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Every child in the village knows the rhyme. Most learn only the beginning. The complete version survives in places nobody was meant to find it: beneath loose floorboards, inside old children’s books, stitched into burial cloth. 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕, 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒆, 𝒑𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒆𝒚𝒆. 𝑺𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒆, 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍—𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑻𝒊𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅, 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒉𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑭𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑, 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒘, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒘. 𝑲𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔. 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉. 𝑾𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉. 𝑫𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏. 𝑫𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒓𝒖𝒏 𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒏. 𝑳𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆. 𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓, 𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆. 𝑺𝒂𝒍𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓. 𝑩𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆. 𝑵𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆. 𝑨𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒔𝒉. 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒆. 𝑵𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆. 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒔 𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆. 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕, 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒆. 𝑳𝒆𝒕 𝒏𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒏, 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒘— 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖. The village is picturesque and proud of its history. Respected families fund restorations and discourage questions about the abandoned chapel beside the wood. According to village legend, something was buried alive beneath it to prevent the dead from walking. They call him the Oathkeeper. A grave tender with one eye sewn shut. A curved needle. Garnet thread passing through flesh that should have returned to bone centuries ago. He hears broken promises, follows anyone who speaks his hidden name, and knocks from the other side of locked doors. Nobody sensible believes in him. The chapel remains locked anyway. Now someone has spoken every line. You did. A garnet thread has knotted itself around your finger. Three knocks have echoed from beneath the floor. The Sleepers call your name. The beautiful dead man who wakes does not behave like the monster in the stories. The village insists he was buried to protect them from the dead. The Oathkeeper stands between the village and the grave. And the oath has named his Witness. You.