The light was already there when I became aware of it.
It rested across the room without urgency, settled into the sheets, into the wood, into the open space between objects. It reached my hands last—thin bands of warmth crossing my fingers where they held a page that hadn't been turned.
I blinked once.
The words in the book sat where I had left them. Lines intact. Meaning gone.
My thumb shifted slightly against the paper. The edge pressed back—firm, real, unchanging.
I closed it.
The sound was soft. Final enough to carry weight in the quiet.
The book slipped from my hand and landed beside me. The mattress dipped slightly under the shift, fabric brushing against my wrist before settling again.
"How the world changes," I muttered.
The words fell into the room and stopped. No echo. No resistance. Just absorbed.
I sat there for a moment longer, feeling the light move fractionally across my arm as the angle shifted.
Then I stood.
The floor met my feet with a faint, steady coolness. Not cold. Just present enough to ground me as I crossed into the bathroom.
Tiles replaced wood. The temperature dropped slightly underfoot. My weight carried differently across the surface—less give, more return.
I turned the tap.
Water struck porcelain with a clean, even rhythm. No fluctuation. No hesitation.
I placed my hands beneath it.
The flow split around my fingers, reformed, continued downward without disruption. It carried no intent. No direction beyond gravity and design.
I leaned forward slightly, watching it move.
Rain had never behaved like this.
Rain shifted. Reacted. It arrived with purpose, even when it didn't know what that purpose was.
This—
This obeyed.
"Maybe I should grow my hair again," I said.
My voice sounded smaller here. Contained by the tile, by the angles, by the function of the space.
The mirror gave nothing back but reflection.
I straightened.
Water ran off my hands in thin streams before falling away completely. I reached for a cloth, dried them without looking, and set it back where it belonged.
Dress.
Fabric slid over skin with practiced ease. Each piece fell into place without needing correction. The collar aligned under my fingers with a small, familiar pressure.
The suit settled.
Not comfortably.
Correctly.
I stepped back into the hallway.
The light changed immediately.
The corridor held it differently—gold caught along the edges of the walls, stretching in uneven bands across the floor. Some sections warmed under it. Others remained cool, untouched.
The air followed the same inconsistency.
A step forward shifted temperature by a degree. Another step returned it.
Like the space hadn't decided what time it belonged to.
I moved through it.
My footsteps carried softly against the polished wood, each one returning a faint, controlled sound that didn't travel far.
I stopped at the door.
Familiar.
Unchanged.
My hand lifted.
Two knocks.
Sharp. Measured.
The sound landed, then dissolved.
No response.
I waited.
Long enough for it to matter.
Then reached for the handle.
It turned easily.
The door opened without resistance.
"Alvie, get up—"
The words broke apart before finishing.
The room—
It looked the same.
A pillow on the floor, half-caught against the leg of the chair. Sheets twisted, one corner pulled free and hanging just enough to suggest movement had stopped mid-motion. The chair itself sat slightly off-angle from the table.
It was hers.
Recognizable.
Uncorrected.
But the air—
The air didn't match.
I stepped inside.
The floor gave a faint creak beneath my weight. Not loud. Just enough to mark presence.
My eyes moved to the bed.
And stopped.
They were sitting there.
Not Alvie.
Not fully.
White fabric rested across their frame, shifting slightly with breath that felt too steady to belong here. Their posture held no tension. No hesitation.
Like the room had adjusted around them instead of the other way around.
My throat tightened.
"Alvie…" I said.
Softer this time.
They turned.
The motion was simple.
Unforced.
Eyes met mine.
Recognition came without delay.
It hit first.
Then something sharper followed.
"How has it been, old friend?"
The voice crossed the space cleanly. No distortion. No distance. It reached me as if nothing had ever interrupted it.
My vision blurred at the edges.
"You haven't changed one bit."
Their head tilted slightly as they studied me.
"How nice it must be—for your cultivators."
My hand clenched at my side. The fabric at my sleeve pulled slightly with the motion.
I stepped forward.
Didn't decide to.
Just moved.
"You died on me."
The words left uneven.
Rougher than intended.
They didn't react.
"I did leave you with that."
They nodded toward the bed.
I followed the gesture.
Alvie lay there.
Half-curled.
Arms wrapped around a pillow, grip tight enough to crease the fabric. Her breathing came slow, uneven. Tear tracks had dried along her cheeks, catching the light in faint, uneven lines.
I exhaled.
The tension in my chest shifted—didn't leave, just changed shape.
I lowered myself into the chair beside the bed.
It creaked under my weight.
"Tea?"
I hadn't seen them move.
But the cup was already in my hand.
Warmth pressed into my palm.
The scent rose first—familiar, layered, something deeper beneath it that didn't belong to memory alone.
I hesitated.
Then drank.
The taste settled in slowly.
Then opened.
"This is not how I wanted to start my day."
