Chapter 18: Day 1 Epilogue

The Sterling guesthouse felt strangely loud in its silence.

A silence born from a day of fear, chaos, and impossible power.

The air smelled of old leather and polished wood.

So different from the sharp, sterile scent of the hospital.

We sat around the fancy living room.

A small, broken archipelago...

...drifting in a sea of exhaustion.

Iris was curled up in a soft armchair, eyes closed, not asleep, just resting.

Her calm breathing was a fragile peace after everything we'd been through.

Leo slouched at the end of a velvet chaise, staring at his hands as if they didn’t belong to him...

Rose was by the window, looking out at the perfect gardens. Quiet and still.

So different from the storm she’d said she carried inside.

Ash stood near the fireplace, silent, watching us all with a face that gave nothing away.

The victory felt hollow, the relief fragile.

We’d won.

But the ghosts of other timelines, the futures I’d failed to prevent, still clung to me like a shroud.

Arya, who had been pacing back and forth on the Persian rug, finally stopped.

She turned to me, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold herself together. Her usual sharpness and confidence were gone, replaced by a quiet, uncertain vulnerability.

Rey.” Her voice was so quiet it hit harder than a shout. “My mind… it’s just not computing. I keep replaying what happened, and the two halves don’t fit.”

Her gaze locked onto mine, sharp, piercing, bewildered, but without accusation.” “I saw what you did for Emily. It was… a miracle. Something impossible that probably saved her life.”

She took a shaky breath, her composure cracking slightly as concern overshadowed her confusion.

“But I also saw you. And Iris. And the look on your faces… the sweat, the shaking… you looked like you were being torn apart from the inside.”

Her plea was direct, stripped of all artifice, coming from a place of deep, personal concern. “I can’t reconcile those two things. The beautiful outcome, and what looked like a terrible, agonizing process.

I’m not asking for a scientific explanation of the miracle, Rey. I’m asking about you. What was happening to you in that room?”

Their worried faces, full of burning questions, made the truth of my powers a weight I couldn’t speak aloud.

But the memory of the consequences, of their pale, dust-streaked faces in the ruins of our home, a timeline that no longer existed but was seared into my soul, was a cold, hard barrier. The memory of Rose’s fate, a direct result of my choices, was an even colder one. I couldn’t. Not yet.

The words were there, sharp and simple in my mind: Save & Load. Alter Ego. Third Eye. I could say them. I could try to explain a power that had, in another version of this very day, led to catastrophical outcomes. I could share a truth whose consequences had included Iris’ death and Rose’s suicide.

But the knowledge wasn’t just a set of unbelievable facts; it was a burden. A soul-crushing weight of responsibility and consequence. Looking at their faces, so full of trust and concern after a day of hell, I knew, with absolute certainty, that it was a burden I had to carry alone. For now.

I met Arya’s gaze, then Leo’s, then Rose’s. The half-truth I was about to tell felt heavy, but it was a shield, meant to protect them.

“The words exist,” I said, my voice quiet but firm, finally settling on a truth that was deeper than facts. “I know what to call it. I know how it works.”

I took a breath, letting the full, terrible weight of my experiences fuel my explanation. “But the explanation isn't just a story. The knowledge itself… it comes with a burden. I’m only just beginning to understand how heavy it is, and what happens when I carry it wrong. It’s… it’s a weight I have to learn to bear myself before I could ever ask any of you to help me carry it.”

I looked at Iris, curled up and breathing peacefully in that armchair, and the memory of finding her lifeless body in another version of this day was a wall of ice I could never speak through. I couldn't. Not yet.

I looked down at my own hands. They were trembling slightly. “What you saw in that room, the agony…” I began, my voice dropping as I searched for the truthful words. “That was the focus. The sheer, overwhelming mental effort of… trying to get it right.”

“The real price,” I continued, my gaze becoming distant as the ghosts of the other timelines flickered in my memory, “It’s the weight of the choices I have to make. The knowledge of what could happen if I make one wrong move.” My voice was barely audible now.

