The café was my sanctuary, a place where the world’s noise faded into the background, and I could lose myself in the pages of a book or the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. But that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the café’s lights cast a warm glow against the encroaching darkness, my haven would become the setting for a revelation that would haunt me for the rest of my days.
She walked in just as the clock struck seven, her presence commanding the room despite her silence. Her eyes were an abyss, deep and dark, and they seemed to pull me in, drowning me in a hunger that was not my own. “I am Famine,” she said, her voice a soft caress that belied the gravity of her words.
I wanted to dismiss her, to laugh off her proclamation as the ramblings of a madwoman, but there was a truth in her eyes that I couldn’t ignore. “Famine? As in the Horseman?” I asked, my skepticism waning under the weight of her gaze.
“Yes,” she replied, her lips curling into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But not the destroyer you’ve read about in your sacred texts. We are the balance, the necessary counter to humanity’s excess. And I have come to warn you, for your wife is a Nephilim, and her existence is the fulcrum upon which the fate of your world teeters.”
My heart raced at the mention of my wife, a woman whose love I had never doubted, whose secrets I thought I knew. “A Nephilim? What are you talking about? What does she have to do with any of this?”
Famine leaned forward, her eyes locking onto mine, and the café around us seemed to fade into the background. “She is part of a prophecy, an ancient foretelling that speaks of the end times. Nostradamus saw it in his quatrains, the Norse foretold it with Ragnarok, and now, the threads of destiny are converging.”
As she spoke, her words painted a tapestry of horror in my mind. I saw the world as it might become, a desolate wasteland where the skies burned with the wrath of the gods, where the seas turned to poison, and the land withered and died. I saw the Horsemen, not just Famine, but War, Pestilence, and Death, riding forth to claim what remained of a broken world.
But it was the vision of my wife that struck a chord of terror in my heart. She stood at the center of the apocalypse, her beauty a stark contrast to the chaos that swirled around her. She was a beacon of power, her eyes alight with a fire that spoke of her celestial heritage. And beside her, Lucifer and Lilith watched with pride, as if she were the key to their ultimate victory.
The ring of gluttony was a nightmare brought to life, a circle of hell where the damned were trapped in an endless cycle of consumption, their bodies grotesque parodies of their former selves.
The vision shattered, and I was back in the café, the remnants of Famine’s warning echoing in my ears. I knew then that I had to confront my wife, to uncover the truth of her existence and the role she played in the prophecy that threatened to unravel the very fabric of reality.
But as I left the café, the taste of my coffee bitter in my mouth, I couldn’t shake the feeling that some truths were better left undiscovered, What do you think, should I talk to my wife?