Prologue
Rainy's Journal - Day 1
“How do I unravel a tale such as this? Where does one begin when the end has already been written into the marrow of existence? Once when I was young, I claimed to know a truth so potent it defied all telling. Now, as the sands of time drain ever faster, I am left with no choice but to speak the unspeakable.”
“Perhaps the learned among you will scoff, calling this the rambling fantasy of a mind unmoored. They may dismiss it as the fevered imaginings of a servant girl, one whose weary fingers have scrubbed too many pots, whose eyes have glimpsed too little sunlight. Let them. Let their ridicule echo off the walls of their vaunted towers while they sip wine and debate the "truth". I write not for them but for the ones who suffer in silence, who whisper stories of injustice around dying embers, whose hearts have been seared by life’s unrelenting unfairness.”
“I am Ohrey Rainy Gea, 45th generation Teller, and Reader of the Great Hand, daughter of the people. And this, this is my story—raw, painful, and unvarnished.”
“Rainy, can you hear me?”
“My hand trembles as I set quill to parchment, the coarse calluses of decades scraping against fragile, parchment-thin skin. Time is not on my side. Each stroke of ink is a battle against my body’s betrayal. My fingers cramp, my vision blurs, yet I cannot stop. There is too much to record and far too little time to do it.”
“The whispers are growing louder now, some insidious and unrelenting. They coil around my thoughts, tempting me to surrender, to give up. But I will not. I cannot. There will be time enough to sleep when my life is done—though I fear even in death, there will be no respite. Sleep has never been my ally. It is a thief, a trickster. In its embrace, truths slip away.”
“This is my story, and I alone will dictate its telling.”
“I am the Teller.”
The scratching of the quill on parchment paused.
“Hmm.”
It continued again.
“I am both its narrator and its witness, the sole arbiter of who stands as hero and who as villain. And though my memory is fractured, blurred by the passage of years, I swear this to you, dear reader: I will tell you nothing but the truth as I know it.”
It was quite. She listened with a calm smile in her heart. Outside, the sounds of village life rolled gently through the dusk—children’s laughter, the distant call of someone bringing in cattle, the clatter of pots from neighboring homes. From the kitchen came a voice, calling sharply:
“Rainy, please come help me!”
“Truth, however, is a cruel master. For the people of the Great Hand, truth has always been a blade that cuts both ways. It seems it cuts deepest against the powerless. Knowledge itself is a labyrinth, each revelation leading only to more confusion, each hard-won understanding burdened by the weight of new questions. The scholars of this world, with their grand tomes and polished words, believe they have mastered it. But I have seen the truth behind their façades. Their knowledge is a tower built on the sands of arrogance, and it will collapse under the weight of its own falsehoods.
The stack of books beside me looms like a monument to failure. I have climbed their heights seeking answers, finding only more questions. The giants of wisdom that were promised by their pages are illusions. And yet, I add now my own story to the pile—a single thread in a tapestry that no one may ever see.”
Tears streak down my cheeks as I write these words, a last, desperate plea to the universe: let someone—anyone—hear me. Let my voice reach beyond the void. My beloved, if you are out there, …”
“Rainy, I am calling you!” the voice came again, louder this time.
The wise woman seemed to vanish. In her place sat Rainy—a nineteen-year-old girl hunched over her desk, a leather journal open before her, its pages covered in looping script. Her pen hovered midair as she blinked, disoriented, her mother’s voice pulling her back to the real world.
The door creaked open. Rainy looked up, startled, to find her mother standing in the doorway, a dishcloth tossed over her shoulder.
“Rainy, honestly. I’ve called you three times. What are you doing?”
Rainy glanced down at her pages, where her wise woman’s tale had trailed off mid-sentence. “Just… writing.”
Her mother sighed, though her expression softened when she saw the way Rainy’s fingers smudged with ink clutched the pen. “Your stories can wait. Come help me before dinner burns. You have your whole life still before you to Tell.”
Rainy nodded, gently closing the journal. As she stood, the fading light caught the curve of her smile and the distant look in her eyes. She followed her mother to the kitchen, the world of her story lingering like a distant echo, not yet finished. The wise woman would be there when she returned, waiting by the window, her story unfolding just beyond the page.
“… know that this story is for you. In truth, I write not for the scholars or the skeptics, not for the campfires or the kitchens, but for you alone. If you live, then hope is not lost.”
“This is the story of the days of the second and final end time. It is the story of Ohrey Rainy Gea, the last Reader of the Great Hand. And it is the story of a mind coming alive under the weight of profound understanding.”
To my love, I leave this tale. You will find my heart here in these pages, as I have found you. Then I will see you as you are, and finally understand.”
