The village didn't speak. But it listened—quiet, watchful, like it already knew his name and was waiting for him to say it wrong.
Each step felt loud in a way sound couldn't explain. Not noise, but presence; like he was walking through someone else's memory, and even breathing risked smudging the edges.
The ground held every footprint a second too long. Doors didn't open, but curtains shifted. Somewhere, wind chimes moved without music.
He kept walking anyway. Not because he wasn't afraid—he was. But stillness felt worse.
Stillness meant the village might speak back.
And he wasn't ready.
The dirt path forked without warning. No signs, just instinct. He kept left. Didn't ask why.
Shutters shifted on a second-story window. Not open. Not closed. Just enough to notice.
"Is this a test?" he asked.
Morana didn't look back. "Everything is."
He glanced at a nearby porch—empty chair, broken mug, two boots with no dust on them.
"Who lives here?"
She shrugged. "Used to be someone. Might still be. People fade different ways."
The road narrowed as they passed under a lattice of low beams and wind-chimes made from old metal keys. Each one caught the breeze but made no sound.
He slowed.
"Do they always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Hang things that should make noise… but don't."
She paused at the end of the alley. Didn't turn, but her voice dropped a notch.
"Noise invites memory. That's not always safe here."
Then she kept walking.
He stayed still.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to wonder if forgetting might be safer after all.
He caught up just as someone stepped into the path ahead.
A woman—older, maybe, or just worn in the way this place seemed to do to people. She carried a woven tray looped with dried herbs and something pale wrapped in cloth.
"Morning," she said, not looking at him. Her eyes were on Morana. "Got rootleaf in early. Cured proper this time. No leaks."
Morana shook her head. "We're stocked."
The woman didn't move. "Not for long, you're not."
Her voice was gentle, but there was weight behind it; not a threat—just certainty, like someone who knew how long things lasted around here.
Morana didn't flinch. "We'll risk it."
The woman's eyes flicked, quick, to him. She didn't smile, but her face shifted—recognition, maybe. Or the start of it.
"New one," she murmured.
He straightened without meaning to.
"Still breathing," he said.
The woman huffed, not unkindly. "For now." Then she turned, tray swinging slightly, and slipped between two leaning doorframes like the village had made space just for her.
He watched until she vanished. The alley behind her filled in too fast.
"What was that?" he asked.
"Commerce," Morana said. "And warning."
He stepped beside her, close enough that their arms could've touched if either of them shifted. "She knew I didn't belong."
"They all do," Morana said. "This place doesn't get visitors. It gets echoes."
He didn't like the sound of that.
"Rootleaf," he repeated. "Why turn it down if we'll need it?"
Morana adjusted the strap on her shoulder. "It only grows near the Vale. Everything near the Vale brings memory with it. Even dried. Even wrapped. You carry too many foreign pieces at once, the world notices."
"Like the alley."
She nodded. "Like the alley."
He let that settle. Then: "But if we're low on supplies—"
"We'll scavenge. Trade. Find better risks." She looked at him, finally. "You're already one."
He didn't apologize. Just kept pace.
They passed a mural flaking off one wall—hands reaching up from water, or maybe sinking into it. The faces were blurred with age. Or paint. Or intention.
He stopped again, slower this time. Looked at it.
"What is this place really?" he asked.
Morana paused too. Not long.
"It's a waiting room," she said. "For people the world wasn't done with, but didn't want anymore."
He stared at the mural.
And felt—somewhere deep, where language couldn't reach—a flicker.
A song in a car window. A laugh under fluorescent lights. A coffee stain drying on fake wood.
He looked away.
"I'm not here to wait."
Morana didn't smile, but her voice eased.
"Good."
Then she turned.
And this time, he led.
He took the next turn without asking.
Didn't know where it went—just knew it felt like forward. Past a shed sunk into itself like it'd been exhaling too long. Past wire fences twisted with faded red cloth. Past a boy in the shadows of a doorway, watching him like he knew the end of the story already.
Morana didn't comment. She didn't have to.
At the edge of the village, the houses thinned. One last gate leaned open, half-buried in brush. Beyond it—nothing paved. Just hillside, sparse trees, and the shimmer of distance warping in place. The border, maybe. Or the beginning.
Morana tilted her head, just enough. "You still feel the ache?"
He touched his temple, where the pressure had never fully gone away. "Yeah."
"It's normal," she said. "Means you're still resisting."
"What happens if I stop?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she knelt in the grass. Dug out a stone box the size of her palm, tucked between two roots like it had been left for her. She opened it. Inside—three coins, a strip of woven wire, and a feather that shimmered like it didn't belong to a bird.
She took the wire. Pocketed one coin. Left the rest.
"Cache," she said.
He crouched beside her. "You hide them?"
"We all do. In case the world turns fast."
"What's the wire for?"
She held it up. "Warding. Against memory storms."
He waited for her to explain.
She didn't.
Instead, she stood, brushing dirt from her palms. "Come on. The gate's not far."
"The gate?"
"Not the kind you came through," she said. "But it's thin. Old enough to let in bleed from the other side. Sometimes we get echoes. Pieces of other worlds."
He blinked. "Other worlds? Like mine?"
She nodded once. "And others. Not all human."
