no longer comes close. It watches you from the doorway, tail flicking, eyes wide and uncertain.

You whisper to yourself.

“It’s just the night.”
“It’s just imbalance.”
“It will pass.”

Your voice sounds strange in your ears. Louder. Sharper.

When you finally lie down, sleep comes in fragments. Half-dreams filled with running water you cannot approach, with animals staring unblinking, with doors that won’t quite close.

You wake gasping, throat seized, hands clawing at the blankets.

Now the whispers are inside you.

And they are no longer quiet.

By morning, your body no longer feels like a single, cooperative thing.

It feels like a collection of parts, each with its own opinion.

You wake tangled in blankets, heart racing, breath shallow, skin buzzing with a strange sensitivity—as if every nerve has been turned up just a little too high. The room is dim, though daylight has already begun to press at the shutters. You can tell by the quality of the silence. Morning has a different weight than night.

You lie still and listen.

Your own breathing sounds loud.
Too loud.

You slow it deliberately. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. You’ve learned this trick instinctively, long before anyone ever named it. Calm the body, calm the imbalance. Your chest obeys, but reluctantly, like a stubborn animal being led by the reins.

Your throat aches.

Not sore. Not raw. Just… tired. As if it has been working all night without rest. You swallow experimentally. The muscles clench, resist, then release with a sharp, unpleasant flutter.

You wince.

You sit up slowly, letting the blankets slide down. Linen sticks slightly to your skin, damp with night sweat. The air feels cooler now, brushing your arms, raising goosebumps instantly. You wrap yourself in wool and reach for the fur, but even the familiar weight feels wrong today—too much, too pressing.

Heat and cold argue inside you.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed. The stone floor greets your feet with a shock that makes you gasp despite yourself. The sound startles you. Your own voice feels foreign, too sharp in the quiet room.

You pause.

Notice that moment.
The way surprise comes easier now.
The way control slips just a little faster.

In the corner, a bucket of water sits untouched. It has been there all night, and you have pretended not to notice it. Now, your eyes flick to it involuntarily. Just looking at the surface—still, reflective—makes something twist violently in your chest.

Your breath catches.

You look away quickly, heart pounding as if you’ve narrowly avoided danger.

You didn’t even try to drink.

That’s what frightens you most.

Outside, the town is already awake. You hear carts, voices, the lowing of cattle. Life continues at a pace that now feels aggressively normal. You move through your morning tasks mechanically—washing your hands with a damp cloth instead of immersing them, chewing mint leaves instead of drinking, dressing slowly, carefully, as if sudden movements might provoke rebellion from your own body.

You notice your hands shake.

Not badly. Just enough that you clench them into fists to make it stop.

By midmorning, restlessness settles into you like an itch beneath the skin. Sitting makes it worse. Standing helps only briefly. You pace the room in slow circles, boots whispering against stone, cloak brushing your legs with each turn.

The room feels smaller today.

The walls closer.
The ceiling lower.

Every sound intrudes. The crackle of the fire is too loud. The flutter of a bird outside feels like a shout. Even the soft rustle of herbs overhead seems to scrape against your thoughts.

You press your palms to your temples.

You remember the old stories now. Not as distant folklore, but as warnings that have suddenly leaned forward and made eye contact. People who raged. People who bit. People who had to be restrained for their own good.

You are not raging.

That’s important.
You cling to that.

But you do feel… irritable.

Small things provoke sharp flashes of emotion that fade almost as quickly as they appear. A dropped spoon makes your heart leap and anger flare for no clear reason. You catch yourself muttering under your breath, then stop, unsettled by the sound of your own voice.

It doesn’t feel like you.

Someone knocks again.

You flinch.

This time, you don’t open the door.

You hear murmured voices outside. Concern. Debate. A suggestion that maybe you should be kept quiet. Comfortable. Someone mentions tying curtains tighter, dimming the room, keeping excitement low.

You slide down against the wall and sit, pulling your knees to your chest. The stone seeps cold through your clothes. You welcome it. Cold feels honest. Cold doesn’t trick you.

Time stretches oddly now.

Moments feel long. Then suddenly short. You lose track of hours, only noticing when the light changes color, shifting from pale morning to dull afternoon to amber evening. Hunger comes and goes without pattern. Thirst is replaced entirely by dread.

Your mouth waters at the thought of liquid.

Your throat tightens at the same time.

By afternoon, the spasms worsen.

Not constant. Just… unpredictable.

A sudden tightening of the neck.
A sharp intake of breath you didn’t plan.
A flutter in the chest that feels like panic but arrives without a thought attached.

You learn to anticipate them. You brace. You hold still until they pass. The effort leaves you exhausted, but sleep still refuses to settle.

Animals avoid you now.

The cat no longer enters the room at all. A dog whines outside the door and then retreats. Even birds seem quieter near your window. You notice these things with an intensity that borders on obsession, cataloging them like evidence in a trial you are both prosecuting and defending.

Late in the day, the healer returns with others.

They bring calm voices, slow movements, and gentle authority. They suggest more isolation, for your comfort. They hang heavier curtains to block light and sound. They reposition your bed, drawing it closer to the hearth, away from drafts. They bring fresh hot stones, wrap them carefully, and place them at your feet and along your sides.

They are kind.

That almost makes it worse.

One of them speaks softly, explaining that excitement worsens certain conditions. That darkness and quiet help calm the mind. That you should avoid visitors, avoid noise, avoid… water.

He doesn’t say the word hydrophobia.

He doesn’t have to.

As they leave, they secure the door from the outside—not locked, exactly, but weighted. A precaution. You understand. You tell yourself you understand.

The room dims into twilight.

You lie back, surrounded by layers, warmth carefully engineered around you. You focus on the small comforts. The texture of wool against your fingers. The steady heat from the stones. The faint scent of lavender drifting down from the rafters.

You breathe slowly.

In.
Out.

For a moment, peace almost settles.

Then someone outside pours water into a trough.

The sound slices through you.

A violent spasm grips your throat, stronger than before, stealing your breath. Your body arches reflexively, hands clawing at the blankets. You gasp, choking on nothing, panic flooding your chest.

It passes, eventually.

You lie there trembling, sweat cooling rapidly on your skin, heart pounding so hard you feel it in your ears.

Tears slip from the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from the sheer betrayal of it. Your own body has turned hostile, reacting to harmless sound as if it were a threat.

You whisper, hoarse and shaken.

“Please.”

You don’t know who you’re speaking to.

As night settles fully, your thoughts darken. Not violently. Just… solemnly. You begin to understand what the whispers meant. Why people fear this illness not for its cruelty alone, but for its theft of dignity, of trust in one’s own senses.

You are still you.

But you are slipping.

And somewhere deep within, the disease tightens its grip—not with force, but with patience.

Night no longer feels like rest.

It feels like a test.

You lie awake in the darkened room, curtains drawn tight, hearth reduced to a low, steady glow meant to soothe rather than stimulate. The air is warm, carefully managed, yet your skin prickles as if a cold wind passes just beneath it. You can’t quite get comfortable. Every position feels wrong within minutes. You turn onto your side. Then your back. Then sit up, hugging your knees, rocking slightly without noticing until you stop yourself.

Your body hums.

Not pain. Not exactly.
More like an alert that won’t switch off.

You listen to your own breathing again, counting the spaces between inhales, the length of exhales. You notice that swallowing has become something you avoid instinctively now. Your mouth fills with saliva—thick, insistent—and you tilt your head slightly, letting it pool rather than forcing it down.

It’s an undignified strategy.

It works.

The thought of liquid is unbearable tonight.

Not the idea of drinking—something deeper than thought. A reflexive terror that starts in your throat and radiates outward, commanding your muscles to lock, your chest to seize, your breath to stutter. Even imagining cool water on your lips makes your heart spike.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Your mind tries to reason with your body.
This is foolish, it says.
This is water.
You need it.

Your body does not care.

Somewhere outside, rain begins to fall.

It’s light at first. A few drops tapping against wood and stone. Normally, it would be comforting. Tonight, it’s unbearable. Each sound lands too sharply, too clearly, like the world is being pressed directly against your nerves.

Drip.
Tap.
Run.

Your throat tightens violently.

You gasp, hands flying to your chest as another spasm grips you, stronger than any before. Your body jerks forward, breath stolen, muscles contracting hard enough to leave you shaking afterward. When it releases, you sit there panting, eyes wide, heart hammering.

You didn’t drink anything.
You didn’t even see it.

Sound alone is enough now.

You curl forward, forehead resting against your knees, rocking gently until the tremor fades. Sweat slicks your skin despite the cool night air. Your clothes cling unpleasantly. You peel off a layer with clumsy fingers, then immediately regret it as chills race across you.

Heat and cold still cannot agree.

You whisper to yourself again.

“Quiet. Easy. Slow.”

Your voice sounds strained, unfamiliar, like it belongs to someone else in the room.

At some point, you must drift—not fully asleep, but into a thin, fragile doze. Dreams bleed into waking. You see water you cannot touch. You hear your name called from the other side of a river you cannot cross. You wake repeatedly, each time with a sharp intake of breath, each time more disoriented.

By morning, your exhaustion is complete.

You wake to grey light filtering through the curtains, rain still falling softly outside. Your limbs feel weak, heavy, as if the effort of simply existing has drained something essential from you. When you sit up, dizziness hits harder this time, forcing you to grip the bedframe until the room steadies.

Your hands shake openly now.

You don’t bother hiding it.

Someone enters quietly—two people this time, moving with deliberate calm. They avoid sudden gestures. Their voices are low, soothing, the way people speak to frightened animals or children on the edge of tears.

They bring food again.

They bring water too.

They set it down without comment, then step back.

The cup sits there between you like a challenge.

You stare at it, heart thudding. The surface of the water trembles faintly with the movement of the house. Light catches it, making it gleam.

Your body reacts instantly.

Your chest tightens.
Your throat locks.
A sharp, involuntary gasp tears from you.

You turn your head away violently, knocking the cup over in the process. Water spills across the stone floor, darkening it, spreading in thin rivulets toward the hearth.

The reaction is immediate and uncontrollable.

A severe spasm grips your throat and chest, forcing you to curl inward, choking, gagging, your body fighting a threat that exists only in its own misfiring signals. You clutch at your clothing, at your neck, eyes watering as you struggle for breath.

Hands reach for you—but carefully.

They don’t touch your face.
They don’t restrain you.

They wait.

After long seconds that feel endless, the spasm releases. You sag forward, gasping, chest heaving. You taste bile and copper. Your entire body trembles violently now, spent by the effort.

Silence fills the room.

No one speaks.

They don’t need to.

Hydrophobia has a name now, even if they don’t say it aloud.

Fear of water.

Fear so complete it overrides logic, instinct, survival itself.

One of them wipes the spilled water away quickly, efficiently, as if erasing evidence of something shameful. Another pulls the curtains tighter, dimming the room further. They murmur reassurances you barely hear.

“You’re not to blame.”
“It’s the sickness.”
“Rest now.”