Leo shifted, his frustration a palpable thing in the quiet room, but he didn't interrupt.

“Today… it worked. But it so easily could have ended in a catastrophe far worse than what we imagined. Living with that possibility… that is the part that’s exhausting. That’s the burden I have to learn to carry.”

I looked at them, my heart aching with the secrets I was keeping, with the vast, lonely space between my reality and theirs. My gaze settled on Rose, and the memory of her forgiveness, her profound, undeserved empathy, gave me the final push I needed.

“I’m so tired,” I said, the admission a raw, vulnerable thing. The carefully constructed walls I’d built around myself crumbled, and the sheer, overwhelming exhaustion of it all showed on my face. “And I’m scared of what this is. I’m scared of what it could do, to me, to all of you, if I don’t learn to control it.”

I met each of their gazes, a desperate, honest plea in mine. “Please… just give me some time. When I figure it out, when I am strong enough to share this burden without it breaking you too, I promise… I will tell you everything. I just can’t right now. I need… I need a little while to just be Rey again. If I even can.”

“Time? Rey, we just went through hell!” Leo snapped. “We deserve more than ‘give me time!’ I want to help, but I can’t if I don’t even know what we’re fighting!

Ash pushed himself away from the fireplace.

He stepped forward, and for the first time, the usual calm in his expression slipped. There was something steadier beneath it, resolve, maybe, or a quiet sense of purpose.

“I need to understand things,” he began, his voice surprisingly quiet, directed at Arya and Leo as much as at me. “My mind is built to take things apart, find the logic. And right now, it’s desperately trying to make sense of what we saw.”

He paused, then turned his full attention to me, his gaze clear and intense. “But I’m looking at my friend. And I see someone who is hurting and carrying something impossibly heavy.”

His voice grew firm, cutting through any remaining doubt in the room. “So, to hell with my curiosity.”

The quiet force of his statement hung in the air.

“It doesn't matter how you did it, Rey. Not right now. What matters is that you're okay. And if you say you need time to figure this out before you can talk about it… then you get time.”

He held my gaze, his next words an unwavering promise. “That's the end of it. We wait.”

Arya sighed, the last of her fight draining away, leaving her looking as tired as I felt. "Okay, Rey. We’ll wait. For now. But don't you dare think you can shut us out completely. You're not alone in this, whether you like it or not."

Then Rose stepped forward. Her movement was quiet, hesitant, but it drew every eye. She came to stand beside me, her presence a soft, grounding warmth. Her gaze wasn’t questioning; it was deeply, achingly understanding.

“He’s right,” she said softly, yet it resonated with a strength that was all her own. “We wait. But I think… maybe we’re using the wrong word.”

She looked around at the others, a gentle sadness in her eyes. “When you’re carrying something heavy and secret, waiting just sounds like being left alone. It sounds like… distance.” Her gaze returned to me, and I felt she was speaking from the heart of her own experience with the whispers.

“You don’t need us to wait for you, Rey,” she said, her voice trembling slightly but full of a gentle, unbreakable conviction. “You need us to be with you.”

The simple distinction was devastatingly insightful. It pierced right to the heart of the loneliness I felt.

“So… that’s what we’ll do,” she continued, a fragile but determined smile touching her lips. “We’re not going to ask you for answers. We’re just… here. If you need to sit in silence, we’ll share the silence. If you need a distraction, we’ll bring the stupidest movie we can find. If you just need to know you’re not on an island by yourself… well, look around.”

Her hand, small and warm, reached out and gently took mine. Her grip was a promise.

“We’re on the island with you now.”

The guesthouse was quietly still. I was so tired that my body gave in, and my mind sank into a darkness that wasn’t peaceful sleep but more like falling into a deep hole. It wasn’t a smooth rest, it was a sudden, hard stop.

A strange, psychic hum echoed in the emptiness, a sound I was starting to understand. It was the call from the Alter Ego aspect I had sent into Rose’s troubled mind. It felt like a lifeline, drawing me closer.