I set the cup down carefully. The base met the table with a soft, controlled sound.
"We can do some catching up."
Their tone stayed light.
"She was awake all night. Retelling me stories you told her."
Their gaze shifted toward Alvie.
"She seemed really proud of that fight with the undead."
A breath escaped me.
Half-laugh.
Half something else.
"Even though you tried to run."
They leaned back slightly.
"But tripped on your robe and had to fight."
I laughed.
Short.
Uncontrolled.
My hand came up, brushing at my eyes before the moisture could settle.
"How are they now?"
Their gaze lingered on Alvie.
Mine didn't.
It moved.
To the hand.
Or what remained.
The edge was clean. Healed. Too clean.
Wrong.
They noticed.
"Ah."
They lifted it slightly.
"This one was painful."
The tone carried no weight beyond observation.
"But I got a reason to use psychic abilities."
A faint hint of amusement followed.
I shook my head.
"Careless and lazy."
The words came quietly.
"Some things remain."
They laughed.
Soft.
Unbothered.
"It seems a lot has changed."
They leaned back further, the fabric shifting with the movement.
"You're no longer in your robes."
My hand moved to my chest.
The pendant rested there. Cool against my fingers.
"You're still wearing that old jade pendant?"
A grin formed.
"I told you it was tacky."
I didn't answer.
My fingers closed around it instead.
"And didn't that girl marry another?"
The question landed lightly.
Something in me tightened anyway.
"I told you I'd wear it until you came back to tell me otherwise."
The words settled between us.
Quiet.
Then—
I pulled.
The chain snapped.
A small, clean sound.
The pendant sat in my palm for a fraction of a second.
Then I closed my hand.
Pressure.
It gave.
Crushed.
Fragments pressed into my skin before falling away as dust.
Gone.
They paused.
Only briefly.
Then smiled.
"Good times."
Their finger traced the rim of their cup.
"The world really changed a lot, huh?"
"How would you know?"
The edge returned.
Sharper.
"Well."
They glanced at Alvie.
"She told me. Before requesting a hug."
Their eyes returned to me.
"Seems your tale has some impact."
I leaned back into the chair.
The wood pressed against my spine.
The room felt closer now.
The air heavier.
Behind us—
Movement.
Alvie shifted slightly.
A faint sound escaped her.
They looked down at their hands.
For a moment—
Nothing.
Then the edges softened.
Petals formed.
Small. Pale.
They separated slowly, lifting first before drifting downward.
The air moved.
A breeze that hadn't been there before.
It carried a faint scent—sweet, familiar, misplaced.
"Seems our time is up, old friend."
They stood.
I followed.
The chair scraped softly against the floor.
The window was open.
I hadn't noticed.
Wind moved through now—real wind. It brushed against my face, caught the petals, lifted them into slow, spiraling motion.
They stepped closer.
Arms around me.
The contact was immediate.
Warm.
Solid.
Real.
"Take care of me."
Their voice pressed close.
"For me."
And then—
They weren't.
The space they held broke apart into petals and light, carried outward through the open window, dissolving into the morning.
I stood.
The air moved past me.
Then slowed.
I reached forward.
Closed the window.
The latch clicked.
"Yawn—"
Alvie's voice broke the quiet.
She pushed herself upright, one hand covering her mouth, the other rubbing at her eyes.
"I told you to close your window at night."
My voice held steady.
"You'll catch a cold."
"Sorry."
Her feet touched the floor.
"I forgot."
She stretched, arms lifting, then pausing halfway as her gaze shifted toward the table.
"Immortal."
Her head tilted slightly.
"Can you tell me about that fight with a lich?"
I looked at her.
Really looked.
"Some other time."
My hand rested on the table.
Something caught the light.
The tea set—
Gone.
A silver pocket watch sat in its place.
Still.
Reflecting.
I picked it up.
Warm.
Not from the room.
From before.
"Hmm, okay."
She tied her hair back quickly, movements practiced and efficient.
"What's on the agenda, immortal?"
I closed the watch.
A soft click.
"We're attending the return of the general's body."
I stepped toward the door.
"His daughter will be there."
"I see."
She went quiet.
Just for a second.
"—There will be dark chocolate."
I opened the door.
Her head turned immediately.
"Eighty-five percent or more."
A small laugh slipped out.
I didn't stop it.
"What's funny?"
"Nothing."
The hallway beyond had settled.
The light was clear now.
Decided.
"Come on."
We moved.
Downstairs.
The dining hall was already alive—low voices, the soft clink of utensils, the movement of staff between tables. Sunlight stretched across the floor, catching on porcelain and polished wood.
"Good morning."
Greetings returned.
Measured.
Controlled.
Victoria sat already.
Present.
Unchanged.
I took my seat.
The pocket watch rested briefly in my palm before disappearing into my pocket.
For a moment—
Everything held.
Steady.
And that—
More than anything else—
Felt wrong.