They leave.

The door is secured more firmly this time.

Not locked.

But unmistakably closed.

Alone again, you collapse back onto the bed, every muscle aching. You feel hollowed out, as if something vital has been scooped away and replaced with buzzing static. Your thoughts scatter, refusing to settle on anything for long.

Time loses meaning entirely now.

Minutes stretch. Hours collapse. You drift in and out of half-consciousness, jolted awake by spasms, by sounds, by nothing at all. Your mouth feels unbearably dry, yet the idea of liquid remains impossible. You lick your lips instead, suck on a piece of cloth soaked earlier and wrung nearly dry—barely damp enough to soothe without triggering the reflex.

This is a compromise your body will accept.

Barely.

Your mind wanders into reflection, slow and heavy. You think about how clever humans are, and how fragile. How you learned to build fires, to layer clothing, to create warmth from nothing—but never learned how to stop this. You think about the dog, briefly, without anger. It was only acting on instinct too.

Your thoughts grow darker, not with fear, but with resignation.

You are not getting better.

You feel it now, with the clarity that arrives when denial finally loosens its grip. Something irreversible has taken hold. Your body is no longer fighting to recover. It is reacting, overreacting, unraveling in its own peculiar way.

By evening, agitation creeps in.

You feel compelled to move, to pace, to tug at your clothes, to scratch at your arms where the skin feels too tight. You mutter under your breath, words tumbling out without much meaning. You catch yourself doing it and clamp your mouth shut, embarrassed even though no one is watching.

Your heart races without cause.

Your thoughts sharpen and fracture at the same time—moments of intense clarity followed by confusion that leaves you blinking, disoriented. You forget where you are for seconds at a time. Then it snaps back, harsh and vivid.

You laugh suddenly once.

The sound startles you.

It stops as quickly as it starts.

Night falls again.

The rain finally stops, leaving behind a heavy, dripping silence that presses against your ears. You lie curled on the bed, eyes open, staring into the dim. Your breathing is shallow, uneven. Your body twitches occasionally, small jerks that you no longer try to suppress.

You are very tired.

Not just of the day.
Not just of the illness.

Of fighting.

As sleep finally begins to pull you under, thin and fragile as it is, one thought drifts through your mind—not fear, not anger, but quiet understanding.

This is why people remember this sickness.

Not for how it kills.

But for how it turns the most basic human need—water—into something utterly impossible.

When you wake again, the world feels distant, as if someone has moved it just a few steps farther away from you.

You’re aware of light before you’re aware of yourself. A dull, grey presence pressing against your closed eyes. You blink slowly, lids heavy, and for a moment you don’t remember where you are. The room looks unfamiliar, skewed slightly, like a place seen through rippling glass. Then recognition settles in, not gently, but firmly.

The bed.
The curtains.
The hearth breathing low and red.

You exhale, a thin sound slipping from your throat.

Your body feels altered today. Not dramatically worse in one obvious way, but wrong in many small ones. Your limbs feel weak yet restless, like they want to move but don’t know how. Your skin is hypersensitive; even the brush of linen against your wrist feels exaggerated, almost irritating.

You pull your hand back and curl it against your chest.

Your mouth is unbearably dry.

Your tongue feels swollen, clumsy. You move it slowly, carefully, aware now that every sensation demands attention. Saliva gathers again, thick and sticky, and you tilt your head instinctively, letting it spill away rather than swallowing. It’s an adaptation you didn’t choose consciously, but it’s become second nature.

You notice how quiet it is.

Too quiet.

The usual sounds of the town are muted, as if deliberately pushed back. No carts nearby. No voices drifting in. Even the animals seem distant. It’s as though the world has agreed, silently, to give you space.

Isolation has a sound.

It’s the absence of interruption.

You sit up slowly, pausing when a wave of dizziness rolls through you, stronger than before. Your vision narrows briefly, dark at the edges, then clears. You wait it out, breathing shallowly, hands gripping the blanket.

Patience is another survival skill.

Someone opens the door later.

You don’t hear the knock this time. Or maybe there wasn’t one. You only notice the shift in air, the faint creak of wood. Two figures enter, moving with careful deliberation. They keep their distance, standing just far enough away that you don’t feel crowded.

They speak softly.

They use your name.

Hearing it sends a strange jolt through you—comforting and unsettling all at once. It reminds you that you are still a person, not just a problem to be managed.

They bring clean linens. Fresh herbs. They adjust the stones at your feet, replacing cooled ones with warm, wrapped carefully so they don’t burn. One of them opens the curtains just a fraction, letting in a thread of light that rests gently on the wall instead of your face.

They are trying to be kind.

You feel a sudden surge of gratitude so strong it almost tips into tears. Your chest tightens. You swallow reflexively—and immediately regret it. A sharp spasm clenches your throat, forcing you to cough weakly, body curling inward.

They freeze.

Then they step back again, waiting.

You wave a trembling hand to show you’re all right, though you aren’t sure it’s entirely true. When the spasm passes, you sag against the pillows, exhausted by the effort of simply existing.

No one mentions water.

They no longer bring it.

Instead, someone offers you a small piece of cloth, barely damp, infused with mint. You press it to your lips, draw in the faint moisture, careful not to trigger the reflex. It helps, just enough to take the edge off the dryness.

Compromise has become your entire life.

After they leave, you lie back and stare at the ceiling. The wooden beams seem to shift subtly, bending and straightening as your focus drifts. You blink, and they settle again. You’re not sure if it’s your eyes or your mind playing tricks.

You hear footsteps outside the door.

Not approaching. Passing.

People are avoiding the space around you now, moving in wider arcs, voices dropping when they draw near. You can feel it even without seeing it. Social distance, long before anyone named it.

Your thoughts begin to wander in unfamiliar patterns.

You latch onto memories and replay them with strange intensity—the taste of bread from days ago, the feel of river air on your skin, the sound of the dog’s breath when it lunged and then retreated. Each memory arrives vivid and sharp, then dissolves abruptly, leaving you momentarily disoriented.

You forget, briefly, what you were thinking about.

Then you remember, and the remembering feels like a small shock.

Your body twitches unexpectedly, a sudden jerk of the arm, the leg. It surprises you enough that a laugh bubbles up—thin, strained, entirely inappropriate. You clap a hand over your mouth, embarrassed even though you’re alone.

The laughter fades into a shaky exhale.

You are still aware enough to be ashamed.

That frightens you more than the spasms.

As the day stretches on, agitation builds. It’s not panic—not quite. More like a pressure, a need to move, to escape the confines of your own skin. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, then stand abruptly, only to sway and nearly fall.

You catch yourself against the wall.

The stone is cold, grounding. You press your forehead to it, breathing slowly until the room steadies. Your reflection stares back at you from a polished metal surface nearby—distorted, flickering in the low light.

Your eyes look too bright.

Your face too flushed.

You don’t linger on it.

Someone speaks to you through the door later.

They don’t come in.

They ask how you’re feeling.

The question feels absurd.

You open your mouth to answer, then pause, suddenly uncertain how to translate your experience into words that make sense. “Strange,” doesn’t begin to cover it. “Unwell,” feels inadequate. You settle on something safer.

“Tired,” you say.

Your voice sounds rough, uneven, like it’s scraping its way out of you.

They tell you to rest.

They always tell you to rest.

As evening approaches, confusion thickens. You lose track of what time it is, of whether you’ve slept or only drifted. Shadows lengthen and shift, sometimes seeming to move on their own. You blink hard, focusing, and they return to normal.

Mostly.

A fly buzzes near the ceiling, its sound magnified unbearably. You swat at it weakly, miss entirely, then laugh again—a short, sharp sound that echoes unpleasantly in the quiet room.

You stop yourself, heart racing.

Your emotions no longer arrive in appropriate proportions.

Small things feel enormous.
Large things feel distant.

This is the part people don’t talk about.

The way the illness loosens your grip on yourself before it ever takes your life.

Night comes quietly.

You are too tired now to fight it.

You curl on your side, drawing the blankets close, seeking comfort in familiar textures. Wool scratches. Fur presses. The heat from the stones seeps into your bones. You focus on these sensations deliberately, anchoring yourself in what still feels real.

Touch.
Warmth.
Weight.

Your breathing grows uneven as another spasm ripples through your throat, weaker this time, but persistent. You wait it out, eyes closed, jaw clenched.

Somewhere deep inside, a realization settles—not sudden, not dramatic, but heavy and undeniable.

You are being watched now.

Not with malice.

With caution.

With fear.

With a quiet, collective hope that whatever has taken hold of you will not spread further.

You don’t resent them.

You understand.

As sleep finally pulls you under, thin and fractured, you drift with the knowledge that the village has already begun to adjust to a future without you. Not out of cruelty—but out of survival.

And in this world, survival always comes first.

When you wake this time, you are not entirely sure how long you’ve been asleep.

Sleep has become less like rest and more like disappearance—brief absences where the world blurs, rearranges itself, then returns slightly altered. You open your eyes slowly, carefully, as if sudden movement might fracture whatever fragile calm you’ve managed to hold together.

The room is darker than you expect.

Someone has drawn the curtains tighter again. Only a faint, amber glow leaks in from the hearth, painting the walls in soft, breathing shadows. The air smells heavier today. More herbs. Sharper ones. Bitter ones. Wormwood, maybe. Sage. Things meant to drive something out.

You lie still, listening.

Your heart beats fast.
Too fast for someone not moving.

You place a hand on your chest, feeling the rhythm beneath your palm. It’s erratic, impatient, as if it’s forgotten the tempo it’s supposed to keep. You focus on slowing your breathing, hoping the heart will follow.

It doesn’t.

Your mouth hangs slightly open now. You’ve stopped trying to keep it closed. Saliva escapes in slow, humiliating threads that you wipe away absently with your sleeve. The act barely registers emotionally anymore. Dignity feels like a distant concept, something belonging to another version of you.

You swallow without thinking.

Instant regret.

The spasm hits hard and fast, clamping your throat shut with violent precision. Your body folds inward, hands clawing at the blankets as your breath stutters uselessly in your chest. A strangled sound escapes you—half gasp, half cry—before the reflex finally releases.

You lie there afterward, shaking, eyes burning.

It takes longer than it used to for your muscles to settle.

When you can move again, you sit up slowly, wiping your mouth, chest heaving. You feel… angry. Not at anyone. At everything. At the bed. At the air. At the fact that swallowing—something you’ve done thousands of times without thought—has turned into an enemy.

Anger flares hot and sharp, then fades just as quickly, leaving behind confusion and a hollow ache.

You rub your arms, scratching lightly. Your skin feels wrong. Too tight. Too sensitive. Every touch seems amplified, as if your nerves are misreporting the world. You tug at your collar, suddenly certain it’s choking you, though it hangs loose.

You tear it open with a frustrated motion.

The sound startles you.

Your heart leaps again.

You hear voices outside.

Not close. Not far. A group. Low murmurs layered with concern and uncertainty. You catch fragments.

