The secret is revealed....

 Chapter Twenty-Five: The Chapel Chat

I didn’t intend to go to the chapel that morning. I just sort of... wandered there. My feet carried me down the gravel path past the sleepy houses and murmuring pines, like I was being pulled along by some invisible string.

The chapel was small, whitewashed, and plain as toast. Nothing ornate or mysterious about it—just a bell that rang on Sundays, a little wooden sign that read Peace Within, and a red door with a squeaky hinge.

I pushed the door open and slipped inside. It was empty except for the smell of old wood, melted candle wax, and something faintly herbal. I found a seat near the front and sat, elbows on knees, hands dangling, mind spinning like a laundry machine on overdrive.

That’s when Reverend Haley appeared.

He wasn’t what I expected in a reverend. Maybe in his early forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that looked like it had weathered more than just storms. No robes, no collar, just slacks and a wool sweater with a small tear on the left sleeve. He moved quietly, like a man used to walking among those lost in thought.

"Didn’t think I’d see you in here before Sunday," he said, voice like warm bread—soft but solid.

"Yeah," I replied. "Didn’t think I’d be here either. Just... needed a place to sit."

He nodded like that made perfect sense, then sat beside me without asking.

We sat in silence for a while. The stained glass didn’t depict saints or angels, just a tree, a river, and a loaf of bread. I liked that.

"Something on your mind, Loaf?" he asked gently.

I hesitated, then exhaled. "You ever feel like everyone knows something you don’t? Like there’s a puzzle you’re in the middle of but nobody will hand you the corner pieces?"

He smiled faintly. "Gribbleton’s a strange place. But it’s honest. People here don’t hide things to deceive. They just wait for the right time to share."

"That’s not cryptic at all," I muttered.

He chuckled. "Alright, alright. You’re worried about Gert and Barrens. I get it."

That made me turn. "You do?"

"Sure. You think they’re part of something. Maybe watching you. Maybe guiding you. Maybe lying."

I nodded slowly.

He folded his hands in his lap. "Gert’s not your enemy, Loaf. Neither is Barrens. They’re here for a reason, same as you. But their reasons were already clear before you showed up. Yours are still unfolding."

I stared down at my boots. "I heard her. Gert. Talking on a phone."

"Did you see it?"

"No. Just... heard enough."

He didn’t look surprised. "Sometimes God lets us overhear what we’re not yet ready to understand."

That made me blink. "You saying this is divine?"

"I’m saying... some folks are sent ahead to light lanterns for others. Doesn’t mean the road’s fake. Just means it’s being prepared."

I sat back, arms crossed. "What about Barrens, then? That guy gives me the willies sometimes. Shows up when I least expect it. Always has that weird smile."

Haley scratched his chin. "He’s a peculiar one, I’ll grant you. But he’s not malicious. He’s just... detailed. Thinks in layers. Speaks in riddles because he thinks in puzzles."

"So he’s a cryptic angel?" I asked.

"Not exactly. Think of him more like a groundskeeper. He tends the place. Keeps things in order. And yes, sometimes that includes people."

"But he knew stuff about me before I even spoke to him," I said.

"He probably did," Haley said with a shrug. "Some folks are given insight. Doesn’t mean they’re out to harm. Sometimes they’re just the first to notice a flame when it’s small."

"I don’t like being kept in the dark."

"No one does," he replied. "But light that comes too soon can blind."

We sat there a bit longer. Then he patted my knee.

"You’ll get your answers, Loaf. Probably right around the time you stop demanding them. Funny how that works."

I laughed dryly. "Great. Can’t wait to accidentally stumble into clarity."

He grinned. "It’s the best kind."

As I walked back toward the bakery, I couldn’t tell if I felt better or more confused. Maybe both. But I looked at the cottages and the crooked fences and even the nosy ducks a little differently.

Maybe I wasn’t being watched.

Maybe I was being waited for.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Fragments

I was folding dough when it hit me—like a brick wrapped in velvet. One moment I was sprinkling flour, the next I was leaning over the counter, clutching the edge like it might float me out of the memory.

There was a hallway. Pale blue. Sterile. My shoes squeaked on the floor as I walked. My throat was tight, and my fists were clenched. I remember the smell of antiseptic, sharp and cold.

And then—an old man. Bald on top, wisps of white at the sides, spectacles hanging low on his nose. He wore a lab coat, though his shirt was wrinkled beneath it. His voice came out soft, but firm.

"They are gone, lad. Best make your peace."

Gone? Who was gone? I couldn’t remember. Faces flickered like candlelight on water—just out of reach. The more I tried to grab them, the further they slipped.

