Christopher's journal continues through firelight and dream. What began as distant visions now presses closer, drawing him into moments that feel less imagined and more shared. This entry marks a shift, and he is no longer only watching from afar.
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The fire crackles low tonight. We sit in a ring, weary from the day's climb. The guide speaks little, tending her maps by the glow. James broods beside Andrea, rubbing at his brow, muttering about lost time. Andrea says nothing, only stares into the flames.
The longer she stares, the stranger it becomes. The flame leans toward her as if drawn, tongues of fire bending sideways, never flicking toward the wind. I waited for someone to notice, to remark on the draft, but no one did. They only shifted closer for warmth, blind to the fire bowing. I watched in silence, my pen trembling. Even the flame obeys her, though she does not see.
I fell asleep to that sight.
And then I dreamed.
The desert again, white and endless, my footprints swallowed as soon as they were made. The cold burrowed into me, that cruel kind of silence where even one's heartbeat feels stolen. I turned, searching for direction, and there she was. Andrea. She walked ahead, gold unfurling from her in ribbons, drifting slowly like banners caught in a wind no eye could see.
I called out to her, though the air devoured my voice. She stopped. Slowly, she turned. And she saw me. Not past me, not through me. Her eyes met mine, sharp and knowing, as if she had been aware of me all along.
The desert shook, the ribbons burning brighter, and a whisper clawed through the silence: She carries what will undo the hush.
I woke damp with sweat, the embers still glowing low. I could not write then. My hand refused the pen. Only now, at first light, do I gather myself enough to record it.
At breakfast, she sat quiet, stirring her tea, though her gaze wandered far. James carried on with his impatience, railing against the trail, his voice thick with frustration. Andrea only smiled faintly, as though she had already been somewhere he could not follow. At one point, she caught me watching her, and for an instant, I thought I saw the desert in her eyes.
I dare not ask. She would laugh it off, perhaps call it nothing but a dream. Yet I know. She saw me there.
And Heaven wills it so.
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Christopher does not understand why the fire bent, why the ice desert called, or why Andrea's eyes met his in a place neither of them should have been. He clings to the belief that Heaven shows him these things by design, not to drive him into doubt.
What he sees unsettles him, yet he writes all the same. Perhaps because he fears losing his mind if he does not... or perhaps because he knows every word matters.