The ink bled again.
Not much. Just a single drop. But it curled at the edge of the parchment like it had been drawn there by something beneath the surface, not above.
Nerin stared at it a while before blotting it with the corner of his sleeve. The gesture was practiced. Almost mechanical. His fingers trembled slightly—not from cold. From restraint.
The page was one of many in his travel journal, bound in leather so worn the corners had begun to unravel. Most of the entries were in a cipher, one that changed subtly every few pages. Only Nerin knew the full key. Or rather, only mostly Nerin. There were things even he didn't remember writing.
A low knock at the door jolted him back.
It was Dorrin, the widow's son—lean, quiet, with hay-colored hair and that permanent look of unasked questions. He held two mugs of weak tea and a crust of blackbread on a chipped plate.
"Mum says you forgot supper. Again."
"I didn't forget. I declined." Nerin closed the book softly. "But I appreciate the rescue."
Dorrin hovered at the doorway. "It's... strange," he said after a moment. "The way you write with both hands sometimes. I saw. You switch mid-sentence."
Nerin paused, then offered the ghost of a smile. "Do I? I hadn't noticed."
Dorrin didn't smile back. "You hum, too. When you sleep."
"I hope it's a good tune."
"It isn't."
Then, just as abruptly, the boy turned and walked off down the corridor, boots thudding against the uneven floorboards. Nerin remained seated, staring at the closed door for a long moment before looking down at the ink blot again.
It had formed the shape of a spiral.
---
Later that morning, he wandered.
Not with purpose. That was the trick—not to have purpose. Purpose led to questions. He preferred the quiet kind of observation that came with the meandering walk of someone who looked lost but wasn't.
He stopped by the baker's stall, took note of the extra salt in the morning loaves. Noticed that the piper's dog had a limp. That the weaver's children were arguing in pantomime, hands flying with practiced signs—one of them had lost their voice again.
And then there was the wind.
It carried scent today. Not the usual peaty dampness or firewood smoke. This was... herbs. Wild mint, thyme, something else bitter. Sela's brew again. He traced the scent through narrow alleys until he reached the glade behind the shrine.
There, seated on a low stone, was Sela herself—mortar in hand, sleeves rolled, hair tied up with a bone pin. She didn't look up.
"You're trailing ghosts," she said, grinding a stalk of something into paste.
"Are we calling me that now?"
She snorted. "I'm calling what's following you that. You smell like river rot and inkblood."
"You say the kindest things."
"I say the true things."
Nerin crouched beside her. "You still making the blue?"
"Only for those who can afford to forget."
"And the others?"
"They get memory raw. You, for instance. You haven't forgotten anything at all. That's why you're bleeding it."
She meant the ink. He knew she did. But he didn't answer her, and she didn't press.
Instead, she passed him the pestle. "You want to help or just keep brooding?"
So he helped. They worked in silence, the only sounds the crunch of roots and the low rustle of leaves. Above them, the shrine's copper bells gave a soft chime—not from wind. From movement.
Neither of them looked up.
---
That afternoon, he returned to the river.
It had become a kind of ritual now—every day, a different spot, never too long, always watching. The current seemed off again, dragging slower. Like it, too, had something caught in its throat.
Nerin pulled his book again. Not to write. To turn the pages. The cipher'd shifted again—page 47 now read like a fisherman's prayer. Page 48 was blank. Page 49...
He blinked.
The drawing hadn't been there before.
It was rough—charcoal smudged and reworked—but unmistakable. A figure with too-long arms and a flat, disc-shaped head. Beneath it, the caption:
> "The witness does not forget."
He felt the hair on his arms lift.
Footsteps crunched behind him.
"You sketch well. You don't sleep, though, do you?"
It was the girl again—the red-haired one with the white eye.
"Not often," Nerin said, closing the book. "And you?"
"I watch the marsh at night. It moves."
"What do you see?"
"Faces, sometimes. Pressed in the water. Pressed in the mud. I think it's your fault."
Nerin didn't respond.
She pointed to the journal. "That thing's dangerous."
"It's just pages and ink."
"It's a mirror."
Then she turned and left, same as before.
Only this time, she left wet footprints behind on the dry earth.
---
By evening, the spiral mark had begun appearing elsewhere.
A chicken laid an egg with a faint spiral ridged into the shell.
A loaf of bread cracked open in the same shape.
Even the puddles, when disturbed, spiraled inward before returning to stillness.
Nerin saw it all. He said nothing.
But that night, he did not sleep.
Instead, he walked back to the river with only a lantern, a knife, and his book.
He had to test something.