“…worse today…”
“…can’t drink at all…”
“…dangerous, maybe…”

Dangerous.

The word lands heavier than the rest.

You stagger to your feet, driven by a restless urge you can’t name. Movement feels necessary, essential, even though it costs you. The room tilts as you stand, but you brace yourself against the wall until it steadies.

You pace.

Back and forth.
Back and forth.

Each step sends a jolt up your legs. Your coordination is off—subtly, but undeniably. You misjudge the distance to the table and bump your hip. The impact sends a flash of irritation through you so intense you snarl aloud, a short, sharp sound that echoes unpleasantly in the room.

You freeze.

Did that come from you?

Your breathing quickens.

You press your hands together, fingers interlacing tightly, grounding yourself through pressure. It helps. A little. You focus on the feel of your own skin, the warmth of your palms, the proof that you are still here, still contained within yourself.

Someone enters the room.

Three people this time.

They move slowly, deliberately, like one might approach a startled animal. Their expressions are calm, carefully neutral, but you can feel the tension in their bodies, the way they’re ready to step back if needed.

They bring remedies.

Not water. Never water now.

Instead, poultices of crushed herbs wrapped in cloth. Bitter roots to chew. A small cup of thick, honeyed paste meant to coat the throat without flowing. You eye it warily.

They demonstrate first, dipping a finger, tasting it themselves to show it’s safe. You hesitate, then nod.

They approach slowly, allowing you to take it yourself.

The texture is unpleasant—sticky, heavy—but manageable. You smear a little along your tongue and inner cheeks. It soothes briefly, dulling the dryness without triggering the spasm. You exhale, relieved despite yourself.

They smile faintly.

Small victories matter here.

One of them speaks gently, explaining that the illness sometimes brings agitation. That it’s important to stay calm, to rest, to avoid excitement. He suggests prayers. Another mentions charms—protective symbols meant to guard the mind when the body falters.

You don’t argue.

Arguing takes energy you no longer have.

They hang a small talisman near the bed—wood carved with simple shapes, worn smooth by other hands before yours. It smells faintly of smoke and oil. You stare at it longer than necessary, oddly comforted by its presence.

Belief is another form of medicine.

As they leave, they rearrange the room again. Furniture pushed back. Sharp objects removed. The bed positioned more centrally, surrounded by soft barriers of folded cloth and blankets—not restraints, but boundaries.

You notice.

You understand.

That understanding brings another surge of anger, sudden and bright. You grip the bedframe, knuckles whitening, jaw clenched so tightly your teeth ache. For a moment, the urge to shout, to strike something, to tear the room apart pulses through you with frightening clarity.

Then it passes.

You sag back onto the bed, breathing hard, ashamed and shaken.

This is the part no one warns you about.

Not the fear.
Not the pain.

The way your emotions stop obeying you.

Afternoon bleeds into evening.

Your thoughts grow disordered, slipping out of sequence. You start sentences in your head and forget how they end. You fixate on small details—the pattern in the stone floor, the way smoke curls upward, the sound of your own breath—as if they contain secrets you must decipher.

At one point, you become convinced the shadows are watching you.

Not threatening. Just… attentive.

You blink hard, shake your head, and they return to being shadows. Mostly.

Your body jerks suddenly, arm flinging outward without command. You gasp, startled by your own movement. It happens again minutes later, a twitch in your leg, a sharp snap of muscle that leaves you breathless.

You laugh again.

A thin, brittle sound that frightens you as much as it does anyone else.

You press your hands over your mouth, tears welling unexpectedly. You are not sad in the usual way. You are overwhelmed. Your body is speaking in a language you don’t understand, and you’re expected to translate it into calm.

By nightfall, exhaustion wraps around you like lead.

Your head feels heavy, thoughts slow and sticky. You lie down without resistance this time, curling into the bed’s warmth. The hot stones have cooled, but you barely notice. Temperature has become secondary to the sheer effort of remaining conscious.

Your breathing grows shallow again.

Another spasm ripples through your throat, weaker now, but constant, like a door that won’t quite stay open. You no longer fight it as hard. Fighting only makes you more tired.

You whisper, words slurring slightly.

“Enough.”

You don’t know if you mean the illness, the fear, or the world.

Outside, night settles fully. The town grows quiet, wrapped in cautious stillness. Somewhere, a bell rings—distant, routine. Life marking time without you.

As sleep drags you under once more, fragmented and thin, one final thought drifts through your mind, oddly calm in its clarity.

You are no longer just sick.

You are becoming a story.

And stories, in this world, are rarely allowed to end gently.

You wake with the sensation that something is watching you.

Not threatening.
Not curious.

Waiting.

Your eyes open slowly, lids heavy, reluctant, as if the simple act of seeing requires more effort than it should. The room swims briefly, then steadies. The shadows are deeper now, thicker, clinging to corners and folds of fabric. The hearth glows faintly, more memory than fire, its warmth barely reaching you.

Your body feels foreign.

Heavy in places.
Weightless in others.

You try to shift, and the delay between intention and movement unsettles you. Your arm lifts a moment after you decide it should. Your fingers curl and uncurl without quite feeling like yours. You stare at your hand for a long second, flexing it slowly, studying the way the skin stretches over bone.

You recognize it.

You just don’t quite trust it.

Your mouth is open again. You don’t bother closing it immediately. Breathing through your nose feels harder now, like the air doesn’t want to pass smoothly anymore. Each breath catches faintly at the back of your throat, a quiet resistance that wasn’t there before.

You swallow.

The spasm comes, sharp and familiar, but something has changed.

It’s not stronger.

It’s… tired.

Your muscles seize, release, seize again, but with less conviction, like even they are beginning to falter. You cough weakly, a hoarse, rasping sound that scratches your throat raw. When it ends, you lie there panting, chest fluttering.

You feel oddly detached from the whole thing.

As if it’s happening to someone else in your body.

Someone speaks softly near the door.

You don’t hear the words at first—just the cadence, the careful slowness. Then meaning filters in, arriving late, slightly scrambled.

“They’re awake.”
“Easy now.”
“Give them space.”

The door opens.

Three figures enter, silhouetted briefly against the lighter hallway before the door closes again. They move even more cautiously than before. Their eyes track your movements carefully, noting every twitch, every breath.

You become aware of yourself as an object of observation.

It’s not unkind.

It’s clinical, in the way necessity often is.

One of them approaches, stopping several steps away. They speak your name again. It takes a moment for you to respond, not because you don’t understand, but because you have to search for the right reaction.

You nod.

The nod feels excessive, jerky.

They ask if you’re in pain.

You consider this carefully.

Pain implies something sharp, something you can point to. This isn’t pain. This is… interference. You shake your head slowly, then pause, unsure if that was the right answer.

Your emotions lag behind your thoughts now.

They offer the cloth again, barely damp, scented with mint and honey. You accept it with hands that tremble openly. Your grip is awkward, fingers clumsy as you press it to your lips. The faint moisture soothes the dryness without provoking the spasm, and you sigh with relief that surprises you with its intensity.

Such a small thing.

Such an enormous comfort.

They murmur approval, encouragement, as if you’ve accomplished something difficult—which, in a way, you have. You cling to that feeling for a moment, the warmth of being reassured, before it slips away again.

Someone else adjusts the bedding.

They tuck the blankets more securely around you, creating a soft barrier that keeps you from rolling too far, too suddenly. It’s not restraint. It’s containment. A nest built by people who understand that you are no longer entirely in control of your movements.

You feel a flicker of irritation at this.

It rises quickly, sharp and bright, then dissolves before it can find words. Your emotions feel like sparks now—brief, intense, impossible to hold.

You laugh suddenly.

It bursts out of you without warning, a strange, breathy sound that doesn’t match anything you’re feeling. The people around you freeze for a fraction of a second, then relax when it stops.

You press your lips together, embarrassed.

“I don’t know why,” you try to say.

The words come out slurred, blurred at the edges. Your tongue feels thick, uncooperative. The effort of speaking leaves you winded.

They tell you it’s all right.

They tell you you’re safe.

Safe.

The word feels abstract.

After they leave, the room settles into an uneasy quiet. You lie back, staring at the talisman hanging above the bed. The carved lines seem to shift subtly as your eyes lose focus, then snap back into place when you blink.

You count your breaths.

In.
Out.

Your heart races anyway.

Time slips strangely now. You drift in and out of awareness, sometimes convinced you’ve been asleep for hours only to realize the light hasn’t changed at all. Other times, entire stretches of time vanish without warning, leaving you disoriented and startled when you surface again.

Your thoughts fragment.

You begin to lose the thread of them mid-sentence, even in your own mind. You reach for memories to anchor yourself—faces, places, routines—but they slide away, slippery and unreliable. You know who you are. You just can’t always access it.

At one point, you become convinced someone is standing just beyond the curtains.

You stare at the fabric, heart pounding, certain you can see the faint outline of a figure. You squint, focus, tell yourself it’s only shadow and firelight. Eventually, it dissolves into nothing.

You feel foolish.

Relieved.

Then it happens again.

Your body jerks violently, a sudden, uncontrolled movement that flings your arm outward and twists your torso. You gasp, startled more by the lack of control than the motion itself. Your muscles twitch afterward, rippling unpredictably beneath your skin.

You clutch the blankets, grounding yourself in their weight and texture.

Wool.
Fur.
Heat, faint but present.

These things are still real.

Your mouth fills with saliva again, faster now, and you turn your head to let it spill onto the cloth laid there for that purpose. The act feels mechanical, stripped of embarrassment. Survival has simplified your priorities.

Late in the day—or what you think is late—the door opens again.

More people this time.

They stand farther back.

You recognize the posture immediately: caution layered over compassion. They speak quietly among themselves, voices barely above whispers. You catch fragments.

“…progressing quickly…”
“…can’t risk…”
“…best to keep them calm…”

One of them suggests restraints.

Not roughly.
Not cruelly.

As a precaution.

Another shakes their head.

“Not yet.”

You don’t fully understand the conversation, but the tone seeps into you, coloring your thoughts with unease. You feel suddenly very tired of being discussed, of being managed like a problem to solve.

Anger flares again.

You sit up abruptly, faster than you should, and the world tilts dangerously. You snarl—actually snarl—a low, animal sound that startles even you. Your hands clench into fists, nails biting into your palms.

Everyone freezes.

The silence stretches, taut and fragile.

Then the anger collapses in on itself, replaced by confusion and fear. You slump back against the pillows, breathing hard, eyes wide with horror at your own reaction.

“I didn’t—” you try to say.

The words tangle and fall apart.

Someone speaks softly, reassuringly, stepping no closer but no farther away either. They tell you it’s the illness. That you’re not to blame. That you’re still you.

You cling to that.

Still you.

As evening creeps in, exhaustion claims more and more of you. Your thoughts slow, dragging through thick mental fog. You forget what you were frightened of moments earlier. You forget what you were angry about. You forget why the room feels so heavy.

But the body remembers.