I didn’t arrive gently. One moment I was nowhere, and the next I stood in a huge, cold darkness. In front of me was a massive, ancient door made of black wood that seemed to swallow the light. From it came a slow, scared heartbeat. I didn’t know what was behind the door, but I knew I had to go through. My hand shook as I reached out.

As soon as my fingers touched the cold, rough wood, the door screamed. It was a sharp, piercing sound, like metal tearing or a soul being torn apart. The noise shook me to my core. Then, with a heavy groan, the door slowly swung open.

The room beyond was a child’s bedroom, but it felt haunted. The air was heavy and still, smelling like dust, old plastic, and sadness. A dim nightlight cast long, creepy shadows on walls covered with faded, peeling wallpaper of smiling cartoon animals. Their painted eyes seemed to watch me.

Under the small bed, a child no older than seven was curled up. Her wide, scared eyes weren’t looking at me but at a silent group in the room’s center, dolls. About a dozen, made of porcelain and plastic, standing perfectly still on their own. They weren’t playing. They were watching. Waiting.

And they were speaking.

Their voices weren’t the innocent, high sounds of toys. Instead, they whispered, a low, venomous chorus in many twisted tones, slipping out from their painted, frozen lips.

She’s awake, a porcelain doll in a frilly pink dress whispered in a voice like grinding glass. Look at her pretending to be good. Mommy has to try so hard to smile when she’s in the room.

Daddy comes home tired, a threadbare teddy bear with one button eye rasped, its voice a grotesque parody of a father’s weary sigh. And she’s just another problem. Another worry. Another bill to pay.

The other children don’t break their toys, a stiff, jointed soldier doll stated flatly. They don’t cry so much. There’s something wrong with this one. She’s not made right.

The little girl whimpered, a small, convulsive flinch, as she tried to press herself further into the shadows under the bed.

My heart burned with a cold, clear anger. Without hesitation, I stepped into the room, my boots echoing on the bare floorboards. The dolls’ heads snapped to follow me, their whispers fading into a confused, tense hiss. I walked straight to the porcelain doll in the pink dress and, without saying a word, kicked it hard.

The sound was a soft, pathetic thump as it flew across the room and hit the wall, shattering into a spray of white fragments.

The whispering stopped. The other dolls, now just toys again, fell silent, their painted eyes vacant.

I knelt down, the floorboards creaking beneath me, and looked under the bed. The little girl stared back, her breathing quick and shallow.

"Do you want them to stop?" When she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, I held out my hand. "Okay. Then let's get out of here, and they'll have no one to talk to."

She hesitated, her wide eyes searching mine. Then, slowly, a small, trembling hand reached out from the darkness. It slipped into mine, so tiny and cold. I squeezed it gently.

Together, we crawled out. I led her to the door we had entered through, but it was gone. In its place was a different door, set into the wall where a closet should have been. It was a miniature thing, no bigger than a doghouse entrance, too small for even her to pass through. It seemed to be mocking our escape.

She looked at it, then at me, her lower lip trembling. I didn’t speak. I just knelt again, and with her small hand still in mine, I reached out and touched the tiny door.

It didn’t shriek. It didn’t resist. It simply grew, stretching silently, the wood groaning softly as it expanded, until it stood tall enough for us to pass through. We stepped out into blinding sunlight.

The world had shifted. We were at a zoo. The air smelled of overheated asphalt, sugar-rot from spilled soda, and the faint, musky scent of penned-up frustration.

The little girl was gone. In her place, standing beside me, was another version of her, slightly older now, maybe ten or eleven. Same haunted eyes, same quiet sadness. The bright, cheerful chaos of the zoo seemed to bounce right off her, leaving her untouched, isolated in a bubble of her own sorrow.

Ahead of us, a pack of children in matching school t-shirts wandered in loud, laughing clusters, pointing at the exhibits. They had moved on, leaving her far behind.

