The Rising
🕊️ The Rising. A Tale of the Called 🕊️
In a world much like ours, but not quite —
where clocks still tick but dreams leak through the seams —
the Trumpet has begun to sing again.
Not once, not twice, but many times.
Its song, like wind through ancient bones,
ripples across the cities, the fields, the forgotten places.
And those who carry the seed of remembrance within them —
they feel it.
One by one, the Called begin to stir.
A mother weeping in the kitchen
suddenly lifts her eyes
as if someone whispered her real name.
A child in a classroom, staring out the window,
hears a sound no one else reacts to…
and their heart becomes a bird.
An old man, long bowed by sorrow,
stands suddenly upright at dawn,
as if the air itself had filled his lungs
with the breath of God.
A prisoner in the dark
feels his chains loosen,
not by metal breaking …
but by something deeper,
something that tells him: you are more than what has happened to you.
They rise.
Not like armies, not like flames.
They rise like seeds breaking soil …
soft, sacred, unstoppable.
Their eyes shine with a strange knowing.
Their hands tremble not with fear,
but with the memory of a promise once made
before the world was born.
They do not all rise in the same place.
They rise everywhere …
on mountaintops, in alleyways,
in boardrooms, in deserts,
in hospital beds and subway cars.
And when they rise, they find each other.
Drawn by the sound they all heard.
Not with ears.
But with soul.
They call themselves nothing.
No name is needed.
But the world starts calling them:
The Awakened.
The Remnant.
The Rememberers.
And though the Trumpet is never seen,
its sound grows louder through them …
through their kindness,
their courage,
their light in dark places.
Some say Elior walks among them,
no longer clothed in flesh,
but in wind and fire …
guiding the Called to the silver hill
when they are ready.
And when the last soul has heard and risen,
the Trumpet will give one final sound …
not a note, but a Name …
and the world will be made new.
The Sound Beneath the Silence
🌒 An interwoven myth of rising souls, drawn by the Trumpet’s call…🌘
There is a time the world does not keep track of
a breath between breaths,
a turning of the hidden clock.
In that time, the Trumpet sounds.
Not into the air,
but into the deepest chambers of the soul.
And in that moment,
they begin to rise.
🌾 I. The Mother ~ Miriam
Miriam stood at her sink,
hands steeped in soapy water,
tears falling like rain into the basin.
Her son had not spoken to her in years.
Her prayers were bones rattling in the void.
But then…
a sound, not through her ears, but her chest.
Low, ancient.
A note that made her still.
She dropped the dish,
and for the first time in decades,
she remembered the dream she’d had as a girl:
a hill of silver grass,
a tree that glowed with no sun,
and a Voice that said, “You are chosen to carry flame.”
The flame reignited.
Miriam dried her hands,
wiped her tears,
and began to walk east, toward the hills.
🧒🏽 II. The Child ~ Niko
Niko was seven.
He sat by the classroom window, drawing stars in the margins of his workbook.
The others laughed, shouted, pushed each other.
But Niko only listened …
for he had heard it again.
The hum.
The long note under the floor of things.
He had always heard it.
In dreams, in wind, in silence.
Today it grew louder.
It filled his chest like wings.
He stood up and walked out of the classroom,
barefoot, unnoticed.
Not even the teacher saw him leave.
He would find the others.
He knew they were waiting.
⛓️ III. The Prisoner – Amos
Amos sat in darkness.
He had not seen the sky in seventeen years.
His name had become a number.
Guilt held him tighter than any chain.
But then…
something moved in the silence.
Not outside the cell, but within him.
A tremble.
A tone.
Like a bell rung in his marrow.
He fell to his knees.
Not from fear …
but from the sheer beauty of the sound.
And when the guard came in the next morning,
Amos was gone.
Not escaped.
Transformed.
Some say he walked through the walls.
Some say he turned into a wind and slipped through the bars.
No one could explain it.
But from that day on, the prison felt lighter,
as if something holy had passed through.
🌿 IV. The Convergence
The Mother, the Child, and the Prisoner
each walked different roads:
through forests, deserts, and dreams …
but the same sound guided them.
And in time,
they reached the Hill of Remembering.
They saw each other there,
and though none had met,
they embraced like old friends.
The silver tree shimmered.
Its golden leaves whispered secrets.
And in its hollow, the Trumpet pulsed.
Not played … alive.
Breathing. Waiting.
Each one stepped forward.
The Mother placed her grief before it.
The Child offered wonder.
The Prisoner gave his sorrow.
The Trumpet received them all.
And then…
it sang.
Not a sound of metal or breath,
but a radiant note that shook the stars.
It rang through every forgotten place,
through towers and tenements,
through boardrooms and tombs.
And all who had the seed of flame within them
heard.
They rose.
All over the world ..
the broken, the dreamers, the silent ones.
They left behind fear.
They followed the sound.
And where they gathered,
the world began to change.
Not with power.
Not with noise.
But with light.
With truth.
With a sound that said:
“You are more than what the world named you.
You are a note in the great song.
Come now. Rise.”
The Trumpet still sings.
Perhaps it is calling you, even now.
Can you hear it —
that low, holy hum beneath your distractions?
If so…
will you rise?