Spasms continue, irregular and weakening. Your breathing grows shallow, uneven. Your heart flutters unpredictably, sometimes racing, sometimes slowing to a crawl that makes you panic until it speeds up again.

You no longer try to drink.

The concept of water has faded into something abstract and hostile, a thing belonging to a world you no longer inhabit. Thirst exists, but it’s distant, muted, overshadowed by everything else.

As night settles again, the room darkens fully. The hearth dims to embers. The talisman above you catches the last flicker of light, then disappears into shadow.

You lie still, staring into the dark, thoughts drifting without direction.

For a brief moment—a precious, fragile moment—you feel calm.

Not hope.

Not relief.

Just quiet.

It doesn’t last.

Your body twitches again, harder this time, and a low moan escapes you before you can stop it. The sound hangs in the air, unfamiliar and unsettling.

Somewhere nearby, someone shifts their weight outside the door, listening.

You close your eyes.

You are so very tired now.

And deep within, something ancient and relentless continues its slow, patient work—unconcerned with stories, with fear, with who you were before.

You wake to hands on your shoulders.

Not rough.
Not gentle.

Steady.

For a split second, panic flashes through you—pure, animal, unfiltered. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. Muscles tense. Breath jerks sharp into your chest. A growl rises in your throat, low and instinctive, and you barely recognize it as your own.

“Easy,” someone murmurs.

The word floats toward you slowly, carefully, like it might shatter if spoken too loudly.

You blink, eyes struggling to focus. Shapes resolve into faces you know, though their names arrive late, trailing behind recognition. They’re standing farther back than before, arms relaxed but ready, postures angled slightly sideways—not confrontational, but prepared.

You are aware, dimly, that you are being handled differently now.

You let out a shaky breath.

The tension eases, though it doesn’t disappear. Your body hums with alertness, every nerve tuned too sharply. You pull your shoulders inward, curling protectively, as if shrinking might make the world feel less overwhelming.

The room feels smaller again.

The air is thick with the smell of herbs and smoke and something sour beneath it all—sweat, old fear, the unmistakable scent of a body struggling to regulate itself. You wrinkle your nose, irritated by the intensity of it, then forget why you did.

Your mouth is open.

You feel drool collecting again, warm against your chin. You swipe at it irritably, then stare at your damp hand, frowning. The sight doesn’t disgust you anymore. It just confuses you.

Someone offers the cloth.

You hesitate, eyes flicking to it, heart spiking briefly at the thought of moisture. But it’s familiar now. Safe. You take it slowly, deliberately, press it to your lips, draw in the faint dampness without swallowing.

Relief washes through you.

It’s immediate and disproportionate.

You sigh, a soft, broken sound, and lean back into the pillows. The people around you relax slightly, shoulders lowering by a fraction. They’ve learned your rhythms, your triggers, the narrow paths that still lead to calm.

You are no longer unpredictable to them.

That realization lands strangely.

Your thoughts are slower today. Not foggy—thick. Like wading through syrup. Each idea takes effort to move, to shape. You find yourself staring at the wall for long stretches, absorbed in the pattern of light and shadow without remembering how you got there.

At some point, someone asks you a question.

You hear the sound of it, but not the meaning. The words drift past you like leaves on water. You blink, confused, then try to respond anyway.

“I… I don’t…” you begin.

The sentence collapses before it finishes.

You frown, frustrated, and try again, but your tongue doesn’t cooperate. It feels heavy, slow, as if it belongs to someone else entirely. The effort leaves you breathless.

“It’s all right,” they say quickly.

They stop asking questions after that.

Your body twitches again—a sudden, sharp jerk of your arm that knocks against the side of the bed. The impact surprises you enough that you yelp, then laugh immediately afterward, the sound brittle and misplaced.

You clamp your mouth shut, eyes wide.

That wasn’t funny.
You know that.

But your body didn’t seem to agree.

The laughter fades, replaced by a wave of agitation that surges through you without warning. You feel trapped suddenly, confined by the bed, the blankets, the walls. An urgent need to move grips you, fierce and insistent.

You push yourself upright.

Hands rise instantly—not touching you, just ready.

“Sit,” someone says gently.

The word lands wrong.

Your heart races. Your vision narrows. For a brief, terrifying moment, the urge to strike, to shove, to escape roars up inside you with startling clarity. Your hands clench into fists, nails biting into your palms.

Then, just as quickly, it drains away.

You sag forward, panting, forehead resting against your knees, shaking with the aftermath. Tears spill down your face—not from sadness, but from the sheer violence of the impulse that just passed through you.

You whisper hoarsely, barely audible.

“I didn’t want that.”

No one contradicts you.

They wait until your breathing steadies, then guide you gently back against the pillows. Someone places a hand near your arm—not touching, but close enough that you feel the warmth.

Grounding.

The day moves on around you in fragments. Light shifts. Shadows stretch. You drift in and out of shallow sleep, waking abruptly with a gasp whenever your throat spasms or your body jerks unexpectedly.

Each time, it takes longer to reorient.

At one point, you are convinced you are somewhere else entirely.

A field.
Open air.
Wind rushing past you.

You can almost feel it on your skin, cool and clean, nothing like the stifling warmth of the room. You smile faintly, comforted by the illusion, until someone speaks and the walls snap back into place around you.

You look around, startled.

“Where…?” you ask.

The question hangs unfinished.

No one answers directly. They don’t need to.

You know where you are.

But the knowing slips away again moments later, like water through fingers.

Your body is deteriorating in small, cumulative ways. Your movements grow clumsier. You knock things over unintentionally. Your grip weakens, then tightens unpredictably. You struggle to coordinate simple actions that once required no thought.

Swallowing has become nearly impossible now.

Not because of pain.

Because your body refuses.

The reflex is immediate and absolute—any attempt triggers violent spasms that leave you gasping, eyes bulging, chest convulsing. You no longer attempt it. Even saliva is managed by habit now, turned away, wiped away, expelled without thought.

Hydrophobia has consumed the last of its territory.

Your breathing grows harsher, uneven. Sometimes it feels like your chest forgets how to inhale for a moment, then overcompensates with rapid, shallow breaths. Your heart stutters unpredictably, sending sudden jolts of fear through you.

You clutch at the blankets, grounding yourself in their weight.

The talisman above you catches your eye again.

For a long time, you stare at it, convinced it is moving. Not swaying—watching. You narrow your eyes, blink hard, shake your head slightly. The sensation persists.

You whisper to it.

You’re not sure what you say.

The sound of your own voice startles you again, and you fall silent, embarrassed and confused.

Later—maybe much later—you hear raised voices outside the room.

Concerned. Urgent.

“…can’t leave them like this…”
“…danger to themselves…”
“…danger to others…”

The word dangerous reaches you clearly.

It lodges in your chest.

You feel a flare of indignation, sharp and sudden. You are not dangerous. You are sick. You try to say this, to protest, but your mouth betrays you. The words dissolve into incoherent sounds, slurred and broken.

Frustration overwhelms you.

You slam your hand against the mattress.

The noise is louder than you intended.

Everyone freezes.

The silence that follows is thick, tense. You stare at your own hand, horrified by what you’ve done. It feels unreal, like watching someone else act through your body.

“I’m sorry,” you try to say.

It comes out wrong.

A moan.
A whine.

Your face burns with shame.

Someone speaks quickly, soothingly, reminding everyone that it’s the illness. That you don’t mean harm. That restraint might become necessary—not as punishment, but as protection.

The word restraint terrifies you.

You shake your head violently, panic surging, but the effort sends a wave of dizziness crashing over you. Your vision darkens at the edges, stars flickering.

You collapse back onto the bed, gasping.

Your body has reached a new threshold now.

You feel it.

The energy that once drove agitation has begun to burn out, leaving behind weakness and confusion. The impulses still arrive, but they are dulled, blunted by exhaustion.

As night falls, your awareness dims.

You drift in and out, barely conscious of the room, the people, the careful watch kept over you. Your thoughts slow to a crawl, then scatter entirely, fragments floating past without connection.

Your breathing grows rougher.

Your heart flutters, then steadies, then flutters again.

You are dimly aware of someone sitting outside the door now, keeping watch. You hear their breathing sometimes, the shift of weight, the quiet reassurance of not being alone—even as isolation presses in from all sides.

You close your eyes.

Not in surrender.

In exhaustion.

And as darkness wraps around you, one truth settles quietly into what remains of your clarity:

You are no longer fighting the illness.

You are being carried by it.

You wake to a stillness so complete it feels artificial.

For a moment, you wonder if you’ve gone deaf.

No footsteps outside.
No murmured voices.
No crackle from the hearth.

Just your own breathing—ragged, uneven, too loud in the quiet.

Your eyes open slowly, reluctantly. The room is dim, caught in that grey hour where night and morning blur together. The curtains haven’t been moved. No one has come in yet. You are alone, truly alone, and the realization sends a faint ripple of unease through you.

Your body feels… drained.

Not empty.
Spent.

The restless energy that plagued you before has thinned into weakness. Your limbs feel heavy, as if they’ve been filled with wet sand. When you try to move your fingers, they respond sluggishly, trembling as if unsure they still remember the command.

You stare at your hand again.

It looks normal.
It doesn’t feel like it belongs to you.

Your mouth hangs open, breath passing through it with a faint rasp. The dryness is still there, but distant now, overshadowed by something deeper—an exhaustion so complete it dulls even discomfort. You don’t bother wiping your chin this time. You barely register the sensation.

You try to swallow.

Your body refuses.

Not violently.
Not dramatically.

Just… no.

The muscles don’t even bother to spasm anymore. They simply lock, unmoving, as if the pathway has been closed entirely. You exhale softly, more curious than afraid.

That’s new.

Your breathing stutters again, then steadies. You count the rhythm automatically, an old habit. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath feels like work now, but manageable, as long as you don’t rush.

Time stretches.

You lose track of how long you lie there, staring at the ceiling beams. Their shapes blur, straighten, blur again. You think you see them moving, bending like ribs with each breath you take. You blink, and they freeze.

You don’t trust your eyes anymore.

Footsteps approach eventually.

You recognize them by cadence now—the careful, measured pace of people who expect unpredictability. The door opens slowly. Light spills in, making you squint. You flinch despite yourself, the sudden brightness too sharp for your overstimulated senses.

They pause immediately.

“Easy,” someone says.

You nod weakly.

Three people enter. They stand farther back than ever before. One remains near the door. Another positions themselves near the window. The third approaches cautiously, stopping several steps away.

You are being triangulated.

The thought floats through your mind without emotion.

You don’t feel offended.
You feel tired.

They speak to you gently, explaining what they’re going to do before they do it. They always do now. Predictability has become your lifeline. They adjust the blankets, checking for sweat, for chills. They replace cooled stones with warm ones, careful not to startle you.

One of them touches your wrist briefly.

The contact is light, deliberate. You jerk reflexively at first, then force yourself still. The sensation lingers oddly, echoing long after their fingers leave your skin.