And then I heard them. The animals.

The monkeys in their enclosure were the loudest, their shrieks not of animal joy, but of cruel, articulate laughter. They flung half-eaten banana peels at the glass, their chattering forming words I could now understand.

Look at her shirt! It’s from last year! Her parents are so poor!

She tripped in the hallway yesterday! Did you see? Spilled her lunch everywhere! So clumsy!

A brightly colored parrot on a perch nearby let out a mocking squawk, its voice a perfect, grating imitation of a popular girl’s teasing sing-song. Rose has no friends, has no friends, sits alone at lunch every day!

In the largest enclosure, a magnificent lion paced back and forth, its golden eyes fixed on her. It wasn’t roaring. It was murmuring, its deep voice a low rumble of contempt that vibrated through the ground. Prey. That’s all she is. Too weak to be part of the pride. Too quiet. She brings nothing to the hunt. Look at her trying to blend in. Pathetic.

Even the peacocks, symbols of beauty, turned their iridescent backs on her and hissed, their feathers rustling with disdain. Ugly. Drab. Not one of us. Go away.

She stood frozen while her classmates ignored her completely. Their distant laughter clashed sharply with the cruel voices coming from the cages.I walked up and stood beside her.

“Are you afraid of those animals?” I asked quietly.

She nodded, not looking at me. “Yes.”

I took a deep breath and, fueled by cold, clear fury, I let out a raw, guttural roar, a powerful sound bursting from deep within me.

“SHUT UP!”

The zoo fell silent. Not just quiet, but silent. The monkeys froze mid-shriek. The parrot tucked its head under its wing. The lion lay down with a soft, defeated huff. Their voices, once cruel and loud, vanished like smoke in the wind, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the distant, now-innocent laughter of the children.

I crouched beside the girl. She was still trembling, her eyes fixed on the spot where the lion had stood.

“You hear them because you think their words are true,” I said gently. “But they only have power if you believe them. You’re stronger than their noise.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her school shirt. Her lower lip quivered. I waited, giving her the silence she needed.

“I used to think… maybe they were right,” she finally whispered, her voice so soft it was almost lost on the breeze. “Maybe I was small. Weird. Wrong.” Her voice cracked on that last word, a small, heartbreaking sound.

“But… you’re not afraid of them,” she added, looking up at me for the first time, her eyes searching mine.

I managed a small smile. “I used to be. But I stopped listening.”

She looked past me at the empty cages. Silence filled the air, broken only by the soft wind in the trees. Then she nodded slowly and firmly. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet but steady.

“Then I won’t believe them.”

“Let’s go from here,” I said, offering her my hand.

She took it without hesitation.

We walked past the quiet cages and still trees, surrounded by echoes of the past.

At the far edge of the zoo, a cracked tile path led us to another door.

This one looked like a living wound.

It was made entirely of snakes, thick, black, shiny serpents twisted together.

Softly hissing.

Their forked tongues flicked in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

Hundreds of yellow eyes glowed with a sick, hypnotic light.

The door’s frame writhed.

There was no handle or keyhole.

Only movement.

And raw fear.

The girl stopped dead in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat.

“I, I can’t,” she whispered, her voice a strangled gasp. She tried to pull away. "We have to go back."

I knelt, turning her to face me, my hands gently on her shoulders. I made my voice a quiet, steady anchor in the sea of hissing.

“Look at me,” I said. “Not at them.”

Her terrified eyes met mine.

“They’re made of fear, Rose. Not fangs.” I kept my tone soft, but absolute. “They feel like every bad thing that could ever happen. That’s their only trick.”

Her breath hitched, a sob catching in her throat. “They’ll bite.”

“No,” I said, and the certainty in my voice was a palpable thing. “They’re just a door. And a door is just a way to get to the other side. They can’t hurt you unless you decide this is where the path ends.”

I saw the war in her eyes, the primal terror versus a tiny, defiant spark. I didn’t push. I just held her gaze, my expression a silent promise: You have to choose to walk, but you won't walk alone.

