Elara didn't sleep. Her mind spun in loops, replaying everything Jace had told her. Everything Ethan had shown her.
The problem was… both of them sounded like they were telling the truth.
By sunrise, she was sitting on the edge of her bed, fingers tangled in the blanket, staring out at the gray light pushing through the clouds. Her sketchbook sat open on her desk, filled with unfamiliar drawings she didn't remember doing — symbols, faces, and places she'd never seen. But one image kept repeating: the old cottage on the cliff, split down the center by lightning.
It was a warning.
At school, Jace avoided her. Or maybe she avoided him. It didn't matter — something had shifted between them. The comfort of their earlier connection was now tangled with doubt. Elara wasn't sure she could trust him anymore.
She wasn't even sure she could trust herself.
That afternoon, instead of going home, she wandered. Past Main Street, past the overgrown park where she and her old friends used to ride bikes. The town felt hollow now — like something essential had been pulled out of it. The people were still here. The buildings hadn't changed. But everything felt… off.
When she passed the library, something tugged at her — a sharp, gut-level pull. She stepped inside, not even thinking.
It was quiet. More than usual.
She moved between the shelves until she reached the local history section. A book caught her eye. Echoes of Grayridge. It had a worn navy-blue cover, gold lettering faded with age. Inside were grainy black-and-white photos of the town from decades ago. Schools, town halls, even the cliffs.
She flipped to a photo from 1997 and froze.
It was the cottage.
But it wasn't abandoned in the photo. It looked pristine, almost new. A woman and two boys stood in front of it. One of them had Jace's face. The other — Ethan.
She blinked hard.
Underneath, a caption read: The Maddox Family Home, prior to the Grayridge Incident.
"What incident?" she muttered.
She turned the page.
The next one had no photo — just a newspaper clipping, partially torn, with jagged handwriting scribbled over it:
"June 12, 1997 — Fire claims Maddox residence. Only one survivor: Ethan Maddox, 17. Brother presumed dead."
Presumed.
So Jace had been here. In this town. Decades ago.
Her chest tightened.
She turned and nearly screamed. Ms. Corwin stood right behind her.
"I thought I might find you here," she said softly, her eyes not unkind.
"You knew," Elara said, voice trembling. "About Jace. About Ethan. All of it."
Corwin exhaled, then nodded. "Come with me."
They sat in the back room of the library — the part no one really used. Corwin poured tea into two mismatched mugs. The windows were fogged over, the light filtered and thin.
"Jace isn't new here," Elara said.
"No," Corwin said quietly. "Neither is Ethan. And neither are you, not really."
Elara blinked. "What does that mean?"
Corwin hesitated. "Some people in this town… we were chosen. Not for power. For memory. We were tasked with guarding the shape of the past. Making sure it didn't bend or unravel. Jace was one of the Watchers. Ethan too."
"And me?"
"You're something different. You're a Keeper. Rare. Dangerous."
"I don't feel dangerous," Elara whispered.
"You remember things that didn't happen. Or that weren't supposed to happen. You draw what you don't know. You feel what others forget. That's not random. It's inherited. Your grandmother, Miriam Quinn — she was the last known Keeper in Grayridge."
Elara's breath caught. "My grandma?"
"She died protecting a rift," Corwin said. "One Ethan tried to open. This isn't just about grief or guilt, Elara. He's trying to rewrite everything."
"But why me?"
"Because you're the key," Corwin said. "You don't just remember the past. You restore it. That's what Ethan wants — to restore his version of events. Where his sister never died. Where the fire never happened."
Elara stood. Her head spun. "I have to go."
Corwin didn't stop her.
That night, she walked to the cliffs again.
The fog was heavier than ever, thick like smoke. The sky hung low and sullen. When she reached the clearing, the cottage looked different — more real, more whole, like time had rewound itself slightly. The door creaked open without her touching it.
Inside, Jace stood by the fireplace, his face half-shadowed.
"You found it," he said, not turning.
"I saw the photo," Elara said. "Of you and Ethan. From 1997."
He nodded.
"You were supposed to be dead."
"I was," he said. "For a while."
"What brought you back?"
He turned. "The same thing pulling Ethan apart: memory."
Elara stepped forward. "Tell me the truth, Jace. All of it."
So he did.
He told her about the Watchers — a group scattered across towns like Grayridge, tasked with holding the veil between worlds steady. When people died too violently, or too full of regret, their memories didn't pass cleanly. Some stayed behind. Some, like Ethan, broke rules trying to change what couldn't be changed.
"And you?" she asked.
"I was sent back when Ethan crossed the veil. To stop him. Or guide him back. But I failed. He's stronger now — because of you."
"Why me?"
"Because you knew him. Before."
She stared at him.
"You and Ethan were friends. Maybe more. In another version of the town. A version he remembers. A version you started to forget."
She shook her head, heart racing.
"Check your sketchbook," Jace said. "Page thirteen."
She pulled it out, hands shaking. Flipped.
There — a sketch of two boys and a girl sitting on the edge of the cliff, laughing. The girl was her. One boy was Ethan. The other… she couldn't tell.
"How—?"
"That's what's at stake," Jace said. "Not just time. Reality."
And then everything started to shake.
The cottage windows shattered inward. The walls bent. The floor cracked. A sound — like wind and fire and grief — screamed through the room.
And in the center, Ethan appeared.
His eyes glowed silver. His hands sparked with broken light.
"You chose him," he said to Elara, voice hollow. "Again."
"I didn't choose anyone," she whispered.
"But you will."
Lightning split the sky. The cottage trembled.
Jace grabbed her hand. "We have to leave."
Ethan raised a hand — and the door slammed shut behind them.
"No more running," he said.
And then everything went black.