Your pulse is fast. Erratic.

You see the concern flicker across their face before it’s smoothed away.

They bring the cloth again.

You accept it, hands shaking noticeably now. You press it to your lips, draw in the faint moisture, then lower it carefully, breathing hard from the effort. It helps less than it used to.

Everything helps less now.

They ask you to squeeze their hand.

You try.

Your fingers close weakly, clumsy and slow. You frown, frustrated by the lack of strength. You try again, harder this time, but the signal seems to get lost somewhere between intention and muscle.

“That’s all right,” they say quickly.

They stop testing you after that.

Your mind drifts.

Not gently—erratically.

Thoughts jump tracks without warning. You think about the river, then abruptly about the sound of bread crust cracking, then about the weight of wool on your shoulders years ago. Each thought feels vivid, immediate, then vanishes mid-sentence, leaving you blinking in confusion.

You try to hold onto one memory.

Any memory.

Your name surfaces briefly.

You cling to it, repeating it silently like a charm, afraid it will slip away if you don’t keep it in view. The effort exhausts you more than it should.

Someone asks you where you are.

The question feels absurd.

Here, you want to say.
In the bed.
In the room.

But the words won’t come.

You open your mouth. A sound escapes—low, indistinct. Not language. You frown, confused, and try again. The result is worse.

Your chest tightens with panic.

No—this matters. You need to explain. You need to prove you’re still in there, still thinking, still you. The effort sends your heart racing, breath hitching dangerously.

“Shh,” someone says quickly. “It’s all right.”

They stop asking questions.

The realization hits you slowly, heavily.

They are no longer checking what you know.

They are checking how long you can stay calm.

Your body twitches again—a violent jerk this time that pulls a hoarse cry from your throat. Your head snaps to the side, muscles contracting hard enough to make your teeth click together. The spasm passes, leaving you gasping, shaking uncontrollably.

Hands rise.

They don’t grab you.

They hover.

Waiting to see if you’ll strike, thrash, panic.

You don’t.

You lie there trembling, eyes wide, tears spilling silently down your temples. Not from pain. From fear of yourself.

When the shaking subsides, someone places soft cloths along your sides, creating gentle barriers. Another adjusts your arms, positioning them in a way that keeps them from flinging outward again.

Still not restraints.

But closer.

You notice.

Your breathing grows harsher as the day progresses. Each inhale seems shallower than the last, forcing you to breathe faster to compensate. Your chest aches faintly from the effort. Your heart flutters unpredictably, sending waves of dizziness through you.

You drift in and out of consciousness.

When you surface, you’re never quite sure how long you were gone. Minutes? Hours? Entire conversations seem to have happened without you. You catch glimpses of movement, of people changing shifts, of light altering its angle.

At one point, you’re convinced you’re floating.

The bed feels distant, unreal. Your body seems lighter, disconnected. The sensation is strangely peaceful. You relax into it, letting go of the effort to anchor yourself.

Then a spasm hits, yanking you back sharply, breath stolen, chest convulsing.

Reality snaps back into place.

The afternoon fades into evening.

Someone lights more candles, their flames flickering softly. Shadows dance across the walls, stretching and contracting with each movement. You watch them with dull fascination, convinced they’re trying to tell you something important.

You whisper to them.

The sound startles even you.

Your voice is weak now, slurred, barely audible. The effort leaves you coughing, throat tightening dangerously. You stop trying to speak altogether after that.

The idea of water has vanished entirely from your thoughts.

Not suppressed.

Erased.

Thirst is a memory without meaning, like recalling a sensation from childhood you no longer know how to name. Your body has abandoned that need, focusing instead on more urgent crises.

Your muscles grow slack between spasms. You feel yourself sinking deeper into the bed, as if gravity has increased. The blankets feel heavier. Comforting, but also confining.

Night falls.

The people with you speak in hushed tones now, voices heavy with resignation. You catch fragments drifting in and out of your awareness.

“…not much longer…”
“…keep them calm…”
“…stay with them…”

Stay.

The word brings a flicker of warmth.

You are dimly aware that someone remains nearby at all times now. You hear breathing. The quiet shift of weight. The subtle sounds of vigilance. You are no longer left alone.

That matters, even if you can’t articulate why.

Your eyes close more often than they open.

When they do open, the world feels softer, blurred at the edges. Fear has dulled, replaced by a heavy, enveloping fatigue. Even agitation has faded, burned out by days of relentless demand.

You are still breathing.

Still here.

But something essential is slipping away, piece by piece, without drama or resistance.

As sleep pulls you under once more, deeper this time, your last clear thought drifts through you slowly, gently.

Not panic.

Not regret.

Just a quiet, astonished recognition:

You are disappearing.

And there is nothing left to do but let it happen.

You surface slowly, like something rising from deep water—an irony that would almost be funny, if you could still recognize humor the way you used to.

Awareness comes in fragments now.

First, sensation: pressure along your back, the steady weight of blankets, the faint heat lingering where stones once rested. Then sound: breathing nearby, not yours, steady and deliberate. Then light: a muted glow, filtered and soft, touching nothing directly.

You open your eyes.

It takes effort. More than it should.

The room is unfamiliar again, though you know it isn’t new. Your mind simply struggles to assemble it into something whole. Walls. Curtains. The hearth. The shapes refuse to line up properly at first, as if each element exists on a slightly different plane.

You blink.

The world steadies. Somewhat.

Your body feels profoundly weak now. Not sore. Not painful. Just drained, as though something essential has been slowly siphoned away. Moving feels optional, almost unnecessary. You test this by lifting a finger.

It moves.

Barely.

The success surprises you, a faint flicker of satisfaction passing through you before dissolving into nothing. Emotion no longer lingers. It arrives, registers, then slips away before you can examine it.

Your breathing is shallow and uneven, each inhale accompanied by a faint, wet rasp. You don’t like the sound, but you’re too tired to be alarmed by it. Alarm requires energy. Energy is something you no longer possess in excess.

Someone notices you’re awake.

You hear the shift of fabric, the quiet adjustment of posture. A presence leans slightly closer, careful not to crowd you. A voice speaks softly, using your name again. It lands strangely now—not comforting, not distressing. Just… informational.

Yes, that’s you.
That sound refers to this body.

You try to respond.

The idea forms clearly enough in your mind, but the path to your mouth feels blocked. You part your lips. A sound escapes—breathy, indistinct, barely shaped by intention. You frown, confused by the failure.

Your tongue feels enormous.

Heavy.
Useless.

You close your mouth again, frustrated, then let the frustration go. It takes too much effort to hold onto it. Someone murmurs reassurance, telling you there’s no need to speak.

You believe them.

They adjust the blankets again, smoothing wrinkles you hadn’t noticed. The motion feels distant, like it’s happening to someone else nearby. You register the touch without reacting to it, nerves dulled and inconsistent.

Your pulse is checked.

You feel fingers at your wrist, light pressure. You watch their face carefully, searching for meaning in their expression. You don’t quite remember why this matters, but you know it does.

Their brow furrows slightly.

They don’t say anything.

Your thoughts drift, unmoored.

You think about warmth—not the immediate warmth of blankets, but the idea of it. Fires you’ve known. Animals pressed close in winter. The smell of wool drying near a hearth. These memories arrive without context, vivid but fleeting, like sparks snapping into existence and extinguishing themselves almost immediately.

You chase one.

It vanishes.

Your body twitches again, a small, involuntary jerk of the leg. It barely registers now. The spasms are weaker, less dramatic, as if even your nerves are tiring of the effort. You feel a distant sense of relief at that.

Less struggle.

Less fight.

The cloth is offered again.

You barely react this time, but your hands move automatically, guided by habit more than intention. You bring it to your lips, draw in the faintest suggestion of moisture, then lower it. The relief is minimal, but you accept it without complaint.

Your mouth hangs open afterward.

You don’t bother closing it.

Drool escapes slowly, pooling against the cloth placed beneath your chin. The sensation is neutral. Neither pleasant nor unpleasant. Just another thing happening.

Time has become meaningless.

You can no longer tell how long passes between moments of awareness. You slip away and return repeatedly, each time with less clarity. When you surface, the room looks softer, edges blurred, colors muted.

Someone speaks near you.

You hear their voice but struggle to separate words from tone. It’s calm. Low. Reassuring. They’re talking to you, not about you. That matters, even if you can’t fully articulate why.

Your breathing grows more labored as the hours pass.

Each breath feels shallower, forcing the next to come sooner. Your chest rises and falls irregularly, sometimes pausing just long enough to make someone nearby shift anxiously. You sense this without seeing it, attuned to the subtle changes in the room’s energy.

Your heart flutters unpredictably.

At times it races, then slows so abruptly you feel a hollow drop in your chest. The sensation is unsettling, but again—too distant to provoke panic. Panic has burned itself out.

You are aware now, dimly, that you are dying.

The thought arrives without drama.

No fear.
No resistance.

Just recognition.

You don’t think of it as death, exactly. More like… stopping. Like a process winding down, systems shutting off one by one. You wonder, briefly, if this is what animals feel when they lie down for the last time.

The irony brushes past you again, faint and almost affectionate.

You can no longer remember water.

Not as something threatening.
Not as something desirable.

The concept itself has dissolved.

Your mind drifts instead toward sensations—warmth, pressure, the sound of breathing nearby. These things anchor you more than thoughts ever could. You focus on them instinctively, clinging to the simple reality of presence.

Someone takes your hand.

This time, they don’t hesitate.

The contact is firm but gentle, warm skin against yours. You feel it clearly, perhaps the clearest sensation you’ve felt in hours. Your fingers twitch weakly in response, an instinctive echo of connection.

They don’t pull away.

They stay.

You release a soft sound—not quite a sigh, not quite a moan. It feels like letting go of something you didn’t realize you were holding. Your shoulders sink deeper into the bedding.

The room darkens gradually as evening approaches.

Candles are lit, their flames steady and subdued. The light no longer bothers you. It feels distant, filtered through layers of fatigue and fog. Shadows move along the walls, slow and gentle, no longer threatening.

You drift again.

This time, when you return, your awareness is thinner.

You struggle to recognize the room at all. Shapes blur together. Sounds lose their direction. Even the presence beside you feels more like an idea than a reality.

Your breathing is ragged now.

Long pauses interrupt it, followed by sudden, shallow gasps. Each breath seems uncertain, as if your body has to remember how to do it every time. You hear someone murmur encouragement softly, reminding you to breathe.

You try.

It happens.

Your body jerks faintly once more, then stills. The spasms have nearly stopped. Your muscles lie slack, unresponsive between breaths. You feel heavy, sunk deep into the bed, as though gravity itself has increased.

Your thoughts slow to a crawl.

You can no longer form sentences in your mind. Ideas dissolve before they fully take shape. What remains is sensation and emotion, stripped down to their simplest forms.

Warmth.
Presence.
Tiredness.

You feel no fear now.

No anger.
No confusion.

Just an overwhelming need to rest.