She took a shuddering breath. Her small fingers, which had gone limp, tightened their grip on my hand with surprising strength.

She nodded. A tiny, jerky, but determined movement.

I stood, pulling her gently to her feet beside me. I turned to the living nightmare and pushed my hand into the writhing mass.

My hand met cool, smooth wood. The door opened with a final, angry hiss, the snakes unraveling into black smoke. A cold, sterile light spilled out. And with her hand held tightly in mine, we stepped through together.

I was standing in a hospital hallway.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, glowing green on the walls. The air smelled like antiseptic and sadness. Machines beeped in the distance. A phone rang loudly but no one answered.

Across from me, she sat on a cracked vinyl bench.

She looked older, about my age.

Her hair was longer, her eyes tired and dark.

A white hospital bracelet wrapped around her wrist like a cuff.

She wore a hoodie that was too big, its sleeves covering her hands. Her knees were pulled up close to her chest, as if protecting herself.

One white earbud hung loose from her headphones.

But no music played.

She didn’t look at me, or anything else.

I sat down next to her without saying a word.

We stayed like that for a long time.

The silence between us wasn’t empty.

It held all the things she couldn’t say.

Every beep from a far-off monitor and every squeak of a nurse’s shoes…

…echoed the quiet sadness coming from her.

She finally spoke, her voice raw and flat, devoid of emotion.

“I hate this place.”

I didn’t ask why. I already knew. Places like this hold memories in the walls.

I turned to her. “You made it through the zoo. Through the snakes.”

She gave a half-shrug, a dismissive gesture, as if it didn’t matter. But it did.

“They didn’t bite,” she muttered, her gaze still fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor.

“No,” I said. “Fear doesn’t always strike. Sometimes it just waits and watches. Wants you to flinch first.”

For the first time, her eyes shifted toward me. “What if I don’t flinch anymore?”

I smiled faintly. “Then maybe you’re not just surviving the dream. Maybe you’re changing it.”

Rose, my age now, stared at the floor tiles. “I used to sit here for hours,” she said, her voice distant. “No one ever told me if it was going to get better. They just… left me here with the machines.”

A soft chill brushed the back of my neck. A pressure in the air, like the moment before a storm, only colder. Quieter.

I turned.

Down the long, sterile hallway, past a set of swinging double doors, something stood watching us.

She looked like Rose. Same height, same shape, same oversized hoodie. But she was empty.

Her eyes looked empty, like grey static. Her face was strange, too smooth, like paint on glass smudged by a shaky hand. Her skin was ash-colored, and she moved slowly, like swimming through water. She didn’t speak, and didn’t have to.

The world around her was growing darker. The lights above flickered and went out. The monitors by the nurse’s station stopped beeping one by one, their screens going black. The bright "Get Well Soon" posters on the walls started to curl and fade to grey.

Rose stiffened beside me. “I know her,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“You’ve seen her before?”

She nodded slowly. “I see her when I stop feeling anything. When I pretend I’m fine. That’s when she comes.”

The Hollow Girl took a step forward, and the color bled from the walls, leaving them a uniform, depressing beige. She took another step, and the hallway dimmed further, the shadows deepening.

Rose curled inward, her bones seeming to fold, her hands trembling violently.

I stood up. But even I felt it, that pull, that unbearable stillness. She wasn’t attacking. She was consuming. Quietly. Slowly. Not with rage, but with nothingness.

My fists clenched. I stepped in front of Rose, ready to fight, to punch, to shout, to do something, when a warmth stirred deep in my chest. A flicker. Then a soft, steady pulse of light.

Two shapes emerged from me, coalescing from the warmth like memories rising from a heartbeat. One was smaller, radiant with a fierce, loving determination. The other was taller, quieter, his eyes tired but full of a profound, unshakeable peace. Silhouettes of pure golden light.

