Back to Present Time

  “You’ve been in the real world,” Chad said, his tone calm but intent. “Tell me what it was like.”

  John glanced over, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

  Chad walked with purpose, boots steady against the dream-warped terrain. “You got out. Even if you don’t know how, you made it back. That matters.”

  Alora studied Chad. “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I’m not,” he replied. “I always believed one of us would make it. I just didn’t expect it to be him.”

  He looked at John again, this time with something heavier in his gaze — not pity, not awe. Recognition.

  “I want to know what it felt like,” Chad said. “Not just the world. You. How you changed. What stayed with you.”

  John didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure if he even knew.

  “You’ve been in the real world,” Chad said, tone steady. “Tell me—are there still a lot of people?”

  John hesitated, but Alora stepped in. “Yeah. Crowded, even. Cars, lights, noise everywhere. It doesn’t stop.”

  Chad gave a faint nod, like he was trying to picture it. “And the food?”

  Alora smiled faintly. “Better than anything here. Greasy burgers. Fresh fruit. Real coffee.”

  Chad exhaled through his nose — not quite a laugh, but close. “I want to try coffee.”

  Alora tilted her head. “What about here? Are there… a lot of people left?”

  Chad’s eyes dropped for a moment, and when he answered, his voice was quieter. “Not many. Most don’t last long.”

  John looked up. “Because of the creatures?”

  Chad nodded once. “Some of them get hunted. Some just… lose themselves. This world doesn’t forgive aimlessness.”

  A silence followed, not heavy, but thick with things unspoken.

  The silence lingered for a beat too long. Then John spoke.

  “Who are you to me?”

  Chad stopped walking. His eyes lifted, sharp and alert — but not surprised.

  “You said my name like you knew me,” John continued, stepping forward. “Not just like someone you saved. Like someone you missed.”

  Alora glanced between them.

  “And when you said I ‘got out’ — what did you mean by that? You don’t talk like someone guessing. You talk like someone who’s been waiting.”

  Chad didn’t answer right away. He looked at John, really looked at him — not just as he was now, but as if he saw something buried underneath.

  “You feel it, don’t you?” Chad finally said. “That pull in your chest — like you’ve been walking in circles trying to remember something that matters.”

  John’s mouth tightened.

  “You and I knew each other before all this,” Chad said. “Not as strangers. As something deeper. But I can’t force you to see it.”

  “Try,” John said, voice low.

  Chad gave a faint nod. “You got out because part of you still wanted to live. That part of you—the one that clawed its way to the surface—it’s the same part that remembers me. Even if you don’t know why.”

  The trail curved beneath a low canopy of crooked trees, their branches leaning like eaves toward the path, as if listening. The dirt was soft and dark, scattered with strange leaves—broad and waxy, but shaped like human hands.

  Ahead, the path began to rise into a modest hill, the incline gentle but growing steeper with every step. At the top stood a signpost, clearly hand-made—two thick planks of wood nailed into a splintered post, angled in opposing directions.

  The carvings were uneven, like someone had done them with a dull blade and shaking hands.

  One read: “Lellum’s Hollow”

  The other: “The Waxing Pines”

  The letters weren’t just cut — they shifted, subtly, as if resisting the shape they were forced into. Chad paused at the fork, studying the signs without touching them.

  The wind rolled over the hilltop, warm and dry, carrying the faint scent of ash and old perfume. Far off to the right, beyond the pine-lined trail, a river floated above its own banks—hovering, unmoving, like it had forgotten how gravity worked.

  “So which way?” John asked.

  Chad looked toward the sign marked Lellum’s Hollow. “That one’s older. We’ll take it.”

  John stepped over a crooked tree root and paused, shielding his eyes against the soft, dreamlike sunlight that poured through the leaves overhead. The sky was a washed-out blue, almost watercolor in quality—but what caught his attention wasn’t the color. It was the moons.

  Two of them hung high above the hills. Pale, ghostly orbs side by side. One was cratered like the moon he remembered from home, while the other was smooth and faintly glowing, as if lit from within. Both fully visible in broad daylight.

  John kept his gaze on the sky. “Is this still Earth?”

  That made Chad hesitate. His lips parted, then closed again.

  “I mean… is it a version of it? A dream layered over it? Or is this something older? Something underneath?”

  Chad looked at him differently now—not startled, but studied. As if John had just said something too close to something real.

  “You’re getting warm,” Chad said, voice quieter. “Too warm.”