The person holding your hand squeezes gently.

You sense it more than feel it.

You respond with the faintest pressure in return—a reflex, barely conscious. It’s enough. It’s everything you have left to give.

Your breathing stutters again.

Longer pauses now.

The room feels very far away.

As you slip deeper into darkness, one final awareness surfaces—not as a thought, but as a quiet truth that settles over you like a blanket.

You are not alone.

And whatever comes next, you will not have to meet it awake.

You return slowly, as if drifting back to the surface from a depth you didn’t know existed.

Awareness flickers on and off, unstable now, like a candle flame struggling in a draft. You are conscious for moments at a time—brief, fragile windows where sensation seeps in before slipping away again.

The first thing you notice is restraint.

Not the harsh kind your mind once feared.
Not ropes or chains.

Softness.

Fabric laid deliberately along your sides. Your wrists resting in shallow folds of cloth, guided rather than bound. Your legs cushioned, angled just enough to keep sudden movement from sending you tumbling. You test this knowledge faintly, shifting a finger, then a hand.

The movement is small.

Contained.

Your body accepts it without protest.

This is no longer about control.
It’s about protection.

You hear voices nearby.

Low. Familiar. Tired.

They speak as though you are asleep, and perhaps you mostly are. Words drift in and out of reach, fragments floating past like debris on water you can no longer approach.

“…settling now…”
“…keep the light low…”
“…don’t startle them…”

Someone smooths the blankets again. You feel the pressure but not the detail. Touch has become simplified—present or absent, nothing in between. You no longer register texture, only warmth and weight.

Your mouth is open.

Breathing happens there now, shallow and uneven. Each inhale rasps faintly, dragging air through passages that no longer coordinate smoothly. You hear the sound and vaguely recognize it as yours.

It doesn’t alarm you.

It feels distant, observational.

Your chest rises.
Pauses.
Rises again.

The pauses are longer now.

In one of your clearer moments, you become aware of the door.

It is closed.

Not barred.
Not guarded aggressively.

Just… closed.

You understand what that means in this world. You are no longer expected to walk through it. The village has completed a quiet, practical decision—one shaped by centuries of experience and fear.

Containment.

Not cruelty.

Containment is how communities survive what they cannot cure.

Your mind tries to react to this understanding, but the reaction never fully forms. Emotion arrives muted, filtered through layers of fatigue. There is no resentment left. No desire to argue or explain.

You would not have the strength even if you wanted to.

You drift again.

When you resurface, the light has changed. Evening, you think. Or perhaps night. Time has become unreliable, measured now only by the rhythm of breathing nearby and the occasional adjustment of your position.

Someone is sitting close.

You sense their presence without opening your eyes. The subtle shift of fabric. The warmth radiating from another body. They are careful not to touch you unnecessarily, but they are close enough that you don’t feel abandoned.

This matters.

Your thoughts no longer travel far. They circle the same small territory—warmth, pressure, breath. Occasionally, an image flickers into existence: firelight on stone, wool pulled tight against cold, animals curled together for heat.

These are not memories in the usual sense.

They are instincts.

Your body jerks suddenly, more violently than it has in hours.

A full-body spasm ripples through you, drawing a sharp, broken sound from your throat. Your head snaps to the side, muscles locking briefly before releasing.

Hands move immediately.

Not grabbing.

Steadying.

Someone murmurs your name softly, rhythmically, as if calling you back from somewhere far away. The sound anchors you. The spasm fades, leaving you trembling, breath ragged.

After that, there are no more large movements.

Only faint twitches.

Your muscles have lost most of their strength now. Even the involuntary ones feel tired, half-hearted. Your body seems to be conserving what little energy remains, directing it toward the most essential task left.

Breathing.

In.
Pause.
Out.

The pauses stretch longer.

You are aware, dimly, that people are taking turns sitting with you now. You sense the change in presence—the difference in breathing patterns, in weight on the floor. They do not leave you alone anymore.

This is not hope.

This is acknowledgment.

Your mouth works soundlessly for a moment, lips moving without voice. You are not trying to speak. It’s simply something your body does, a leftover reflex searching for purpose.

Someone notices and leans closer.

“It’s all right,” they whisper.

The words wash over you, soothing in tone even if the meaning doesn’t fully land. You relax again, jaw slackening, breath rasping softly.

Your heart does something strange.

It slows.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that the change registers.

The fluttering that once sent waves of panic through you is gone. In its place is an irregular, heavy rhythm—thump… pause… thump. Each beat feels deliberate, as though your heart is choosing carefully when to continue.

Your thoughts scatter further.

You no longer think in sentences.

You think in sensations.

Warmth on your hand.
Pressure at your back.
The sound of breath not your own.

At some point, your eyes open.

You don’t remember deciding to do it.

The room swims into focus briefly. Candlelight glows softly, reflected in dull metal and glass. Shadows cling to the corners but no longer threaten. They simply exist.

You see a face near you.

Concerned.
Tired.
Gentle.

You recognize it without knowing how. Recognition doesn’t require memory anymore—just familiarity.

Your gaze lingers there, unfocused but intent.

They realize you’re looking.

Their expression softens.

They speak your name again.

You want to respond. Not with words—those are gone—but with something that proves you are still here. Your fingers twitch weakly, barely perceptible.

They notice anyway.

They always do.

Your breathing falters again.

A long pause.

Too long.

Someone shifts closer, murmuring encouragement, counting softly, coaxing your body back into the rhythm. After a moment that feels infinite, your chest rises again in a shallow gasp.

Relief ripples through the room.

Not yours.

Theirs.

You feel it like a change in temperature.

The effort exhausts you completely.

You sink deeper into the bedding, muscles slack, awareness thinning to a fragile thread. The world grows quieter, not because sound has stopped, but because your mind can no longer hold onto it.

You are aware now, in the vaguest possible way, that this is the last stage.

Not dramatic.
Not painful.

Just… narrow.

Your world has shrunk to the size of the bed, the warmth around you, the presence beside you. Everything else has fallen away.

Your body gives one last small twitch.

Then stillness.

Your breathing becomes shallow, erratic. Each breath seems uncertain, like a question asked without confidence. The pauses stretch longer and longer, until the space between them feels heavier than the breath itself.

Someone squeezes your hand again.

You feel it faintly.

It is enough.

Your last conscious sensation is not fear, or thirst, or pain.

It is warmth.

And then even that fades, gently, without struggle.

You do not wake so much as resurface, briefly, like a thought that almost forms and then decides it doesn’t need to.

Awareness flickers weakly now, unstable and thin. When it comes, it arrives without context. There is no sense of before or after, only now, stretched and fragile. You exist in short moments, each one dimmer than the last.

The room feels farther away.

Not physically—emotionally. As if you are listening to it through layers of cloth and wool and sleep. The candlelight is softer now, blurred at the edges. Shadows no longer move with meaning. They simply are.

Your breathing is the loudest thing.

It scrapes faintly in your throat, uneven and shallow, like air being pulled through fabric instead of flesh. Each breath feels separate from the last, no longer part of a rhythm—just individual efforts, loosely connected.

In.
Pause.
Out.

The pauses are long enough now that someone shifts nearby every time one stretches too far. You sense it dimly—the tension in the air, the held breath that is not yours.

Your body is almost entirely still.

No more jerks.
No more flailing.

Even the small twitches have faded, as though your nerves have finally surrendered the argument. Muscles lie slack and unresponsive. Your hands rest where they’ve been placed, fingers slightly curled, unmoving.

You are very heavy.

Not uncomfortable—just settled. Like sinking into deep bedding, or into earth after a long walk. Gravity feels stronger, more insistent, drawing you inward.

Your mouth is open.

It stays that way.

You are no longer aware of saliva or dryness or thirst. Those sensations belong to a body that still negotiates with itself. Yours has stopped negotiating.

A voice speaks near you.

It is calm. Low. Familiar.

You don’t process the words. You process the tone. It carries reassurance, steadiness, the kind of sound meant to anchor someone who is drifting. It works, even now.

You drift further.

Then—briefly—you return.

Your eyes open a fraction. The effort feels monumental, as if you’re lifting something very heavy with very little strength. The room swims into partial focus.

You see shapes.

A face.
A shoulder.
The soft glow of candlelight.

Recognition stirs faintly. Not as memory, but as rightness. These things belong here. They are part of the small world you have left.

Your gaze lingers without focusing.

Someone notices.

They lean closer, careful not to startle you, though you are past startling now. They speak your name again, gently, like testing whether the sound still reaches you.

It does.

Not clearly.
But enough.

You want to respond.

The intention forms weakly, drifting upward like smoke. There is no path for it to travel. Your mouth does not move. Your hands do not respond. The effort dissolves before it can become frustration.

That’s all right.

Even wanting feels optional now.

Your breathing falters again.

A long pause.

The room tightens, subtly. Someone shifts closer. You sense hands hovering near you, not touching, waiting. The pause stretches, thins, becomes something fragile.

Then—another breath.

Shallow. Noisy. Real.

The tension eases.

You don’t notice it.

Your awareness has narrowed further. Sensation has simplified down to a few elements: warmth beneath you, pressure at your back, the faint vibration of sound nearby. Everything else has fallen away.

You are no longer aware of illness.

Not of rabies.
Not of fear.
Not of madness or restraint or whispers.

Those were stories. Processes. Struggles.

This is something else.

Your heart beats slowly now.

Not weakly—deliberately.

Each beat feels chosen, as though your body is checking in with itself every time, deciding whether to continue. Thump. Pause. Thump.

The pauses grow longer.

Your thoughts no longer resemble thoughts. They are impressions—soft, unfocused sensations drifting past without attachment. You do not follow them. There is no urge to hold onto anything.

The world is very quiet.

Not silent—but distant.

You hear breathing nearby again. You cannot tell how many people are there. The distinction no longer matters. Presence is presence. It is enough.

Someone adjusts the blankets.

The motion is slow, reverent now. Not practical. Not clinical. The way people move when they know they are in the final chapter of something.

Warmth settles around you again.

You sink into it.

Another breath leaves you.

This one is thinner.

Someone murmurs encouragement softly, counting under their breath—not for you, but for themselves. You do not hear the numbers. You hear only the gentle rise and fall of a voice trying to stay steady.

Your breathing pauses.

Longer than before.

There is no urgency in you now. No internal alarm. Your body does not fight the stillness. It simply rests inside it.

For a moment—brief and fragile—you return once more.

There is no vision this time.

No sound.

Just a sense of being held.

Not physically. Existentially.

As if the world itself has leaned in, braced you, made space for this moment so it can pass without disturbance.

You release another breath.

It does not hurry back.

The pause stretches.

Someone reaches for your hand.

This time, you do not respond—not because you cannot, but because there is nothing left to answer with. Still, the hand stays there, warm and steady, grounding something that no longer needs grounding.

Your chest rises once more.

Barely.

A final, shallow inhale that seems more reflex than intention.

Then… nothing.

No struggle.
No gasp.
No fear.

