The first tear fell just before dawn, a single drop of deep crimson sliding down the saint’s stone cheek before vanishing into the folds of its robe. Father Gregor had noticed the scarlet streak when he was lighting the candles. A moment of hesitation later, he hurriedly crossed himself and mumbled a prayer. He had heard the old stories but dismissed them as superstitious ramblings of the elders. But here it was. The saint was weeping.  

Word spread through the town of Saint Velmir before the sun had fully risen. By midday, the townspeople had gathered in hushed awe around the statue in the town square. The statue was carved from pale limestone and stood over eight feet tall, a depiction of a nameless saint in flowing robes, hands raised in solemn benediction. Realizing that they were witnessing a miracle, the townspeople began kneeling, voices rising in solemn chants that echoed through the square. Some wept, foreheads pressed to the cold stone ground. Candles were lighted, forming a glowing circle around the statue. Women draped offerings of flowers and cloth upon its feet, while men murmured hymns passed down through generations. A group of elders stood in front, leading the prayers, brown robes flapping in the breeze, unseeing eyes raised to the sky. They were all praying for protection, for salvation.  

As night fell, the chapel doors were thrown open, and the priests emerged holding censers of fragrant myrrh and frankincense. The scent twisted through the streets as the villagers fell to their knees, whispering prayers, their hands raised in supplication. The tolling of the chapel bells accompanied their chants, and a solemn procession began. Torches flickered against the towering form of the weeping saint as their voices grew louder, as if trying to halt whatever unseen force had awakened through their devotion alone.  

“They say the saint wept once before. A century ago. And then the earth opened and swallowed the city whole.” whispered an old woman named Mirabel. The younger villagers scoffed in disbelief; she told nothing, but a tale meant to frighten children. No records of such a place existed, nor was the name of the old city remembered. Standing before the weeping saint, all fears were assuaged by the knowledge that Saint Velmir would protect them.  

Elena Vaskova, a historian from the capital, arrived two days later. She made her way to the statue and examined the stonework. It had been done in loving detail, from the shadowed cast of its eyelashes against its downturned face to the minute folds of its robe. There was only one imperfection—a tear of blood had streaked its solemn face. The tear looked real, without any evidence of trickery or paint. She turned to find Father Gregor regarding her with caution. “I am Elena Vaskova, a historian. I was hoping to study the history of this town and its patron saint.”  

Father Gregor led her to the chapel, where he retrieved a stack of  parchments from the archives. “This is all we have,” he said. “Our records only go back three hundred years.”  

Elena glanced through the pages, scanning lists of births, marriages and deaths. Looking closer, something struck her as odd. “There’s a discrepancy here,” she said, tapping the pages. “No records from before year 960.”  

Father Gregor swallowed. “That’s because there were no people here then. The town was built in 960. Before that, this land was… empty.”  

Elena frowned. “That can’t be right. There must be records of the people who lived here once. Towns don’t just… appear and disappear out of nowhere.”  

But there were none. The town of Saint Velmir had seemingly sprung into existence, with no mention of any settlements before it. No tales of founders, no old ruins beneath the streets. Just… emptiness.  

That night, Elena wandered the town, listening to the whispers of the elders. They spoke of dreams of places they did not recognize but felt they had seen before. Streets that did not exist and voices speaking in forgotten tongues.  

As she walked past the square, she glanced up at the statue. A second red streak now curved down the saint’s cheek.  

The next morning, the townspeople gathered once more, lighting more incense and offering prayers louder than before. The chapel bells tolled, their sound merging with the rhythmic chanting that grew more urgent with each passing hour. A procession formed, circling the statue, their voices rising to the heavens in a desperate plea to the saint. Some pressed their hands to the base of the statue, as if seeking a blessing. Others wept openly; their faith shaken yet unwavering.  

By nightfall, a vigil had formed. Priests led long and solemn prayers that lasted through the night. Their voices never ceased, and their chants wove together an unbroken plea. Candles burned in every window, families gathered in their homes and invoked the names of ancestors and saints, hoping their voices would be heard. The air felt thick with devotion and fear.  

The next morning, she returned to the archives, trying to offer a glimpse of hope. She pored over local myths, searching for any mention of the lost city Mirabel had spoken of. Finally, in a tattered manuscript written in the old tongue, she found something.  

The passage spoke of a great city that stood where Saint Velmir now lay, a place of beauty and prosperity. But the land beneath it was cursed. “When the saint weeps, the land will reclaim its own.” Elena’s heart pounded. What if the legend was not just a story? What if the weeping of the saint was a warning of destruction? What if the town of Saint Velmir was indeed built atop another town—one that had vanished, not through natural disaster, but through something far worse?  

She needed more proof. The next day, she convinced a group of villagers to help her dig beneath the foundation of the chapel. Although it took hours, their shovels finally struck stone. An old road, buried beneath centuries of soil. Elena’s breath caught in her throat. The lost city had been real.  

That night, the earth trembled.  

The townspeople woke to a sky the color of ash. A heavy silence hung over Saint Velmir. No birds sang. No wind blew. Only the steady, rhythmic dripping from the statue resounded.   

Tears were falling.  

Elena ran through the streets, shouting for people to leave, but they would not listen. “This is our home,” they said. “The saint will protect us.”  

But the saint was not protecting them. It was mourning.  

As the sun set, a deep rumble shook the town. The earth groaned and heaved. Cracks formed and spiderwebbed through the streets. Solid buildings shuddered and the chapel bell tolled on its own. Then, with a terrible sound, the ground split open. The last thing Elena saw was the square collapsing, the weeping saint sinking into the darkness.  

When Elena opened her eyes, she found herself standing in an unfamiliar street. The buildings around her were tall, their architecture ancient yet pristine. She stumbled forward, heart pounding. The town of Saint Velmir was gone. In its place stood a city she had never seen before, but somehow, deep within her bones, she knew.  

She had always lived here.  

And the saint had never wept.