  John turned to him. “Then tell me. Who are you to me? Why do I feel like I already know you?”

  Chad’s jaw tensed. For a moment, the air seemed to hold still between them.

  “I want to,” Chad said finally, his voice heavy with truth he couldn't yet give. “But if I do now… it’ll break more than it fixes.”

  Chad exhaled through his nose, then gave a crooked smile as they continued walking along the trail. The wind shifted gently, rustling the leaves in lazy spirals down the hillside.

  “Think of us like brothers,” he said at last. “You, me, Linda... we’re all closer than you’d think. But for now, it’s just something you’ll have to learn on your own.”

  John looked at him, waiting for more, but Chad only shook his head, his expression caught somewhere between regret and restraint.

  “I really do wish I could tell you more,” he added, quieter now. “But I simply can’t find the words. Or maybe... maybe the words don’t even exist for it yet.”

  He stopped, turning slightly toward John. “What is it about you?” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “How far back do you remember, John?”

  John furrowed his brow, thinking hard. The breeze tugged at his shirt, and in the distance a soft chime rang out—though no wind chime could be seen.

  “I guess... it was about three years ago,” John said slowly. “That’s when I stumbled into town. Echo Park. I remember it, but... vaguely. Like I’d been there before, but not really. Like a memory that’s not mine.”

  Chad went completely still.

  Three years.

  His eyes widened, and for a moment, all the light seemed to drain from his face.

  “That’s not possible,” he whispered.

  John caught the faint shape of Chad’s lips moving, but the words didn’t quite reach him. The wind carried them away like ash.

  “What?” John asked, glancing over. “What’s not possible?”

  Alora didn’t even notice. She was walking ahead, slowly turning in place, taking in the way the trees shimmered like painted glass and how the shadows twisted upward instead of stretching across the trail. Her fingers brushed against leaves that pulsed faintly with light, too enthralled to catch the conversation behind her.

  John tried to see Chad’s face, but the older man had turned slightly away, his shoulders tight. Then, just for a second, John caught it — a single tear trailing down Chad’s cheek.

  “It’s nothing,” Chad said quickly, wiping it away without looking back. His voice was composed, but something beneath it trembled.

  John’s brows drew together. “How long have you and Linda been here?”

  Chad let out a short breath, almost like a laugh—but there was no humor in it.

  “A really long time,” he said, voice distant now. “Long enough to forget what home even means… and long enough to remember it too well.”

  John felt a cold shiver run through him.

  “Like… years?”

  Chad didn’t answer that. Just kept walking.

  As the trail curved around a mossy bend, the trees began to thin, revealing a more detailed path ahead. Smooth stones, carefully placed, formed a walkway that looked hand-built yet untouched by time. A small wooden bridge arched gracefully over a narrow stream, the wood worn but not rotted — as if it had existed outside decay.

  The water below shimmered with a faint inner light, not from the sun, but from flower-like pads drifting lazily downstream. Each one gave off a soft glow, hues of violet and pale gold. Fireflies bobbed through the air in loose spirals, their movements slow, almost reverent.

  Alora paused at the edge of the bridge, her eyes wide.

  “Chad…” she said, “can you make things appear? Like… objects? Or even monsters?”

  Chad stopped beside her. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he lifted his hand, palm up, and held it still in the quiet air.

  A swirl of silvery mist gathered in his hand, flickering like static, and from it emerged a delicate butterfly — wings wide and translucent, refracting the air itself. It beat its wings once, twice, then drifted up into the breeze, trailing a faint sparkle behind it.

  “I can make simple things,” Chad said, watching the butterfly disappear into the trees. “But that’s about it.”

  Alora turned to him, her voice laced with wonder. “Can we do that too?”

  Chad looked at her for a moment — really looked — and then shrugged gently.

  “I don’t see why you couldn’t,” he said. “This place doesn’t follow rules. It follows intention.”

  They crossed the wooden bridge in silence, the soft trickle of glowing water below filling the space between them. As they stepped back onto solid earth, John slowed his pace.

  “I forgot to mention something,” he said. “Before everything went to hell back in that cabin… I found these journals. They looked old — like, really old. The pages were brittle. Ink faded.”

  Chad turned his head toward him, interest sharpening. “Do you know who wrote them?”

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  John shook his head. “There wasn’t a name. Not on the covers, not inside. Just… entries. Some neat, some messy. Like someone trying to make sense of things as they went.”

  Chad smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Now that might come in handy.”