Just a quiet cessation, like a fire finally burning down to embers and deciding it is finished.

The room holds its breath.

Then exhales.

You are still.

You do not return the way you used to.

There is no sharp waking, no sudden awareness snapping back into place. Instead, consciousness brushes against the world lightly, like a fingertip trailing along fabric. You are present—but differently. Quieter. Observing without effort.

The room exists without demanding anything from you now.

Candlelight glows low and steady, no longer flickering with urgency. Shadows cling to the walls but do not move. They have finished their work. The hearth has settled into embers, a soft red pulse that barely disturbs the air. The smell of smoke is faint, old, familiar—like something remembered rather than experienced.

You are still in the bed.

Your body remains where it was placed, carefully arranged, respectfully tended. Blankets lie smooth over you, wool and fur layered with intention. Someone has closed your mouth gently. Someone has wiped your face. These details matter—not to you, but to the living.

You are aware of them now in a different way.

You notice movement at the edge of the room. Not frantic. Not fearful. Purposeful. People step softly, voices low, as though sound itself might disturb something sacred. They check your breathing once more, not because they expect it to return, but because ritual demands confirmation.

A hand rests briefly at your wrist.

No pulse.

There is a pause.

A long one.

Then a quiet acknowledgment passes between them—not spoken aloud, but understood. The air changes. The tension that held the room tight for days finally loosens, releasing something like grief, relief, and resignation all at once.

You feel none of it directly.

But you sense the shift.

Someone closes your eyes.

The gesture is slow, deliberate, tender. Your eyelids rest naturally now, no effort required. Your face smooths into stillness, features softening in a way they haven’t for days.

You look peaceful.

This surprises them.

They had expected struggle to linger, something fierce or unsettling. Instead, what remains is calm. The illness has taken everything loud with it.

The room grows quieter.

Someone leaves to fetch others. Another stays behind, sitting close, keeping vigil. This is important. No one should be left alone at the end—not the dying, and not the dead.

Time begins to move differently here.

It stretches outward again, reclaiming its normal shape now that it no longer has to orbit your breath. Hours pass. Light shifts. Candles are replaced. The embers cool further.

You are aware of preparations beginning.

A basin of water is brought in—but kept at a distance, handled with care, almost reverence. The irony is not lost on anyone, though no one remarks on it. The water is warm. Scented lightly with herbs. Lavender. Rosemary. Mint.

Cleansing matters.

They wash your hands first.

Your skin is cooler now, yielding easily to their touch. They move gently, methodically, murmuring soft words—not to you, but to steady themselves. The cloth glides over your fingers, your palms, the place where the bite once marked the beginning of all this.

The wound looks small now.

Insignificant.

They shake their heads quietly at that.

They wash your face next, then your neck, then your arms. Each movement is careful, respectful, as if you might still feel it. In a way, you do—not as sensation, but as awareness of intention.

This is kindness.

Your body is dressed in clean linen.

Simple. Unadorned. The same layers that once kept you warm now serve a different purpose. Linen against skin. Wool over that. Fur folded away—no longer necessary.

They position your hands neatly at your sides or folded at your chest, depending on local custom. Someone adjusts the blankets again, smoothing wrinkles, aligning edges. Order is comforting in moments like this.

Outside, word spreads.

Quietly.

Efficiently.

People lower their voices as they pass the door. Children are steered away. Animals are kept back. The house takes on a different gravity now, marked subtly as a place of transition.

Someone rings a bell.

Not loudly.

Just enough.

It signals loss. It signals caution. It signals memory.

You are talked about now in the past tense.

“He lasted longer than most.”
“They did what they could.”
“At least it ended quietly.”

Your name is spoken gently.

No one blames you.

They blame the bite. The animal. Fate. God. Bad air. Anything that doesn’t require understanding something invisible and terrifying.

Your story is already beginning to transform.

It will be retold with changes. Emphasis. Omission. The fear of water will become the central detail. The agitation. The way people had to step back.

The quiet ending will be forgotten.

That is how stories survive.

Your body is carried later.

Not rushed.
Not delayed.

Four people lift the bedframe or stretcher carefully, coordinating their steps. The weight is familiar, human. Not frightening. Just final.

As they move through the doorway, the threshold is paused at briefly. A moment of stillness. A breath held. Then they pass through.

The air outside is cool.

Fresh.

It smells of damp earth, wood smoke, and night rain that has already passed. Somewhere, an animal calls. Life continues, unbothered and relentless.

You are taken to a place prepared for this purpose.

Stone walls.
Low light.
Quiet.

You are laid down again. Candles are lit. A covering is drawn respectfully over your face until the final rites are complete. Someone stays with you through the night, because that is what people do when they do not know what else to do.

You are no longer alone.

But you are no longer here either—not in the way you once were.

What remains is memory.

Caution.

A lesson passed from mouth to mouth.

Children will be warned more urgently now about strange animals. Bites will be treated with greater fear. Stories will grow sharper edges.

Rabies will continue to terrify for centuries more.

But you will not be afraid again.

Your struggle is finished.

Your body rests.

And the world, indifferent and tender all at once, turns quietly onward without you.

You are no longer bound to the body, yet you remain tied to the moment.

Not as pain.
Not as fear.

As afterimage.

The room feels different now that you are no longer struggling inside it. The air has relaxed. The walls no longer press inward. Even the candle flames seem steadier, as if relieved of the responsibility of witnessing something so intense.

You are aware without effort.

You notice how people move more freely now—still quietly, still respectfully, but without that tight, braced posture they carried for days. Shoulders lower. Breaths deepen. Grief arrives, but it arrives cleanly, without panic tangled inside it.

Someone sits nearby, hands folded, eyes fixed on the still shape that was you.

They are thinking about the last sound you made.
The last breath.
Whether there was anything more they could have done.

There wasn’t.

And on some level, they know it.

Your body rests beneath layers chosen with care. Linen smoothed. Wool arranged. Everything symmetrical. Order imposed gently on something that had become chaotic. This matters deeply to the living. It reassures them that even when knowledge fails, care does not.

You sense time beginning to widen again.

Hours stretch forward. The night deepens. The building creaks softly as temperatures shift. Outside, wind moves through trees, brushing leaves together in quiet conversation. An owl calls once, then again.

Life resumes its rhythms immediately.

It always does.

You drift—not away, but outward—becoming aware of how your presence lingers not in space, but in people.

Someone who helped care for you will wake later, heart racing, replaying your breathing in their mind. Another will wash their hands longer than usual, scrubbing fear from beneath their nails. A third will dream of water they cannot drink, waking unsettled without knowing why.

This is how illness spreads its echo, even when it no longer spreads itself.

Your story will be told carefully.

Not sensationally.

Not yet.

At first, it will be practical.
“Don’t ignore bites.”
“Watch for fear of water.”
“Keep distance.”

These warnings will be repeated softly, urgently, especially to children. Mothers will pull them closer. Fathers will nod grimly. Healers will remember your case when the next bite comes through their door.

And there will be a next one.

There always is.

Rabies is not impressed by lessons.

But memory sharpens behavior, and behavior saves lives—sometimes.

You become a reference point now.

“Like that one who couldn’t drink.”
“Like the one who grew restless.”
“Like the one who changed.”

Your name may fade.

Your symptoms will not.

The village will adapt in small ways. Dogs will be watched more closely. Strays avoided. Bites cleaned more aggressively. Isolation will happen sooner, with less hesitation.

Fear refines itself.

You sense something else now too—something quieter.

Compassion.

People will remember that you did not mean harm. That your agitation was illness, not intent. That restraint was used sparingly. That kindness did not stop even when fear crept close.

This matters.

Because cruelty, once learned, spreads faster than disease.

Your ending was gentle.

That will be remembered too.

As dawn approaches, the light changes again. Pale grey seeps through narrow windows, settling across stone and wood. Candles gutter and are replaced. Someone murmurs a prayer—not dramatic, not pleading. Just words spoken because silence feels too empty.

Your body is still.

Unquestionably so.

Someone checks once more, out of habit rather than hope. A hand rests briefly against your chest, then withdraws.

It is time for the next stage.

Preparations resume.

You are lifted again, this time wrapped more fully. The movement is careful, coordinated. No one rushes. There is no reason to. The urgency has passed.

As you are carried, you become aware of the path through the village—not visually, but emotionally. The way doors close quietly as you pass. The way conversations pause. The way people lower their eyes, not from fear now, but respect.

Death is familiar here.

Still, each one is noticed.

You are taken to consecrated ground, or to earth chosen with intention. The place smells of soil and old stone and damp grass. The morning air is cool, clean. Somewhere nearby, water moves—stream, well, river—but it no longer holds meaning for you.

It cannot reach you now.

The ritual is simple.

Words spoken.
Earth waiting.
Hands that tremble only slightly.

As your body is laid down, there is a final moment of stillness. Someone hesitates, as if expecting something to happen—some sign, some reversal.

Nothing does.

And that is its own kind of mercy.

Earth begins to cover what remains.

Not hurried.

Not heavy.

Just enough.

With each sound of soil settling, something else loosens—the last tension, the last question, the last trace of “what if.”

You feel none of this as loss.

Only as closure.

When it is done, people stand for a while longer. No one speaks immediately. Grief needs silence to organize itself.

Then, one by one, they leave.

The space empties.

The world reclaims the place.

Rain will come again someday. Grass will grow. Footsteps will pass nearby without knowing exactly why this spot feels quieter than the rest.

And you—what remains of you—become part of that quiet.

Not erased.

Integrated.

Your story settles into the long memory of humanity, one thread among countless others, all woven through with fear, curiosity, ignorance, and care.

Centuries from now, someone will finally understand what happened to you.

They will name it.

They will map it.

They will stop it—sometimes.

And when they do, they will look back at stories like yours and call them terrifying.

They will not be wrong.

But they will also miss something important.

They will miss how gentle the end can be, even when the disease is not.

They will miss the human hands that stayed.

The voices that whispered calm.

The refusal to abandon someone just because they became frightening.

That part does not make it into textbooks.

It survives only in stories told slowly, quietly, at night.

Like this one.

You drift now in a space where time no longer presses.

Not forward.
Not backward.

It simply rests.

There is no body to return to, no breath to follow, no rhythm demanding your attention. Awareness exists without effort, without urgency. It is not thought the way you once knew thought. It is presence—wide, quiet, unafraid.

The village moves on beneath you.

You sense it the way one senses weather before it arrives. Doors open. Fires are stoked. Animals are fed. Children are scolded and soothed in the same breath. Life resumes with the stubborn resilience it has always possessed.

Someone wakes abruptly from a troubled sleep.

They sit up, heart racing, hand pressed to their throat for no reason they can name. They will remember you later, when the day is fully awake, and the fear will settle into something quieter. Caution. Awareness. Memory.

Another person avoids the river that morning, choosing a longer path without knowing why. Someone else pulls their child back sharply from a dog that seems perfectly calm.

These changes are small.

They matter anyway.