I straightened up in the bakery, brushing the flour from my apron, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I wanted to smash something. Or cry. Or maybe just run down the lane until my legs gave out.

Instead, I muttered something to Eva about needing a break and stepped out the back door. The cool air slapped me, and I leaned against the wall, breathing deep.

Why did it bother me so much? It wasn’t even a full memory—just a scrap. But something in that doctor’s voice had sunk its teeth into my ribs.

Had I lost someone?

Had I run away from something?

The chickens in the coop nearby squawked at me like they were demanding answers too. I wanted to yell at them, but what good would that do?

Maybe Gert knew. Maybe Barrens did too. Maybe they all did.

I looked up at the clouds. For a split second, one of them looked like a face—kind and round, like someone I should’ve known.

And then it was gone.

I walked aimlessly down the path behind the bakery, past the garden and toward the creek. I needed movement, something to shake the cobwebs loose. My boots crunched over gravel and brittle grass as my thoughts spiraled inwards.

I passed old Mister Harvick mending his fence. He gave me a nod and said something about cabbage worms, but I just grunted and kept going.

"They are gone." Those words refused to leave me alone. I said them aloud just to see if they tasted different in my own voice. They didn’t.

What if that was why I ended up here? What if this wasn’t a fantasy at all, but an escape hatch from something I couldn’t face?

I knelt beside the creek, watching the water bubble past. I scooped a handful and splashed it on my face. It was cold and sharp, just like the memory.

Suddenly, another fragment bubbled up—just a flash. The old man again, looking at me with real pity. A hand on my shoulder. A dull beeping noise in the background. Machines? Monitors?

I clutched my head. It was like trying to pull a nail out with bare fingers.

"You alright there, son?"

I turned to see Widow Emms walking by with her little dog, Winston. I forced a smile. "Just a rough morning."

She nodded as if she knew. Maybe she did. Everyone here seemed to know more than they let on.

I returned to the bakery not long after, face damp, heart heavier. Eva looked at me like she wanted to ask something, but instead just handed me a fresh roll and got back to work.

I took a bite and sat in the corner. I didn’t write in my journal that night. Not because I forgot—because I didn’t know what to say.

Something was breaking loose. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what floated up with it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Morning Market

The morning market in Gribbleton wasn’t anything flashy. No shouting vendors or neon signs. Just a wide gravel lot near the old mill, filled with hand-painted stalls and folding tables that creaked under the weight of produce, preserves, and curiosities. It opened every Saturday and Tuesday, and like clockwork, the whole town seemed to turn out in their best overalls and sunhats.

Eva wanted me to come along and help carry bags. I figured it was a good distraction from the muddled mess swirling around in my head, so I agreed.

"You got coins?" she asked, handing me a little pouch.

I peeked inside. Actual coins. Coppery things that clinked together like they were straight out of a fantasy novel. I raised an eyebrow.

"What?" she said, smiling. "Gribbleton's cash economy. Digital payments are for the city types."

I didn’t argue. It only added to the illusion. Or was it really an illusion? I was starting to suspect maybe I hadn’t landed in another world after all—but then again, the smell of dragonfruit jam at one table and the woman selling wind chimes shaped like tiny castles didn’t exactly scream modern Earth either.

We strolled past jars of pickled everything and soaps shaped like barn animals. A man carved whistles from tree branches and tested each one with a soft trill. A small girl ran up to us, handed Eva a sprig of rosemary, then vanished into the crowd like a sprite.

"This place," I muttered, "either belongs in a storybook, or someone dropped an entire Renaissance fair in the middle of the countryside."

Eva nudged me with a grin. "You're enjoying it."

I didn’t deny it.

Near the center of the market, I spotted Mr. Barrens at a table stacked high with books. Not new ones—old ones, with cracked leather covers and frayed ribbons for bookmarks. He was organizing them by color, humming a tune that sounded faintly like a lullaby.

"Fancy a read, Loaf?" he asked as we passed.

"Not today," I said. "Brain's already crowded."

"Then let it wander a while," he replied, lifting a volume with no title on the spine. "Sometimes the mind finds what it's missing in the margins."

I gave him a look. He winked.

Eva pulled me onward, whispering, "That man gives me goosebumps."

"You too, huh?"

We bought a braided loaf from a woman named Tilly who refused to accept money from Eva. "You work too hard, girl. Let me feed you for once."

Back near the edge of the market, we paused at a table full of glass jars, each filled with what looked like marbles suspended in honey. I was about to ask when the vendor—a redheaded woman in a shawl—smiled at me and said, "You have the look of someone who's just about to remember."

I blinked. "Sorry?"