  He stopped walking, letting the moment settle. “What all have you read so far?”

  John shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Bits and pieces. The person seemed new to this world, too trying to understand it. Writing about how time felt broken. How things changed when they thought too hard. There were sketches, too. Symbols I didn’t recognize.”

  Chad's smile faded into something more thoughtful.

  “And you said there were more?”

  John nodded. “I think so. They mentioned ‘another volume’ like they were planning to keep writing. I don’t know where the others are, though.”

  Chad looked off into the distance, as if hoping to spot something lost long ago.

  “I don’t either,” he said quietly. “But if they’re real, and you found one, that means the others might still be out there. Maybe even waiting for you.”

  John raised a brow. “Me?”

  Chad nodded. “You’re the one who got out and came back. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

  A few fireflies drifted around them, pulsing softly.

  “If I were you,” Chad said, “I’d read every word. Front to back. There’s a reason it found you, John. And I have a feeling it’s not done talking yet.”

  Alora, who had been quietly listening as they walked, glanced between the two of them with a thoughtful look.

  “You sure you didn’t write them?” she asked, half-teasing. “Sounds like something you’d do. All cryptic, guiding-from-the-shadows stuff.”

  Chad let out a soft, genuine laugh the kind that seemed rare on him. “I get why you’d think that,” he said, eyes still glinting with humor. “But no. I didn’t write them.”

  He slowed a little, gaze drifting upward as if the fireflies reminded him of something far away. “But… I might know who did.”

  John perked up. “Yeah?”

  Chad gave a light shrug, like the thought carried more weight than he let on. “An old friend of mine,” he said, voice touched with fondness. “Or at least, that’s my guess. He had a way with words, too many of them, usually but always trying to make sense of things no one else could.”

  Alora raised an eyebrow. “Was he like you?”

  Chad gave a small nod. “In some ways yes he was like me”

  He looked back to John.

  “If it was him, those journals could be more than notes. They might be maps. Lessons. Warnings.”

  John looked down, recalling the careful sketches and fragmented thoughts written in the margins.

  A few fireflies drifted between them, their tiny bodies pulsing with soft golden light. One brushed past John’s cheek.

  His breath caught.

  The forest seemed to tilt just slightly. Like the world leaned in closer.

  The sounds around him dulled. The glow of the stream below the bridge stretched, twisted, became something deeper than light it became memory.

  He blinked, and the forest was gone.

  He was standing in a hallway. A long, cold corridor with black walls and flickering lights above. The air smelled of old parchment and burning metal.

  “You don’t remember, do you?”

  The voice wasn’t behind him, it was inside him. Deep, ancient, and cracked by grief.

  A figure stood at the end of the corridor. Cloaked in black, but not in shadow — in sorrow. A mask covered half his face, the other side burned, seared with lines that pulsed like embers under skin.

  John took a step back. His chest constricted.

  “You need to learn to deal with these things,” the figure said, voice trembling. “And not just let them go.”

  The ground beneath John split not in reality, but in sensation. Like a faultline cracked beneath his ribs. The world rushed in—

  Then water.

  Cold. Crushing. Real.

  Chad’s arms were around him, dragging him up through the stream. The glowing lily-pads scattered as John burst through the surface, coughing, gasping.

  Alora knelt by the water’s edge, reaching out. “John!”

  Chad hauled him to the shore, both of them soaked, water dripping from their clothes in slow, dreamlike trails. John’s bandages were falling off as he collapsed onto the soft moss. His vision swam with afterimages of the burned man, the corridor, the voice.

  “We need to get you fixed up soon,” Chad said, kneeling beside him, voice tight with urgency. “You must have seen something huh. It’s those fireflies.”

  John coughed again, trying to sit up. “I saw someone.”

  Chad’s jaw clenched. “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” John whispered. “He had a mask on.”

  Chad didn’t speak right away. His hands were trembling, just slightly.

  “The fireflies,” Alora said softly. “There was something weird about them. Like they were watching.”

  Chad nodded grimly. “They don’t just light the way. They stir things up, memories, dreams, fears. Some say they feed off what we forget.”

  John looked back at the water. The stream was calm again. Peaceful. But something beneath the surface shimmered a faint face, gone when he blinked.

  “What the hell is happening to me?” he asked.

  Chad exhaled slowly. “You’ve been gone for too long.”

  “Three years is that long?”

  Chad met his eyes. “Something like that.”

