Chapter 21: Day 2 Baptism of Lead and Fire Part 3

The walk from the car to the school was quiet. It wasn't the same heavy silence from the past year, but a different kind of quiet, fragile and new.

Leo walked next to me, calmer than usual with his hands in his pockets. Arya was on my other side, glancing at me every few seconds with protective concern instead of her usual jokes. They were both giving me space, understanding I'd been through something difficult.

Rose stood by the front gate, bright against the old brick wall and dark ivy. She wasn’t just waiting, she was searching, scanning every face in the crowd.

When she saw us, her face completely changed. She lit up with real happiness, the kind I hadn't seen since before the accident, before everything went wrong.

She broke into a run.

Her bag bounced against her hip, her steps light and sure on the cracked pavement. She didn’t seem to notice anyone else, her focus entirely on us, on me.

“I remember!” she called out, her voice carried on the cool morning air, reaching us before she did.

She was breathless when she skidded to a stop in front of us, her cheeks flushed, her green eyes sparkling with a life that had been missing for so long.

“Not everything,” she gasped.

Her words spilled out in a torrent of wonder, her hands gesturing as if trying to catch the memories as they flew.

“But, something. It started this morning… like one memory fell into place, and then others just followed. Like a dam breaking.”

She looked from me to Leo to Arya, her expression one of pure, unadulterated awe.

“I don’t know how. I just… I woke up and it was different.”

“I feel lighter.”

A soft, genuine smile touched her lips.

“Like something deep inside me finally clicked back into its rightful place.”

I watched her, a quiet warmth spreading through my chest.

A slow, melting relief that chased away the last of the icy fear I’d been carrying.

I had walked with her in the deep, uncertain dreamscape of her unconscious, a guide through the shadows of her mind

She didn’t remember that part, of course. She couldn’t.

And that was okay.

I’d only lit the path.

In the end, it was Rose who had faced her own shadows, Rose who had taken the steps.

She had found her own way back.

A choked sound escaped Arya’s throat.

She didn’t say a word, just closed the distance between them and pulled Rose into a hug.

A hug so tight it looked like she was trying to absorb her, to anchor her to this spot, this moment.

I saw Arya’s shoulders begin to shake, and tears slipped freely down her cheeks, catching the morning light.

For her, I knew this wasn’t just joy.

It was release.

It was the sound of a key turning in a lock she’d been trapped behind for a year.

Maybe now, she could stop drowning in the what-ifs.

What if I’d stopped the bullying?

What if I hadn’t let jealousy twist me?

Maybe now, she could finally, finally forgive herself.

Leo opened his mouth, ready to crack a joke like he always did to keep emotions at bay. But nothing came out. His throat tightened, and the joke vanished.

He slapped a hand over his mouth, but it didn’t help. A broken, half-sob laugh escaped him. He threw his head back, face twisted toward the sky, and the tears just fell, no longer hidden.

“God,” he gasped, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, his voice thick with a relief so profound it was painful to watch. “I was so tired of telling bad jokes.”

The moment, fragile, perfect, like a small island of raw feeling, was broken by the crunch of footsteps on dry leaves.

Ash.

He walked over with his usual relaxed stride, backpack slung over one shoulder, face calm and curious. He looked at us, Rose glowing with joy, Arya wiping her tears, Leo wide open and vulnerable, me standing quiet and watchful, and raised one eyebrow.

“Well,” he said, adjusting his strap with characteristic nonchalance. “Did I miss something important, or is this just regular Tuesday morning drama?”

The question, so perfectly timed in its emotional obliviousness, hung in the air for a moment. Then Rose burst into laughter. It wasn't a giggle, or a chuckle.

It was a real, genuine, belly-deep laugh that seemed to echo off the school buildings, a sound I thought I might never hear again. A sound that made the entire, brutal cost of the last day feel, for a fleeting moment, worth it.

I sat in Mr. Evans’ literature class, sunlight pouring through the windows, feeling drained and deeply tired. The morning’s chaos had faded, leaving only a heavy exhaustion. Across from me, Rose was quietly sketching in her notebook, a calm smile on her face.

The whispers were gone. Her memory was returning, at least for now. It was a fragile, improbable victory, and already it felt distant, like something from another lifetime.

Four times.

I’d lived through yesterday four times, and the memories from the other three attempts kept surfacing when I least expected them.

I could still feel the phantom heat of the fire on my skin.

The sound of my mother’s voice when she screamed.

The hollow, soul-crushing absence of Rose when her father had shown up at our ruined home.

These flashes would appear suddenly, overlapping with what was actually happening now.

Like seeing Rose smile at me from across the room while simultaneously remembering a world where she was gone.

I kept glancing at the clock.

Cold dread curled in my stomach.

This version of reality, this fragile peace, felt too delicate to last.

But we were here. We’d made it through. Iris and Rose are safe, and that day is finally, mercifully behind me.

“Let’s talk about Sisyphus,” Mr. Evans said, his voice pulling me from the fog of my thoughts. He wrote the name on the board in his familiar, looping script, and a low, familiar groan rippled through the class.

