Ethan hadn't seen Mr. Abernathy since that morning he stormed out of the bookstore.
Days had passed — days filled with too many thoughts and not enough air.
The dreams kept coming. Always the same: a flash of white light, the beep of a heart monitor, a woman's voice crying his name.
Then he'd wake, gasping, with the taste of metal in his mouth.
He told himself it was stress. A bad week. Nothing more.
But deep down, a part of him, the part that remembered those glowing blue eyes — knew it wasn't.
That morning, he found himself standing again before the bookstore door, staring at the familiar gold letters on the glass.
He almost turned back. Almost.
But something inside pushed him to open it.
The bell chimed softly as he stepped in.
The air smelled the same — paper, ink, and dust.
Mr. Abernathy was behind the counter, sorting through a box of books.
He looked up, surprised but smiling faintly.
"Ethan… I wasn't expecting you."
Ethan swallowed. "Yeah, I just… needed to talk."
Abernathy gestured toward a chair. "Go ahead, son."
Ethan sat, hands fidgeting with his sleeves.
For a moment, the silence stretched, heavy but calm.
Then he said quietly:
"I've been having dreams again."
Abernathy's brows lifted. "Dreams?"
"They feel real," Ethan continued. "And not just that — sometimes, when I'm awake, things slip. The lights, the reflections, even the clocks. It's like the world cracks for a second, then fixes itself."
Mr. Abernathy's smile didn't fade, but his eyes changed — softer, uncertain.
"You've been overworking yourself," He said gently.
"The mind plays tricks when it's tired."
Ethan let out a dry laugh. "Tricks don't bleed into reality."
His tone trembled between anger and pleading.
"Just tell me the truth. Am I losing it? Or is there something you're not telling me?"
Abernathy's voice hardened — not cruel, just sharp with fear.
"Where are you getting these ideas from, boy?"
Ethan hesitated, then looked away. "…Blue eyes."
Abernathy blinked. "Blue eyes?"
The words came out small, almost rehearsed.
"A man. He said you were the Gatekeeper."
For a long moment, Abernathy said nothing.
Then he chuckled — lightly, nervously.
"You met someone, and now he's filling your head with nonsense. Ethan, listen to me — there are strange people in this world who feed on imagination. You mustn't let them."
"I saw the book," Ethan said softly. "The one with the blank pages. He showed it to me."
Abernathy's smile wavered, but he held his ground.
"A printing error. Nothing more."
"Stop lying to me," Ethan snapped.
Abernathy froze. The kind of stillness that says too much.
But then he sighed, shoulders slumping.
His tone wasn't defensive now — it was weary. Sad.
"You don't need to carry what you're not ready to understand. Some truths don't heal — they destroy."
Ethan's voice softened, trembling with hurt.
"what are you talking about?"
Abernathy met his gaze. There was no answer in his eyes — only pity.
He placed a hand on the counter, voice low.
"Look, forget this talk. Take a break. As long as you need. When you're ready… come back."
Ethan stared at him for a long moment — the man who had always felt like family, now a stranger wrapped in calm lies.
He stood slowly.
"You think I'm crazy."
"I think you're scared," Abernathy replied.
Ethan turned away, blinking back the sting in his eyes, and walked out into the light rain.
Inside, the shop fell silent.
Mr. Abernathy stood still, watching through the window as Ethan disappeared into the gray street.
Then he coughed. Hard.
He pressed a hand to his mouth and when he pulled it away, it was smeared with red.
His eyes trembled. His breathing grew shallow.
He whispered to no one:
"Not yet… please, not yet…"
He stumbled toward the counter, gripping its edge.
For a moment, the walls flickered — the bookshelves wavered, as though the world itself was losing focus.
Then, just as quickly, everything stilled again.
Abernathy wiped the blood on a handkerchief, tucked it into his pocket, and straightened up, face pale but composed.
He looked t
oward the door where Ethan had gone.
"I'm running out of time," he said softly.
Thunder rolled outside — or maybe it wasn't thunder at all.