“How do I unravel a tale such as this? Where does one begin when the end has already been written into the marrow of existence? Once when I was young, I claimed to know a truth so potent it defied all telling. Now, as the sands of time drain ever faster, I am left with no choice but to speak the unspeakable.”
“Perhaps the learned among you will scoff, calling this the rambling fantasy of a mind unmoored. They may dismiss it as the fevered imaginings of a servant girl, one whose weary fingers have scrubbed too many pots, whose eyes have glimpsed too little sunlight. Let them. Let their ridicule echo off the walls of their vaunted towers while they sip wine and debate the "truth". I write not for them but for the ones who suffer in silence, who whisper stories of injustice around dying embers, whose hearts have been seared by life’s unrelenting unfairness.”
“I am Ohrey Rainy Gea, 45th generation Teller, and Reader of the Great Hand, daughter of the people. And this, this is my story—raw, painful, and unvarnished.”
“Rainy, can you hear me?”
“My hand trembles as I set quill to parchment, the coarse calluses of decades scraping against fragile, parchment-thin skin. Time is not on my side. Each stroke of ink is a battle against my body’s betrayal. My fingers cramp, my vision blurs, yet I cannot stop. There is too much to record and far too little time to do it.”
“The whispers are growing louder now, some insidious and unrelenting. They coil around my thoughts, tempting me to surrender, to give up. But I will not. I cannot. There will be time enough to sleep when my life is done—though I fear even in death, there will be no respite. Sleep has never been my ally. It is a thief, a trickster. In its embrace, truths slip away.”
“This is my story, and I alone will dictate its telling.”
“I am the Teller.”
The scratching of the quill on parchment paused.
“Hmm.”
It continued again.
“I am both its narrator and its witness, the sole arbiter of who stands as hero and who as villain. And though my memory is fractured, blurred by the passage of years, I swear this to you, dear reader: I will tell you nothing but the truth as I know it.”
It was quite. She listened with a calm smile in her heart. Outside, the sounds of village life rolled gently through the dusk—children’s laughter, the distant call of someone bringing in cattle, the clatter of pots from neighboring homes. From the kitchen came a voice, calling sharply:
“Rainy, please come help me!”
“Truth, however, is a cruel master. For the people of the Great Hand, truth has always been a blade that cuts both ways. It seems it cuts deepest against the powerless. Knowledge itself is a labyrinth, each revelation leading only to more confusion, each hard-won understanding burdened by the weight of new questions. The scholars of this world, with their grand tomes and polished words, believe they have mastered it. But I have seen the truth behind their façades. Their knowledge is a tower built on the sands of arrogance, and it will collapse under the weight of its own falsehoods.
The stack of books beside me looms like a monument to failure. I have climbed their heights seeking answers, finding only more questions. The giants of wisdom that were promised by their pages are illusions. And yet, I add now my own story to the pile—a single thread in a tapestry that no one may ever see.”
Tears streak down my cheeks as I write these words, a last, desperate plea to the universe: let someone—anyone—hear me. Let my voice reach beyond the void. My beloved, if you are out there, …”
“Rainy, I am calling you!” the voice came again, louder this time.
The wise woman seemed to vanish. In her place sat Rainy—a nineteen-year-old girl hunched over her desk, a leather journal open before her, its pages covered in looping script. Her pen hovered midair as she blinked, disoriented, her mother’s voice pulling her back to the real world.
The door creaked open. Rainy looked up, startled, to find her mother standing in the doorway, a dishcloth tossed over her shoulder.
“Rainy, honestly. I’ve called you three times. What are you doing?”
Rainy glanced down at her pages, where her wise woman’s tale had trailed off mid-sentence. “Just… writing.”
Her mother sighed, though her expression softened when she saw the way Rainy’s fingers smudged with ink clutched the pen. “Your stories can wait. Come help me before dinner burns. You have your whole life still before you to Tell.”
Rainy nodded, gently closing the journal. As she stood, the fading light caught the curve of her smile and the distant look in her eyes. She followed her mother to the kitchen, the world of her story lingering like a distant echo, not yet finished. The wise woman would be there when she returned, waiting by the window, her story unfolding just beyond the page.
“… know that this story is for you. In truth, I write not for the scholars or the skeptics, not for the campfires or the kitchens, but for you alone. If you live, then hope is not lost.”
“This is the story of the days of the second and final end time. It is the story of Ohrey Rainy Gea, the last Reader of the Great Hand. And it is the story of a mind coming alive under the weight of profound understanding.”
To my love, I leave this tale. You will find my heart here in these pages, as I have found you. Then I will see you as you are, and finally understand.”