I almost laughed, but it came out as a dry breath, no humor in it at all. Of course. Out of everything we could study, today had to be about the man doomed to repeat the same useless task forever. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.

Mr. Evans smiled at the reaction. “I know, I know. The man, the rock, the hill. But let’s challenge the obvious reading. Let’s look past the punishment and ask a different question.”

He turned, his gaze sweeping the room with that particular intensity teachers have when they sense a breakthrough moment. “Where, if anywhere, can we find a victory in his fate?”

His eyes landed on Rose. “Rose? You’ve been quiet today, but I can see you thinking. What are your thoughts?”

Rose looked up.

For a moment, a flicker of the old, reflexive fear crossed her face, before the quiet strength she’d found this morning took hold.

She straightened slightly in her chair.

“I think… the real punishment isn’t the rock,” she said, her voice soft but gaining confidence with each word.

“It’s the hope.”

“That terrible moment every time he gets close to the top, when he thinks, maybe this time will be different.”

“To have that crushed again and again…”

“...that’s what would break someone.”

She looked at me, a profound sadness in her eyes.

“The slow death of hope.”

My shoulders sank, like her words had added real weight. She was describing exactly what I’d just lived through, the fragile hope with each try, thinking I’d finally found the way, only to watch it all fall apart again.

She couldn’t know that. To her, it was just an idea. To me, it was the nightmare I’d barely escaped.

“A beautiful and empathetic reading, Rose,” Mr. Evans said, nodding. “The psychology of the almost. That’s a crucial piece of the puzzle, the torment of the near-success.”

He looked about to continue, but Ash raised a hand, a quiet, deliberate gesture that immediately commanded attention.

“Yes, Ash?” Mr. Evans asked, slightly surprised but intrigued.

Ash straightened in his chair, his gaze lingering on me with an uncomfortable intensity that made the hairs on my arms stand up. For a moment, he seemed to be weighing something, making some silent calculation.

When he finally spoke to the class, his words felt deliberately chosen, meant for an audience of one.

“The entire premise is flawed,” he said with clinical detachment. “Everyone assumes Sisyphus is tragic. He’s not.”

The room went quiet. Even the usual back-row whisperers shut up.

“The gods designed what they thought was perfect torment, meaningless, eternal labor. But they miscalculated.” His pale eyes swept the class before fixing on me again, a direct, piercing look. “They only considered the action, not the consciousness behind it.”

Dread, cold and sharp, coiled in my stomach. This didn’t feel like academic discussion, it felt personal, deliberate.

“The victory isn’t at the summit,” Ash said, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping but carrying across the hushed room. “It’s in the walk back down.”

I saw Mr. Evans lean forward, his usual distracted look replaced by focused attention. Rose glanced up from her notes, a frown of concentration on her face, trying to follow where Ash’s argument was heading.

“Think about it,” Ash continued, his voice calm, rational, and utterly chilling in its precision.

“During the descent, Sisyphus is free. He’s conscious, aware. He sees everything, the rock waiting below, the slope ahead, the inevitable failure. In that moment of clarity, he becomes superior to his fate.”

My hands gripped the edge of my desk, my knuckles white. The repetition, the failure, I knew that. I had lived it. But Ash was describing it not as a curse, but as a source of power.

“By choosing to return to the boulder, by embracing the repetition instead of fighting it, he creates meaning where none was intended. The struggle becomes rebellion. Punishment becomes purpose.”

His eyes found mine again, and the feeling hit me like a splash of ice water. He was speaking directly to me. Impossible. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t.

“Camus said we must imagine Sisyphus happy,” Ash concluded, his voice a quiet, final pronouncement. “Not joyful, but defiant. When you accept your suffering and choose to face it again, you strip your tormentors of their power.”

His words seemed to hang in the air, echoing with a terrible, personal weight that made no logical sense. He was talking about a myth, but it felt more real to me than the solid desk beneath my hands.

“But what if he breaks?” The words ripped out of me before I could stop them, my voice rough and strained. “What if the repetition shatters his mind?”

Everyone turned to look at me. Mr. Evans’ eyebrows rose with keen interest, a teacher sensing a raw, honest question.

“Excellent question, Rey,” he said, turning back to the board. “When faced with unbreakable fate, does the spirit endure or fracture?” He paused, the chalk hovering. “But perhaps that’s the point. Maybe the old self must shatter. Maybe suffering isn’t punishment, it’s transformation.”

The bell rang, a shrill, piercing sound that shattered the spell. Students moved in a blur of weekend plans and homework complaints, the normal world rushing back in. Rose smiled at me as she packed her bag, that genuine, light-filled smile I’d fought so hard to give back to her.

I couldn’t smile back.

I sat frozen, staring at the word ‘Sisyphus’ chalked on the board, my own reflection a pale, hollow-eyed ghost in the window. My hands were trembling.

My reflection stared back, cracked by sunlight on the window. I wondered what you become after you’ve been broken.