They walked side by side, wind tugging at the grass like it was trying to write something they couldn't read. Every few steps, the air shifted—warmer, then cool again, then still.
He spoke before he could talk himself out of it. "Why are you helping me?"
Morana didn't answer right away.
"Because I knew someone like you. Once."
"What happened to them?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Not at him. At something distant.
"They remembered too much."
They reached the ridge.
Below it, a clearing warped the light—no clear center, no real edges.
Just a thinning, like the world had stretched too far and forgot how to hold itself.
He swallowed. "Is that the gate?"
"No," she said softly. "That's a scar."
He waited.
"This is where a world died," she said. "Or was supposed to. But something got left behind. Thought. Intention. Hunger. We don't go in. But we listen."
He stepped closer, only half-conscious of it. The light there hummed—not sound, not exactly. Just vibration in the bones. Like grief someone else hadn't finished feeling.
Morana handed him the woven wire.
"Wrap it around your wrist," she said.
He obeyed. The moment the loop closed, the pressure in his head dulled.
"That's not normal," he murmured.
Morana nodded. "Exactly."
He turned to her. "How many worlds are there?"
She studied him for a long time. Longer than she ever had before.
Then said, "Too many."
"But they're connected."
"Loosely. Like threads that shouldn't touch, but do."
He looked back at the scar. "What holds them together?"
Morana's expression didn't change.
But her voice did. It gentled.
"Me."
His breath caught. "You?"
She nodded.
The wind quieted.
"What are you?" he asked, low.
She met his eyes. For once, didn't look away.
"The last thing most people meet. The first thing they forget."
His mouth went dry.
"You're—"
"Not now," she said. "You're not ready to hear it. But you will be. Soon."
Then she turned toward the clearing—toward the impossible light—and said, without flinching:
"Let's find what doesn't belong."
And he followed.
Because maybe this wasn't about surviving.
Maybe it never was.
The clearing buzzed. Not loud. Not even sound. Just a feeling in the jaw; a hum under the tongue like a word he couldn't say yet.
He walked slow, stepping where Morana stepped. The grass here was wrong—flat and colorless, but not dead. Like it hadn't learned how to be green. Light pooled in strange places. Nothing cast a proper shadow.
"How do we know what doesn't belong?" he asked.
Morana didn't stop. "We feel it."
"That's it?"
She nodded once. "If it makes sense too fast, it's a trap."
They circled the edge of the scar. No markers. No signs. Just a faint ripple at the corners of his vision. He blinked, and it stuttered. Like something glitching in the background of a dream.
He crouched by a crack in the soil. Stuck his hand out. The air pulsed against his palm—cold, then warm, then numb. He flinched.
"Careful," Morana said, still watching ahead. "That spot's close to bleed."
He stood again. Shoved his hands in his pockets like it hadn't gotten to him. Like the tingling wasn't still there, buzzing under the skin.
They kept moving. One step. Then another.
He stopped.
Morana didn't.
There, half-buried in the grass: a can of soda.
Red. Dented. Real.
He picked it up.
It hissed open before he could decide.
She turned.
Her eyes didn't widen, but her stance changed. Slight shift of weight. Hand brushing the inside of her coat like she was remembering where a weapon used to be.
"You shouldn't touch that."
He stared at the can. Familiar label. Same one from gas stations back home. Same stale sweetness in the back of his throat.
"I drank these. All the time."
"That's why it's here," she said.
"But it's just a drink."
"No," Morana said. "It's a hook."
He dropped it. It landed too soft. No bounce. Like the world had already started absorbing it.
"How?" he asked, quiet.
"Your mind reached back. The world pulled forward." She stepped closer, gaze still locked on the can. "That's how bleed works. One memory, even small, can drag pieces through."
He didn't move.
"Sometimes it's just trash," she said. "Sometimes it's people."
He looked at her. Really looked.
She wasn't breathing hard. Wasn't tense. But her eyes… they held something. Not fear. Not exactly.
Grief.
"How many have you lost to this?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she knelt beside the can. Touched it with one finger.
It dissolved. Not burned. Not faded. Just… unmade.
He exhaled. "So what do we do? Just erase everything?"
"No," she said. "We follow it. See what else came through."
She pointed toward a cluster of trees—bare, bone-pale, clustered too tight for comfort.
He nodded. Swallowed.
Followed.
They reached the trees. The air thinned. Every breath felt like it passed through someone else's lungs first.
Branches arched low, almost touching. One of them had fabric caught on it—a strip of hoodie sleeve, dark blue, torn clean.
He stared.
His voice barely made it out.
"…That was mine."
Morana didn't touch it. Just looked at him, patient.
"I wore that on the day—"
He stopped.
The memory hit sideways. Rain. A streetlight. A hand grabbing his shoulder and then nothing.
She nodded. "You're getting close."
"To what?"
Morana's voice was softer now.
"Whatever brought you here."
He reached out. Took the fabric. It didn't vanish. Didn't sting.
Just hung limp in his hand.
And for a second, the world bent again. Not violently. Just enough for him to feel it watching.
Still breathing, he thought.
Still here.
When he turned back, Morana wasn't watching the trees anymore.
She was looking at the sky.
He followed her gaze.
The crack in the sun had widened. Just a little. Just enough.
She whispered, not to him: "He's waking up."
The wind stopped moving.
And the trees, finally, started to.