The Vigil

DISCLAIMER: This story contains depictions of captivity and extreme heat exposure.

STORY:

They should have come by now. Helen pressed her ear to the door, listening for footsteps, but heard nothing—only the hum of the radio. Through the static, she caught fragments: “—dangerous heatwave—crackle—temperatures above—buzz—stay hydrated—” The words faded in and out through the basement.

The morning feeding was three hours late, and for the first time since her capture, she hoped to hear their voices.

Three hours became four, then five. She's been counting heartbeats, breaths, and the drip of condensation from the pipe on the ceiling. Eight hours now since they should have brought breakfast—the stale bread and the water bottle that marked the start of each day.

Helen paced her room for the thousandth time—twelve steps from wall to wall. The concrete was rough under her bare feet. She slumped on the thin mattress, reeking of mold and something else she didn’t want to think about. Her blue bucket sat in the opposite corner—her bathroom, they called it while laughing.

Nothing has changed since she arrived four days ago. So, why haven't they come yet? Why is it that the only sound she can hear is the repeating ghostly warning of the radio, tangled with hiss?

A knot of anxiety tightened with each passing minute. What if they’d been in an accident? What if they’d been arrested but didn’t reveal her location? Nobody knew she was here. Alone. Locked.

When Helen woke from a fitful sleep, her mouth was already dry. The concrete walls, usually cool to the touch, felt warm under her palms.

The radio crackled to life with the morning weather report: “Day one of—fizz— meteorologists—sizzle—an unprecedented heatwave.”

The temperature had been climbing all night. She knew because she was awake for most of it, listening to the condensation of the pipe slow from steady drops to occasional beads.

The basement had always been cool, but now, the air felt thick and humid. Sweat gathered at her hairline and trickled down her spine. Her shirt clung to her back, soaked with wasted water.

Her tongue felt heavy and swollen. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and stared at the salted moisture. She needed to drink.

Her bottle of water sat beside her mattress. Only half-full, maybe less. The plastic was warm when she picked it up. It crinkled when she unscrewed the cap and allowed herself the smallest possible sip, just enough to wet her lips.

Another day with no food or water delivery. Another day spent in the silence of her prison, accompanied by the crackled sound of the radio. “—record-breaking temperature—”.

Another twelve hours passed. Or was it thirteen? No food. No water. No footsteps. No jingle of keys. And no condensation anymore. “—emergency services overwhelmed—buzz—power grids failed—”

Her head pounded. The pain started behind her eyes and spread across her skull like fire in the wind. She lay on the mattress, the fabric stuck to her skin, damp with sweat. She took off her shirt and skirt, hoping to feel the cold of the concrete floor as she stretched out on the ground. But only warmth and dust stuck to her. She felt filthy.

She rationed another sip. The water almost gone.

They weren’t coming back. The thought crept in slowly, like the heat. At first, she pushed it away—of course, they’d return. They needed her for the ransom. Her father would pay them, and he would come to free her. Or, the police would arrest them and find her. Nothing would happen to her. It happens only to others. But now, she was not so sure anymore. She didn’t want to think about it.

The last drops of water disappeared sometime during the third day. Helen held the empty bottle up above her lips, hoping for a drop of water to fall. But only hot air came. Her throat burned. Each swallow scraped her flesh. She tried to produce saliva by working her jaw, but her mouth remained a desert.

When was the last time she ate? Was it two days ago, or three days ago? She couldn’t remember. The thirst consumed everything. Every thought circled back to water. She remembered the swimming pool at her father’s house. All the blue water. Enough to drown in. She tried again to produce saliva, but nothing came.

“—temperatures expected to reach—static—stay indoors—crackle—conserve water—”

She stood up, her legs shaking under her weight. She licked the pipe against the wall in the hope of finding some condensation. Only dust and copper taste filled her mouth. She tried to quench her thirst by drinking her urine. The liquid in her mouth felt like an oasis in a desert. Then, the thirst came back, twice as strong. And the nausea started.

She crawled to the door—her legs couldn’t support her anymore. The concrete scraped her knees, but she didn’t feel the pain. She arrived at the metal door and pressed her palm against it. Warm. Everything was warm now.