Your story continues to ripple outward, not as spectacle, but as instinct. This is how humans have always learned—through proximity, through unease, through quiet adjustments that never make it into written record.

You are aware, distantly, of how close fear once came to becoming cruelty.

How easily restraint might have turned rough.
How easily isolation might have become abandonment.

It didn’t.

That matters too.

The illness stripped you of control, of dignity, of voice—but it did not strip others of their humanity. They adapted, cautiously, imperfectly, but with care.

You linger in that realization.

It feels important.

As the days pass—though days are no longer something you experience directly—your presence fades from immediacy into story. Details soften. Sharp edges dull. The agitation becomes less frightening in the telling. The end becomes quieter.

Soon, you are no longer “the one who died yesterday.”

You become “the one who died last winter.”
Then “years ago.”
Then simply “once.”

Your name may be replaced with a gesture, a pause, a glance toward the river.

But the lesson remains.

Elsewhere, far beyond this village, the world continues to stumble toward understanding. Other bites. Other fevers. Other nights filled with fear of water and restlessness and restraint.

Rabies will haunt humanity for a long time yet.

It will slip through borders and centuries, carried silently in animals that appear harmless until they are not. It will inspire myths of madness, possession, curses. It will be blamed on demons, stars, sin.

People will die as you did—confused, isolated, watched with equal parts fear and care.

And slowly, painstakingly, knowledge will grow.

Not all at once.
Not cleanly.

A pattern will be noticed.
A connection suspected.
A cause narrowed.

Someone will finally understand that the illness travels through saliva. Through bites. Along nerves. That it does not rise from bad air or moral failing, but from something small and relentless that does not care who you are.

And then—much later still—someone will figure out how to stop it.

Not perfectly.
Not everywhere.

But enough.

When that happens, your kind of death will become rarer. Still terrifying. Still tragic. But no longer inevitable.

You will not know this.

But your story will help make it possible.

There is a strange comfort in that.

You sense yourself loosening further now, awareness thinning into something broader, less defined. You are less “you” and more part of a larger quiet—woven into soil, memory, and the long arc of human learning.

This is not loss.

It is dispersal.

You do not vanish.

You diffuse.

The night deepens again somewhere.

Someone lies down to sleep, pulling blankets close, listening to wind against stone, unaware that they are safe in a way you were not. Their water cup sits nearby, untouched but unfeared.

They take a sip without thinking.

They survive.

That is the legacy.

Not terror.
Not tragedy.

Survival made possible by stories like yours.

You rest in that knowledge—not consciously, not emotionally, but as a kind of final alignment. Everything that could happen has happened. Everything that needed to be felt has been felt.

There is nothing left to resolve.

Only quiet.

Only distance.

Only the gentle certainty that your struggle is complete, and the world—flawed, frightened, learning—continues.

And that is enough.

You are no longer part of the living world, yet the living world continues to move around the place where you ended.

This is where history quietly reshapes itself.

Not in grand declarations.
Not in sudden understanding.

But in small, careful adjustments made by people who remember being afraid.

You sense the village weeks later—not as sights or sounds, but as patterns. The way paths are chosen differently. The way doors close faster at night. The way dogs are watched more closely, measured not just by temperament but by behavior, by eyes, by movement.

Someone recalls how quickly you changed.

Someone else remembers the sound of your breathing.

They speak about it softly, usually at night, when the fire is low and conversation turns inward. These are not ghost stories. These are cautionary ones. Stories told to protect, not to entertain.

They say you feared water.

They say your body fought itself.

They say it was terrifying.

And they are not wrong.

But they leave out the quiet parts.

They leave out how calm the room became at the end.
How gentle the hands were.
How no one ran away when it mattered most.

History remembers drama better than dignity.

Still, dignity lingers.

A healer in the village changes how he responds to bites after you. He no longer shrugs them off. He cleans them more thoroughly. He isolates sooner. He watches longer. He cannot explain why—only that experience has taught him something books never could.

This is how medieval medicine evolves.

Not through theory.
Through memory.

Your case joins others scattered across time and geography, invisible threads weaving together into something like understanding. No one can see the whole pattern yet, but each thread matters.

Fear sharpens observation.

Observation inches toward truth.

Elsewhere, someone hears a similar story from another town. A traveler recounts a man who foamed at the mouth, who raged, who screamed at the sight of a river. The details are exaggerated, distorted by distance and retelling—but the core remains intact.

Bite.
Delay.
Madness.
Death.

The pattern repeats often enough that people stop dismissing it as coincidence.

This is the terrifying fate of a medieval rabies victim—not just the suffering, but the isolation inside misunderstanding. To be watched carefully, restrained gently, feared quietly, and still die without knowing why.

Your experience becomes a warning encoded into folklore.

Water spirits.
Cursed animals.
Moon madness.

These explanations are wrong, but they are closer than ignorance. They acknowledge danger. They shape behavior. They keep some people alive.

Centuries later, scholars will read accounts like yours and feel a chill. They will recognize the symptoms instantly. Hydrophobia. Aerophobia. Agitation. Paralysis. Death.

They will know exactly what killed you.

And they will shudder, because they also know how preventable it is—now.

That gap between then and now is filled with people like you.

Unwilling teachers.

Your death, like countless others, sits in that long, dark corridor of human learning, where understanding is paid for with lives. It is uncomfortable. It is tragic. It is real.

And yet—there is something quietly human about it.

You were not abandoned.
You were not blamed.
You were not erased.

You were cared for within the limits of the world that existed around you.

That matters.

As time passes, your specific story fades, but the emotional imprint remains. Fear of animal bites becomes instinctive. Caution hardens into habit. Habit turns into practice. Practice saves lives.

Eventually, when vaccines exist, when post-exposure treatment becomes routine, people will still feel a primitive dread at the idea of rabies—not because it is common, but because its history is so cruel.

Because it does not just kill the body.

It terrorizes the mind.

And that is why stories like this linger.

Even now.

Even as you lie listening to this, safe in your own bed, with clean water nearby and no fear of it at all.

You imagine, briefly, what it must have been like—to need something so badly and be unable to accept it. To be conscious as your own instincts betray you. To be watched, not as a villain, but as a risk.

You feel the weight of it.

Then you let it go.

Because this is not your fate.

This is a story meant to make you grateful, cautious, and quietly aware of how far humanity has come—and how much suffering lies behind that progress.

The terrifying part is not just the illness.

It is the waiting.
The uncertainty.
The lack of answers.

And the bravery of enduring it anyway.

Your mind softens around that realization.

The edges of the story blur.

What remains is understanding without fear.

And that is where rest begins.

You sense the lesson settling in.

Not sharply.
Not all at once.

It arrives the way wisdom often does in small communities—through repetition, through pauses in conversation, through the way people hesitate just a second longer before acting the way they used to.

The village does not change overnight.

It never does.

But something has shifted beneath the surface, subtle and persistent, like a stone dropped into water whose ripples keep spreading long after the splash is forgotten.

You notice it in the way people look at animals now.

Dogs are still companions, still workers, still sources of warmth on cold nights—but eyes linger longer on their behavior. A stiffness. A drool where drool shouldn’t be. A restlessness that feels wrong. People remember how quickly things changed for you, how nothing seemed urgent until suddenly everything was.

Children are warned more carefully.

Not with hysteria.
With gravity.

“If you’re bitten,” they’re told, “you tell someone immediately.”
“You wash it.”
“You don’t hide it.”

That last part matters most.

You remember how easy it was to dismiss the bite. How small it seemed. How normal everything felt at first. The village remembers too, now, and that memory alters behavior in ways no sermon ever could.

Healers adapt.

They don’t understand viruses or nerves or incubation periods, but they understand patterns. They have seen enough now to know that time matters. That waiting is dangerous. That calm does not mean safety.

They isolate sooner.

They observe longer.

They stop promising recovery when they cannot deliver it.

This, too, is learning.

Not hopeful learning.
Protective learning.

When another animal bites someone months later—a shepherd’s dog, startled and snapping—the response is immediate. The wound is scrubbed aggressively. The person is watched closely. Whispers begin earlier, but so does action.

Fear, this time, arrives with purpose.

You are spoken of then.

Not dramatically.
Not with embellishment.

Just as reference.

“Remember what happened before.”
“Remember how it started.”

Your story has become shorthand for vigilance.

You feel something like satisfaction at that—not pride, not joy, but a quiet sense of usefulness. Your suffering has not vanished into silence. It has been absorbed into communal memory, where it can do some good.

The village also learns something else.

Something harder.

They learn restraint is not cruelty when it is done with care. That distance does not have to mean abandonment. That fear does not excuse violence.

This lesson is fragile.

It could have gone another way.

You sense how close they came, at times, to harsher measures—to chains instead of cloth, to exile instead of watchfulness. Those choices would have haunted them longer than the illness itself.

They remember that you did not strike anyone.

That you were frightened, not malicious.

That you were still you, even as the disease unraveled you.

That memory tempers future responses.

When another person falls ill years later—not rabies this time, but something else that twists the mind—there is more patience. More gentleness. Less haste to label someone a monster.

Not always.

But more than before.

This is how progress really happens.

Not through enlightenment.
Through remembered discomfort.

You notice how stories about you change with each retelling.

At first, they are vivid, specific. Your restlessness. Your fear of water. The way your breath sounded near the end. Over time, the sharp edges soften. The terror remains, but the humanity becomes quieter, almost assumed rather than described.

Eventually, children hear only fragments.

“A man once went mad from a bite.”
“He couldn’t drink.”
“He died.”

The details blur, but the warning remains intact.

That is enough.

Your role in the world is no longer active.

It is archival.

You are a case study without a name. A cautionary tale without spectacle. A memory that flares briefly when needed, then recedes again.

And still—this matters.

Because without stories like yours, humanity would never have learned to fear the right things.

Not darkness.
Not night.
Not monsters.

But small, unseen dangers that wear familiar faces.

You reflect, gently, on how different your fate would be now.

How a bite today would lead to cleaning, to vaccination, to relief rather than dread. How hydrophobia would never appear. How the illness that dismantled you so completely would be stopped before it could begin.

That knowledge does not make your story sadder.

It makes it meaningful.

You feel the rhythm of the village settle into something new—slightly altered, slightly wiser. Life continues as it always does, layered with routines and rituals designed to create safety in an unpredictable world.

Beds are still layered with linen and wool.
Animals still curl close for warmth.
Herbs still hang in doorways.

But now, there is also watchfulness.

An extra glance.
A longer pause.
A question asked sooner.

These are small things.

They save lives.

You sense yourself growing lighter as this understanding settles. The weight of your story no longer presses outward. It rests comfortably where it belongs—in the past, informing the future.

You are no longer the center of fear.

You are the source of caution.

That is a gentler legacy than most illnesses grant their victims.

As the village moves further away from the moment of your death, your presence fades into the background hum of history. You are not forgotten, but you are no longer urgent.

And that is exactly how it should be.

Your work is done.

All that remains now is quiet reflection—and rest.