"Nothing," she said. "Just talking to myself."

Eva didn’t seem to notice. She was arguing with a farmer about the price of a giant head of cabbage.

I stared at the jars, unsettled. Something about the woman's tone had scraped a nerve I didn’t know was exposed. I felt like the entire market had quieted, just for a second.

And then a breeze passed through, and everything went back to normal.

We headed home with a basket full of bread, vegetables, soap, and one oddly heavy jar of what turned out to be pickled quail eggs. I carried the bag while Eva chatted about stew recipes.

But the whole way back, I couldn’t shake that woman’s voice.

"Just about to remember."

What exactly was I about to remember?

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Threads Tugging Loose

I didn’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying—I curled into the wool blanket Eva had given me, stared up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, even counted the creaks the floorboards made when the wind hit the bakery just right. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw that redheaded woman’s face.

"Just about to remember."

By morning, my brain was a cobweb of old feelings and foggy flashes. I washed my face in the basin, skipped breakfast, and walked.

I didn’t have a plan. My feet just carried me. Down past the bakery, past Widow Emms’s fence, past the little orchard I never remembered seeing before. The air was crisp, and the sky had that slate-gray look that promised rain but couldn’t quite commit.

Eventually, I found myself at the town's edge, where the trees started thickening and the path narrowed. I followed it because it looked like it had something to say.

And there, in a small clearing I swear hadn’t been there a week ago, stood Mr. Barrens. Again. He was leaning against a split-log bench, sipping from a thermos and staring at nothing in particular.

"You ever take a day off?" I asked.

He glanced over his shoulder, then patted the bench beside him. "When the wind changes, I listen. And this morning, it's been real talkative."

I didn’t know what that meant, but I sat anyway.

For a moment, we didn’t speak. Just the wind and the chirp of some very vocal robins.

"Do you think memories ever lie to you?" I asked.

Mr. Barrens rubbed his beard. "Not lie. But they do exaggerate. They're like fishermen. Everything's always just a bit bigger, a bit sadder, a bit more mysterious than it really was."

I let out a slow breath. "I keep having these flashes. Hospital rooms. An old man telling me... something terrible."

"Flashes mean you're getting close."

"To what?"

"The knot. The one you're trying to untie without realizing you tied it in the first place."

That sounded too poetic for comfort. I changed the subject.

"That woman at the market. The one with the jars. You know her?"

"I do. She makes a fine pickled plum, if you can stand the sourness."

"She said something to me. Said I was just about to remember."

"Then I reckon you are."

"You people talk like you all read the same fortune cookie."

Barrens chuckled. "Maybe we did. Maybe we're just ahead of you on the reading list."

The wind kicked up again, rustling the leaves.

I turned to him. "Am I going crazy?"

He looked me in the eye, steady as a fence post. "No, son. You're just waking up."

We sat a while longer. When I finally stood to leave, he didn’t follow. Just raised his thermos and nodded.

"See you soon, Loaf."

I walked back toward town, feeling like every step pulled a little more thread loose from a sweater I didn’t know I was wearing.

And somewhere behind me, the wind carried a whisper I couldn’t quite make out.

But I think it said my name.

On the way back, I passed a bush full of tiny yellow flowers I hadn't noticed before. They gave off the faintest lemon scent, and for some reason, it made my throat tighten.

A woman was hanging laundry nearby and gave me a small wave. I nodded back, though I was barely present.

Every little thing felt more vivid today. The texture of the gravel under my boots. The weight of my coat. The scratch of stubble on my chin.

Back at the bakery, I paused before going in. The windowpane reflected my face, and for a moment, I didn't recognize it.

I stepped away, wandered behind the building to the coop. The chickens were pecking the dirt like nothing was different.

But everything felt different.

And I knew, deep down, the dam was going to break soon.

I just hoped I could handle the flood when it came.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Catcher of the Ry

I didn’t mean to cry.

One minute I was slicing apples in the bakery, prepping them for Eva’s tarts, and the next I was doubled over the cutting board, tears dripping onto the peelings like they had somewhere important to be. Eva rushed over, wiping her hands on her apron.

"What is it? Did you cut yourself?"

I shook my head and dropped the paring knife. "No. Just… remembered something."

It wasn’t a full memory. More like a sound that traveled through water. I could hear someone—a woman, warm and laughing—calling out a name. "Ry. Hey, Ry, you forgot your lunch again."

Ry. Not Loaf. Not even Ryan, at least not formally. Ry. Like wry smile. Like rye bread. Like the kind of name someone uses when they know you from the start.

I mumbled the name aloud, testing the weight of it. "Ry."