  Alora shook off the lingering worry, her eyes flicking back to the trail ahead.

  “How much further is this place?” she asked, voice steady but tinged with impatience.

  Chad glanced over his shoulder, his gaze calm but measured.

  “Not far. Just a little further.”

  She didn’t let it go. “You said you could make things appear… but how? Like actual things? Monsters, objects?”

  Chad stopped walking, letting the silence stretch between them like a drawn breath. He looked up at the sky—the twin moons hanging low and watching. Then back at Alora.

  “This place… it’s not like anything you’ve known. It doesn’t obey the rules you remember.” His voice lowered, almost reverent. “Here, things don’t just exist because someone wants them. They come from intention. From belief. From the part of you that knows what to shape, even when you don’t fully understand it.”

  He raised his hand again, palm open to the sky. Slowly, a faint shimmer coalesced in the air—like heat rising off a summer road. It wavered, then sharpened into the silhouette of a small, glowing orb. It pulsed gently, brightening and dimming like a heartbeat.

  “Simple things are easier to pull into being,” Chad said, his eyes never leaving the orb. “Complex shapes—like creatures or weapons—take more focus, more... energy. And sometimes, they take pieces of you you didn’t realize you still had.”

  Alora’s breath caught as the orb floated between them, casting soft light on the shadows beneath the trees.

  “So, if I wanted to make something… dangerous?”

  Chad’s lips curled into a faint smile—half warning, half challenge.

  “Then you’d better be ready to pay the price.”

  The orb dissolved into a cascade of tiny sparks, drifting away on the breeze.

  Alora looked back at Chad, eyes sharp and thoughtful.

  “Show me sometime.”

  Chad gave a short nod, the faintest glimmer of something unspoken in his gaze.

  “Focus really hard on something and know it to be true. That it’s possible to bring it forward, and that it’s expected to come to you. If you have the slightest doubt, your mind will fail you here.”

  He let the words settle before continuing, voice low and patient.

  “It’s easier to picture the thing in your head first—see it clearly in your thoughts. Then reach for it. When you can see it there, in your mind’s eye, you’ll know how it feels when you grab it.”

  Alora blinked, still trying to grasp the mechanics. She furrowed her brow, clearly stumped.

  Then her eyes widened.

  John, without hesitation, lifted his good arm slowly. A faint flicker of light sparked at his fingertips. The air shimmered, twisting softly—and then, materializing as if pulled from a hidden corner of the world, appeared Hasta—solid, gleaming, and real in his grasp.

  Chad’s lips curved into a small, approving smile.

  “Not bad. You did well.”

  John glanced at the hasta, then back at Chad. “I’ve done this before,” he said quietly. “But I never really understood how. Now… it makes sense.”

  Chad nodded, eyes reflecting something deeper—pride, perhaps, or cautious hope.

  “The next big step is learning how to bend the world around you. Not just pulling things out of thin air, but shaping reality itself.”

  He shook his head, a shadow crossing his face.

  “Even I haven’t mastered that part yet.”

  The air hung thick between them, charged with possibility—and with the unspoken promise that the hardest trials still lay ahead.

  Alora crossed her arms. “If you haven’t mastered it… how do you even know it’s possible?”

  Chad raised a brow and shrugged with a grin. “Because if it’s not, then I’ve been wasting the last couple centuries chasing a really elaborate daydream.”

  John smirked. Alora rolled her eyes—but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth anyway.

  “Alright, fair enough,” she said. “Your turn. What do you want to know?”

  Chad let the question hang as they moved farther down the polished stone trail. The trees gave way to a clearing ahead, and through the shifting light, they spotted a handful of houses nestled between low hills.

  The cabins were simple, but sturdy—built from thick wooden logs, with pitched roofs and stone chimneys. Smoke trailed lazily from one of them. The grass around the homes was cut, the hedges shaped, and a small path of painted stones led from one front porch to a nearby well.

  It was the first sign of civilization John had seen that didn’t look half-destroyed.

  “Looks like someone’s been keeping up with the lawn,” he muttered.

  Chad nodded. “If we can figure out how to master that creation technique soon… maybe I’ll finally get to try that ‘real world’ food I’ve heard about.”

  John laughed. “That makes sense now. Why Asani only ever gave us bread. He probably doesn’t actually know anything else.”

  “I can manage,” Alora said, half to herself, clearly already thinking of meals she might try conjuring. Then her gaze turned toward Chad again. “Is Linda here?”

