Marin didn't ask where I had gone—not at first. She just watched me for hours, her eyes calm, focused, and unblinking. She observed my every move, whether I was sitting still or doing nothing at all. It was as if she wasn't trying to catch a lie; she was waiting to see which version of me would surface next.
The morning passed in silence. I repaired the southern tripwire while she cleaned her gear. By noon, she had reorganized the entire east storage shelf—not out of necessity, but out of habit. Soldiers keep busy when the world starts shifting beneath their boots, and I think she could feel it: the shift in me, in the chapel, in the air.
It wasn't until I lit the first candle for nightfall that she finally spoke. "You didn't sleep." I didn't respond. She waited a moment before adding, "Not just last night. You haven't slept in three days."
I looked at the candle, letting the wax drip between my fingers before I replied, "I don't need to."
Marin nodded and took a pause. Then she crossed the floor slowly, her boots clicking softly on the stone, until she stood three feet away from me.
"You're not bleeding anymore," she said, "not when you cut yourself on the bone hooks. Not a drop." Still, I didn't respond.
"Your hands don't shake," she continued. "You haven't blinked in over a minute. And yesterday, I watched you pick up a live blade by the edge and not notice until I pointed it out."
Her voice dropped—low, steady, not accusing but assessing. "So I'm going to ask you one question, and I want your answer to be honest."
I finally met her eyes for the first time in hours, maybe days, and saw something worse than fear: concern for me, or what was left of me.
"Lucas," she said, "What did you see beneath the chapel?"
There were a dozen ways to answer that question—none of them safe, all of them proper. But the truth isn't just a fact in this world; it's a weight. Once spoken, it can't be carried by only one set of shoulders.
So I told her about the wall that moved, the stairs that curved, the chamber, the journal that was mine but not mine, the words I didn't write echoing in my voice, and the feeling—not of being watched but of being anticipated.
She didn't interrupt—not once. She just stood there, breathing slowly through her nose, her eyes trained on mine like she was measuring the depth of a wound. When I finished, she let the silence settle for ten whole seconds before replying. Then she sat down on the cold stone floor, her arms on her knees, and finally said, "You should have told me before you went."
That was it—no anger, no orders—just a statement, a line drawn in understanding. I lowered myself beside her, not quite touching.
"The journal," I said quietly, "ended on Day 14." Exactly."
She turned slightly. "And this is Day 22."
I nodded. "So you're writing a future that wasn't expected."
Or maybe uninvited. We stayed there for a while. The candle burned lower, wax pooling between us. Then she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled photograph. It had been folded many times, worn, and faded.
A man in his mid-thirties smiled, wearing military fatigues, with one arm around a younger girl, Marin, perhaps seventeen years old.
"Carry this to remind myself what I'm not," she said, glancing at it. "I didn't think I needed a mirror until now."
The room felt heavier, not colder, just more aware, as if the chapel itself was listening, holding its breath.
"I'm still me," I said.
She didn't argue, but she didn't agree either. She looked up at the ceiling, toward the cracked beams and spiderwebs clinging to them. "Then keep writing."
I blinked. "What?"
She turned to face me. "Keep writing in the journal, even if it's not your voice anymore. Especially if it isn't."
"Why?"
"Because I need a map," she said.
"A map of what?"
"Of what happens to someone like you."
After that, she stood up, leaving me the photograph without saying where she was going—only that she'd be back by sunrise.
When I returned to the basement, the journal was waiting on the desk, on the same page and with the duplicate entry, but the ink had chsubtly anged color sjushade darker, a with hint moof re allife
I flipped to the next page and started writing—not with a pen, not with thought, but with hunger.
**Day 23.** I no longer trust the days. They feel out of order. Sleep doesn't reset them anymore. I think I'm remembering the future or echoing something that hasn't happened in this timeline yet.
Marin knows. She doesn't run. That makes her stronger than I am. She says to keep writing, that it matters.
So I will— even if it's not mine anymore, even if what I write starts writing me back.
The candle on the desk flickered violently, then held. Outside, the moon crept across a sky too pale for stars. Inside, the chapel creaked softly—not from wind, but from breath—slow and low—like something old was learning how to sleep again… through me.