Episode 16 Solien: The Riddle-Walker Returns

Episode 16 Solien

The Riddle-Walker Returns

Logan leans in close, his breath smelling of cigarettes and something older, like incense from a church I've never attended. His voice drops to a whisper that somehow fills the entire room.

"Tell me this, Billy: Can a shadow cast another shadow, or must the flame first know its own fire?"

I don't answer. With Logan, answers are traps disguised as doors.

"A Hebrew births a Hebrew, but a proselyte?" He pauses, letting the question hang between us like smoke. "He mimics the dance, not the rhythm. He walks the path, but leaves no footprints."

His eyes are darker than usual, like someone turned off a light behind them.

"The slave dreams of open gates, but the son? He dreams of the keys."

I feel something shift in my chest, not pain, exactly, but recognition. Like remembering a dream you had years ago that suddenly makes sense.

"Now riddle me this, who inherits the dead?" Logan's voice takes on a ceremonial quality, like he's reading from a text only he can see. "Only the dead. But the living? They inherit both tomb and temple."

He places a hand on my shoulder. His palm is cold.

"The gentile never dies, for he never lived. But the one who drinks Truth? He lives, and so he risks death."

I want to ask him what he means, but my throat is dry. The words feel too big for my mouth.

"When we were Hebrews, we suckled only the mother. But when we became sons of the Word, we gained both mother and father."

Logan leans back, his gaze pinning me to my chair like a butterfly in a collector's case.

"So I ask you, Billy: Are you the echo, or the voice? The clay, or the breath? The heir, or the hired hand?"

The question sits in my stomach like a stone.

I don't answer. I can't.

Dr. Martinez: The Excavation

The therapy room smells like old books and lemon disinfectant. Dr. Martinez sits across from me, legs crossed, posture perfect. He's younger than the other doctors here, maybe mid-thirties, with dark hair going gray at the temples and eyes that actually see you instead of just cataloging symptoms.

He's different from Dr. Nachtensbach. No needles. No ice baths. Just questions.

"Do you believe in God, Billy?"

The question lands like a fist.

"No."

He waits. The silence is a technique, I know. But it works anyway.

"I did when I was six," I continue, the words coming out before I can stop them. "Then I went to Sunday school. My dad was a part-time preacher and a full-time asshole."

Dr. Martinez doesn't flinch. Doesn't write anything down. Just listens.

"At home, God was silent. Jesus was absent. The Bible was just a prop my father used to justify whatever he wanted to do. Sunday school was where the confusion began."

I can still smell the church basement, mildew and grape juice and the particular sadness of acoustic tile ceilings.

"They told me Abraham was going to kill his son. I asked, 'Why would God ask that?'"

"'To test his faith,' they said."

"'But doesn't God already know what's in our hearts?'"

"'We don't know the mysteries of God.'"

I remember the teacher's face, how her smile went tight, like I'd said something obscene.

"I said, 'What mysteries? That sounds evil.'"

"They stopped answering after that."

Dr. Martinez nods slowly, like I've confirmed something he suspected.

"I watched them preach kindness, humility, charity," I continue, anger heating my voice. "Then go home and act cruel, proud, greedy. They taught sacrifice, but never gave. They taught love, but never lived it."

My hands are shaking. I grip the armrests.

"I realized something: I am not my father's property. I am my own self. And if God wants blood to prove love, then maybe God's the one who needs saving."

The room is very quiet now. Even the fluorescent lights seem to hold their breath.

"I stopped believing. I was scared at first. Thought I'd go to Hell. But nothing changed, except how I saw them. Their Christian pride was just a costume. Theater for people who needed to feel chosen."

I remember communion. The stale wafer. The grape juice in tiny plastic cups.

"The other kids said, 'Yes, we believe.' I whispered, 'No.' Only I heard it. That was enough."

"I became an atheist. Mocked the Jesus freaks on the street corners. My best friend was Jewish. He didn't care what I believed. Neither did I care what he believed. That's when I knew, religion is just tribalism with better marketing."

Dr. Martinez uncrosses his legs, leans forward slightly.

"Do you think Christians are evil?"

"Some are. Why did they kill those who didn't believe? Did Jesus say, 'Kill the sinners'? Did he say, 'Burn the heretics'?" I can feel my pulse in my temples. "They say they follow Christ, but they follow power. They always have."

"I think Christians are good," Dr. Martinez says softly.

The statement catches me off guard. Not argumentative. Just... offered.

"What is good?" I shoot back. "Didn't Jesus himself say, 'None are good'? So what are we even talking about?"

Dr. Martinez doesn't respond. He just watches me with those dark, careful eyes.

He never asks about God again.

Solien: The Voice in the Dark

It's night. Late. The kind of late where the hospital feels like a ship floating in darkness.

I'm sitting on the porch of Ward 7, a small concrete slab with two rusted chairs that patients aren't technically supposed to use after 9 PM. But the night staff doesn't care. They're just trying to survive their shifts.

That's when Solien appears.

Not walks up. Not opens a door. Just... appears.