“Help.” The words came out as a croak. She cleared her throat. No, she tried to, but there was nothing to clear. “Help me.” Louder this time. “Please, I need water.” Each word tore at her throat. “Someone… anyone…”

Nothing. Only the endless static-filled voice. “—death toll rising—fizz—hospitals at capacity—”

She pounded on the door. Once. Twice. The sound was weak, muffled. “Please! Someone!” The effort made her head spin. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision.

She dragged herself back to the mattress. Or, had she left it? The room tilted when she moved her head. The walls seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting at the rhythm of her heartbeat.

Helen must have passed out because when she opened her eyes, the shadows had shifted. Or maybe they hadn’t moved at all. Maybe she was seeing things that weren’t there, like the man now standing in the doorway.

Helen blinked hard, trying to clear the haze from her vision. The figure remained.

Beautiful.

That was the first coherent thought that drifted through her fevered mind. He was tall and lean. His face seemed to glow with its soft light. His features were perfect—high cheekbones, full lips, and green eyes sparkling with gold. Dark hair fell in waves past his shoulders. He wore something white that seemed to float around him.

“Water,” she rasped, reaching toward him with trembling fingers. “Please… water…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Just stood there watching her with those glimmering eyes. No expression. No recognition. No acknowledgment. Nothing.

Helen tried to push herself up on her elbow. The room spun violently, and bile rose in her throat—nothing to vomit but acid.

“Did they send you?” Her voice broke on the words. “Are you new?”

Still nothing. Not even a shift in his posture.

“Please,” tears would have come if she had any water left in her body. “I’ll do anything. My father—” The words died. He wasn’t listening. Wasn’t hearing. Those perfect features remained as still as marble.

Maybe he wasn’t real. Maybe the heat and dehydration had broken something inside her brain and conjured this vision from desperation. But, she could see him so clearly—how the dim light caught the angles of his face, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Why wouldn’t he help her? Why wouldn’t he speak?

Helen dug her fingers into the mattress. The fabric felt real under her nails. The pain in her throat was real. The pounding in her skull was real. So, he had to be real too. “Can you hear me?” she tried again. “Are you deaf?”

His eyes tracked the movement of her lips, but his expression remained blank. Not cold, just… empty. Like he was looking at an object instead of a human.

Helen’s heart pounded against her ribs. Each beat sent fresh waves of pain through her skull. She needed to think, but her thoughts kept scattering.

“I don’t understand.” The words hung in the air between them. He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just watched.

The radio crackled. “—emergency shelters opening—static—bring water if possible—”

The questions died on Helen’s lips. He wasn’t going to answer—she understood that now. But the silence felt different with him there. Less empty. Almost… companionable. “You know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “I haven't talked to anyone in days.”

On the mattress, she moved her head slowly to keep him in her vision. “My mother used to say I talked too much.” The rasp barely sounded like her voice. “Always chattering. That’s what she called it—chattering like a little bird.”

The man’s silence weighed against her, but it was better than being alone. Better than counting drips that no longer came.

“When I was seven, maybe eight. She’d take me to the park near our house. There was this fountain with bronze dolphins.” Helen’s eyes closed, the memory more vivid than the basement. “I’d sit on the edge and put my feet in the water. It was always cold, even in summer.”

She opened her eyes. He hadn’t moved. Those green-gold eyes remained fixed on her face, unblinking.

“The water would splash up sometimes. Get my dress wet.” Her cracked lips curved slightly. “Mother would scold me, but she never made me stop. She’d sit on the bench with her book and let me splash for hours.”

The ache in her head pulsed harder, but talking distracted her from the fire spreading through her veins. “She wore this perfume. What was it? Lavender, no lilies, and something else. Vanilla, maybe. I don’t remember.” The words, now barely a murmur, scraped at her throat, but she couldn’t stop. “I used to steal sprays of it when she wasn’t looking. I thought I would grow up faster.”

The man’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Helen focused on that movement, letting it anchor her spinning thoughts.