They weren’t strangers. They were a part of me, the echo of a life I’d somehow lived, a truth I held but couldn’t explain. They were the ghosts of a better timeline, one where Rose and I had made it out together, where we had found our way home. They had been with me all this time, a silent, steady presence through every hopeless fight.

A sudden, sharp pang of reluctance, of loss, went through me. I felt it with a deep, instinctual certainty: this was the last time. The last time their light would manifest, the last time their quiet strength would be a tangible presence beside me. They had been my anchor, the echo that gave me hope when I had none. But for this dream, for Rose, to truly become whole, their purpose had to be fulfilled. Their story had to end so hers could truly begin. It had to happen. And now…

They turned toward the Hollow Girl. She didn’t move. She didn’t flinch.

They walked to her slowly, their arms opening, not to destroy, but to embrace.

The Hollow Girl tilted her head, a flicker of something in her static-filled eyes. Confusion. Then a deep, aching sadness. Then, something impossibly fragile. Hope.

She stepped into their open arms. And they held her. Tightly. Gently. As if she had always belonged there.

A light, warm and brilliant, spread outward from their embrace, washing over the hallway. There was no force, no explosion, just warmth. The Hollow Girl let out a sound like a breath she’d been holding for a lifetime.

And then… she smiled. A real, quiet, peaceful smile.

All three of them dissolved into a shower of golden threads, drifting upward like fireflies before fading into nothing. Gone.

They were gone. And with them, the dream's power to wound. The hallway was no longer a stage for my failures or her fears. The oppressive weight lifted, replaced by a simple, profound stillness. It was just a place, and we were just two people standing in it, finally free.

Rose stood beside me, tears on her cheeks, but not of pain.

“I felt them,” she whispered. “They were… us?”

I nodded, my voice low. “A version of us. A better one. One we might still find.”

She took my hand again. “I hope they’re happy,” she said.

“They were,” I whispered. “They are.”

The golden threads faded. A silence settled, like fresh snow. But it wasn’t cold anymore. It was peaceful.

Beside me, Rose stood still, eyes distant, breathing shallow. “Wait,” she murmured. Her brows drew together, not in fear, but in focus. “I… I remember something.”

The hospital around us flickered, like a screen blinking out. Then the dream shifted.

A library. Late afternoon light filtered through tall, dusty windows. Rows of books towered like silent sentinels. Somewhere, a clock ticked. Slow and soft.

She was there, small, maybe eight or nine. Sitting cross-legged in a corner, a picture book open in her lap.

Then, footsteps.

A boy came around the corner, arms full of comics and astronomy books. My younger self. He noticed her. Paused. She looked up, surprised, a little nervous.

He blinked. “You like stories?” he asked.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

He smiled. It wasn’t big or perfect, just honest. “Cool. I like space. Want to see the one where the astronaut meets a dragon?”

She blinked. Then, for the first time in what felt like forever… she smiled back.

“…Okay.”

He sat beside her, opened a book, and started reading aloud, badly, with silly voices. She giggled. Not loud. Just a breath of laughter. But it was hers.

That was it. No sparkles. No tragedy. Just a boy and a girl in a library, sharing a story.

Sunlight spilled softly through the curtains of her bedroom.

Rose woke slowly.

The familiar walls, the quiet hum of the world outside.

This was home.

Her heart beat steady and strange, like something had shifted inside.

She blinked, her gaze landing on the worn bookshelf across the room.

A sudden spark.

A flicker of a memory, small and clear.

A library.

Sitting cross-legged, holding a book.

A boy with messy hair had walked over.

He had asked her if she liked stories.

She had nodded.

He had smiled, awkward but kind.

She smiled now, lips trembling. It wasn’t a grand memory, but it was hers. The very first one.

She didn’t remember the strange dream, the zoo, the Hollow Girl, the golden ghosts. Only the boy. Only that moment of kindness.

She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees, a warm, quiet light blooming inside her chest. For the first time in a long, long time, she felt hope. And though she didn’t know why, she somehow knew… that memory was a beginning.

Day 1. The End.