  Chad’s face dimmed with uncertainty. “I’m not sure. If she’s not in this area, then… it means we should’ve taken the other path. The Waxing Pines.”

  Alora came to a full stop, her smile vanishing. “Wait. You mean to tell me you guessed which way to go?”

  Chad shrugged, unbothered. “They both would've led somewhere. One just might’ve taken longer.”

  Her jaw tightened. “Unbelievable.” She turned away and kept walking, her footsteps a little sharper on the stones.

  John let out a laugh, then opened his hand and let Hasta dissolve in a blink — the weapon bursting into tiny spheres of light that danced upward like dandelion seeds.

  Chad caught the display out of the corner of his eye and gave a subtle, approving smirk.

  But he said nothing.

  As they walked deeper into the small village, John and Alora took in the new sights — simple yet strange in their serenity. A few people moved about the area, not many. A man with a thick gray beard and arms like oak carried chopped wood to a neat pile near one of the houses. A young woman in patchwork overalls tended to a lush garden of red, bell-shaped flowers that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. A child chased after a slow-moving chicken with a crown of moss on its head, giggling all the while.

  The homes looked like something out of a forgotten countryside — crafted from dark, polished logs, the roofs sloped low with curling vines along their sides. Everything looked lived in and loved, yet not run-down. The landscaping was carefully kept — flowers in bloom, walkways swept, wood stacked with care.

  Chad led them toward a cabin set slightly apart from the others, smoke curling steadily from the stone chimney. Its porch creaked softly under their steps, the wooden boards warm beneath their feet.

  As Chad opened the door, a soft floral scent welcomed them — earthy and sweet, like jasmine, cedar, and something faintly minty. Inside, the cabin felt alive with warmth and quiet elegance. There were smooth stone floors, shelves of hand-carved trinkets, dried flowers hanging upside-down in bunches. The walls breathed with soft greens and browns, lit by small floating orbs of golden light tucked near the ceiling beams. It felt like nature itself had grown the place into being.

  “Linda?” Chad called, his voice gentler than it had been all day.

  From deeper in the house came the sound of light footsteps, followed by a soft, airy laugh — a sound that made the room feel luckier just for hearing it.

  She stepped into view with a grace that seemed unshaken by time or hardship.

  Long, blonde hair flowed to the center of her back, and she wore a white sundress that hung comfortably over her short, slightly rounded frame. She stood maybe five-foot-seven, her figure soft but strong, grounded. Her smile — wide, welcoming — had the rare kind of warmth that made you feel like the most important person in the world.

  Her eyes were a clear ocean blue, but foggy at the center — just enough to suggest what John already felt in his chest.

  She looked slightly older than Chad — maybe old enough to be his mother — yet her presence had no weight of age. She glowed with something timeless.

  “I’m so happy you two are okay,” she said, her voice like a summer wind. “I was very worried.”

  John stood in awe, struck by an overwhelming sense of emotion — like he had missed her deeply, even though they had just met. It made no sense, but it didn’t have to.

  Alora stepped forward, her voice soft with awe. “You’re… you’re beautiful.”

  Linda smiled with just her lips, but the way she did it made it seem like Alora had just made her entire week.

  “Thank you, sweet girl,” she said warmly. “And so are you. You shine.”

  She stepped toward John, lifting her arms just a little too early for a hug — and in that second, he realized. He moved forward to meet her, embracing her gently.

  As he held her, he felt something strange — not unfamiliar, but… aching. A bond deep and unspoken, and beneath it, a weight. A quiet sorrow.

  “You’re blind,” John murmured softly, almost not realizing he said it aloud.

  Still smiling, Linda pulled back just enough to look toward him.

  “I see what’s most important,” she said. “And you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

  Alora gasped softly, her hand covering her mouth as the truth sank in. She looked at Chad — who, for the first time since they arrived, looked completely at peace. Seeing the two of them together filled him with something that looked very close to joy.

  John stepped back from the hug, still trying to process the strange ache in his chest. Something about Linda made the world feel quieter… safer.

  “Come,” she said gently, turning toward a hallway lined with hanging herbs and lanterns. “There’s tea on the stove and a fire waiting. You’ve walked through enough shadows for one day... Tomorrow, the dream will ask more of you.”

  Chad gave John a look — not a warning, not quite relief. Just a silent moment of understanding.

  As they followed her inside, the door closed behind them, and for the first time in a long time, the dream didn’t feel so hostile.

  It felt like home — even if none of them could remember why.