He's beside me like a ghost in a dream, solid but somehow not entirely there. His face is shadowed, but I can see his eyes, black as tar, reflecting nothing.

"Billy," he says, his voice like gravel and thunder mixed together. "Tell me: Can a man inherit a kingdom he's never seen?"

My breath catches. His words are Logan's words. But deeper. Older.

"Can a proselyte birth a prophet? Can a shadow cast another shadow?"

He leans closer. I smell earth and smoke.

"A Hebrew creates a Hebrew. But the mimic? He copies the dance, not the fire. He walks the path, but leaves no footprints."

I want to ask who he is, but my voice is gone.

"The slave seeks freedom. The son seeks the keys."

That phrase again. Logan said it. Now Solien says it. Like they're reading from the same invisible script.

"The dead inherit the dead. The living inherit both tomb and temple."

His hand, when did he place it on my shoulder?, is cold. Impossibly cold.

"You were once fatherless, suckling only the mother. But when you became your own, you gained both father and mother."

The words burrow into my brain like insects.

"So I ask you: Are you the echo, or the voice? The clay, or the breath? The heir, or the hired hand?"

I stare into the dark where his face should be, unsure if Solien is real or imagined. But the cold weight of his hand is undeniable. The words linger in the air like smoke.

Then he's gone.

Just... gone.

I sit there for a long time, alone with the insects and the distant sound of someone crying in Ward 4.

The Notebook: Evidence of Haunting

Next session with Dr. Martinez. Afternoon light slants through the window, making the dust visible.

I sit down. Watch him settle into his chair. There's something different about him today, more tired, maybe. Or more distant.

The room is quiet. He doesn't start with a question. Instead, he picks up his pen and writes something in his notebook, slowly, deliberately.

I watch. The scratching of the pen is the only sound. It goes on for maybe thirty seconds, an eternity in therapy time.

"What did you just write?"

Dr. Martinez doesn't look up. "Just a note."

I lean forward, trying to read upside-down. The handwriting is messy, but I catch a glimpse of one phrase:

"The son seeks the keys."

My blood turns to ice water.

That's Solien's phrase. Logan's phrase. The riddle that's been following me like a shadow.

"Where did you hear that?"

Dr. Martinez looks up, and for a moment, just a moment, his eyes are as black as Solien's.

"I didn't," he says quietly. "It came to me."

I just stare. The silence stretches between us like a wire pulled too tight. Something shifts in the air, not threatening, but charged. Like a door just opened somewhere deep inside the walls.

Or inside me.

The Confession

I return for another session. The light is dimmer now, either because the sun's lower or because they're trying to save on electricity. Probably both.

Dr. Martinez seems more tired, more distant than before. I notice a book on the shelf behind him that I'd never seen before: The Book of Mental Mystery. The spine is cracked, the cover faded.

Before I can ask about it, Dr. Martinez speaks.

"I used to."

His voice is flat. Defeated.

"Used to what?"

"Believe." He still doesn't look at me. "Before I stopped believing."

My heart starts hammering. "Stopped believing in what?"

Dr. Martinez finally meets my eyes. His face is gray, drawn.

"That the mind can be healed. That the soul can be mapped. That silence is safe."

I watch him. Something's off. More than usual. Like he's confessing something he shouldn't.

"You wrote that thing last time," I say carefully. "'The son seeks the keys.' Where did that come from?"

Dr. Martinez is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"From a man I met in a dream. He spoke in riddles. Said I was still a slave."

My skin goes cold.

"Solien?"

Dr. Martinez looks up sharply. His eyes flicker with recognition, then fear.

Real fear.

"You've seen him too?"

The question hangs between us like a body from a rope.

I nod slowly. "Last night. On the porch. He said the same things Logan says. The same riddles."

"Logan Riley?" Dr. Martinez sits up straighter. "The patient in Ward 7?"

"Yeah. He's been saying these things for weeks. About heirs and slaves and echoes. And then Solien appeared and said them too."

Dr. Martinez's hand is shaking as he writes something down. His pen scratches urgently across the page.

"What does it mean?" I ask. "Are we both crazy? Is this place making us see things?"

Dr. Martinez stops writing. Puts down his pen. Looks at me with an expression I've never seen on a therapist's face before:

Helplessness.

"I don't know, Billy. I used to think I knew the difference between metaphor and madness. Between symbol and symptom." He gestures vaguely at the room, the hospital, the world beyond. "But now..."

He trails off.

"Now what?"

"Now I think maybe Solien is right. Maybe we are all still slaves. Maybe the keys were never in our hands to begin with."

The session ends early.

As I leave, I glance back at Dr. Martinez. He's staring at that book on the shelf, The Book of Mental Mystery, like it might hold answers.

Or like he's afraid of what answers it might hold.

The Question Remains

That night, lying in my bed in Ward 7, I think about the riddle:

Are you the echo, or the voice?
The clay, or the breath?
The heir, or the hired hand?

Logan asked it.
Solien asked it.
Dr. Martinez wrote it.

Three different mouths, same question.

I don't have an answer. But I'm starting to think that's the point.

The question isn't meant to be answered.

It's meant to change you.