“Father caught me once.” She shifted on the mattress with a sticky sound. The movement sent a new wave of nausea, but she kept talking. “I was maybe... ten. Yes, ten. Standing at her vanity, drowning myself in that perfume. He just laughed. Said I smelled like a flower festival.”

The man watched her struggle to speak without expression, but something in his posture—the slight angle of his head—suggested he was listening.

“He used to take me to his office on Saturdays.” She wasn’t sure if she was speaking out loud or just thinking the words now. “Big leather chairs. The smell of… What was that smell? Coffee and paper and something else that meant safety. He'd let me spin in his chair while he worked.”

The memory started floating just out of reach, dissolving before she could grasp it. “Sunday dinners with mother… roast chicken. All crispy and golden. Potatoes with butter.” Her stomach cramped at the thought of food. “My brother Jayme would steal the wishbone. Pull it after dessert. Never won. Not once.”

Helen couldn’t form complete sentences anymore. It was too difficult to think. While speaking or thinking, she closed her eyes and drifted, surrounded by the memories of her childhood.

Time became meaningless. Helen drifted in and out of consciousness, but whenever she opened her eyes, he was still there—still watching.

In the spaces between her rambling stories, Helen began to understand what his presence really meant. Who he really was. The knowledge should have terrified her, but instead, it brought an unexpected peace.

“Please.” She tried to raise her hand toward him, but her body now refused to obey her. “Please, just… make it stop. It hurts so much.”

He remained motionless. Those green-gold eyes never left her face, but he offered nothing. No comfort. No release. Just his eternal vigil.

“You’re not going to help me.” Not a question. Understanding settled into her bones like the heat. “You’re just going to watch.”

Yes, he only watched. Patient. Eternal. Waiting.

The words tumbled from her cracked lips, each one softer than the last. “I never told Jayme I loved him.” The confession hung between them. “Last time I saw him, we fought about… what was it? Money? Something stupid.”

The man’s silence seemed to draw more words from her.

“Mother’s birthday is next week.” Or was it last week? Time had dissolved into heat and thirst. “I bought her earrings. Little pearl drops. They’re still in my apartment, wrapped in silver paper. I hope she will find them.”

Her fingers twitched against the mattress, trying to grasp something that wasn’t there. “I should have confessed to David.” Her throat closed around the words. “I thought I had more time.”

“—last day of unprecedented—buzz—emergency services suspended—”

“I wanted to get married. Have children.” Her regrets couldn’t be heard anymore.

In her last moments of clarity, Helen understood the gift he had given her. Not rescue—something better. He had stayed. Through everything, he had stayed. “Thank you,” she whispered, and took her last breath.

Three days later, the lock clicked and the door swung open. The smell hit Officer Chang first—sweet rot mixed with something metallic. His hand went to his nose as he turned on his flashlight. The light cut through the darkness, landing on a figure curled on a stained mattress.

“Got a body,” Chang called over his shoulder. His partner, Martinez, squeezed past him into the narrow space.

A radio crackled. “—temperature’s dropped twenty degrees since yesterday—sizzle—power grid coming back online sector by sector—buzz—emergency services resuming normal operations—”

Martinez knelt beside the mattress, careful not to disturb the scene. The woman lay on her side, knees drawn up, one arm extended toward the door. Her skin had taken on a waxy sheen. Dark hair matted against her skull. The flashlight beam caught the glint of a plastic water bottle near her fingers—empty.

The basement felt like a tomb. Concrete walls. Exposed pipes. A blue bucket in the corner that made his stomach turn. No windows. No ventilation beyond the door they'd forced open.

“Jesus,” Chang muttered, crouching beside Martinez. “She’s what, twenty-five? Thirty?”

Martinez pulled on latex gloves with practiced efficiency. “Dehydration?”

“Has to be.” Chang studied the empty water bottle and the soiled mattress. All the evidence of captivity and neglect. But the victim’s face told a different story. He’d seen enough bodies to know what death by dehydration looked like—the grimace of agony, the clawed fingers, the twisted limbs fighting until the last second. This woman’s features had settled into something almost peaceful. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. As if she’d simply drifted off to sleep.