Eva gave me a look. "Was that your name?"

"I think it might be."

Before I could stop myself, I left the bakery mid-shift and headed for Gert’s. I didn’t knock. I just walked in, still smelling like flour and apples.

She was knitting by the window, and without looking up, she said, "That name finally drift its way back to you, did it?"

My throat tightened. "So it is mine?"

She nodded, looping a strand of yarn over her needle. "That's right. You are Ryan. Or to us, Ry."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

Gert didn’t answer right away. She held her knitting still in her lap and looked at me like I was a puzzle she’d already solved, but didn’t want to spoil. "Because remembering it yourself matters more. If I gave it to you, it wouldn’t mean anything."

I sat on the footstool near the fire. "Feels like a dam just cracked. There are pieces trying to come through, but they keep getting stuck."

"Let 'em come slow. No sense pulling a rope if you don't know what's on the other end."

I laughed weakly. "You always talk like you're the village oracle."

"Nah. I just have the benefit of seeing people on their best days and worst ones. The trick is knowing when to shut up."

She reached out and took my hand, rough palm against mine. "Ry, you weren’t well before. Not just physically. You were carrying something that tried to chew you from the inside out. We brought you here because you needed time—to heal, to mend, to believe in things again."

I swallowed hard. "So this place… it's not just some village, is it?"

"It's real. But also not the way you think. Think of it like a rest stop. A warm porch light for people whose roads got too dark."

I leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. "So why all the fantasy stuff? Why not just say, 'Hey, you're in the woods somewhere'?"

She chuckled. "Because some folks only listen when the story's strange enough to be true."

A silence passed between us, thick but not heavy. I didn’t want to leave just yet, so I stayed while Gert started knitting again.

"You know what you liked before you came here?" she asked without looking up.

"I liked books. And dogs. And… rain, I think."

"And baseball. You wouldn’t shut up about the Ryans winning the league that year."

"The Ryans?"

She smiled slyly. "We called them that just to tease you. The actual team name was something else. But you wore their cap till it was holes."

That sparked something. The image of a red ball cap, frayed around the brim, stuffed into the back pocket of jeans. I exhaled slowly, feeling my chest loosen.

"I think I'm starting to remember what it felt like to be… me."

"That’s the idea, Ry. That’s the idea."

When I left her house, the village looked different.

Not physically. The same cobbled streets, the same vine-covered fences. But I noticed more. The way the lamp posts were slightly crooked, like they'd been put there by hand. The way the rooftops tilted just enough to let birds nest.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel like an outsider wandering through someone else’s dream.

I felt like maybe this place was mine too.

Maybe I was coming home.

Chapter Thirty: Kindling

The next morning felt like the first day of spring, even though the calendar still called it late fall. I walked to the bakery with a lighter step, my coat unbuttoned, letting the wind catch the corners like it was trying to lift me right off the ground. Eva greeted me with a cheerful wave and an arched brow.

"You look like a man who just remembered the punchline to a very long joke," she said.

"Maybe I did. Or maybe I'm finally starting to enjoy the setup."

We got to work rolling dough and mixing glazes, the kitchen warming quickly with the heat of the ovens. Every movement felt easier now, like my arms and legs weren’t being piloted remotely. I caught myself humming without realizing it. That startled Eva more than anything.

"Careful, Loaf—or should I say, Ry?" she teased, holding up a flour-dusted hand. "You're gonna smile one of these days and break your whole face."

"Don't tempt me."

She leaned against the counter and looked at me with more seriousness than usual. "So, what now? You got a name. Do you start chasing the rest of your story, or just let it come to you?"

"I think I let it come. But maybe I'll walk toward it, too. Just in case it walks slow."

Eva nodded like that was the wisest thing she'd heard all week.

After lunch, I decided to head to the woodpile behind Gert's house. I'd noticed the firewood running low, and something about splitting logs felt right. Like I was doing something my hands remembered better than my head. Gert didn’t say much when I grabbed the old hatchet and got to work. She just set out a cup of tea on the back step and left me to it.

Swinging that axe had a rhythm. A kind of prayer in motion. Crack. Breathe. Lift. Crack. The air was cool enough to raise steam off my back, but my body felt good. Real.

And as I worked, memories bubbled. Small ones. Turning the pages of a paperback by flashlight under a blanket. Holding a dog's leash while it barked at a squirrel. Sitting on a curb eating a gas station sandwich while the sky looked like it might fall.

But still, no names. No cities. No big sweeping answers.

And that was okay.

As dusk crept up, Eva came walking down the path. Her hair was up, her hands jammed into her coat pockets.

"You chopping for a festival or just exorcising demons?"

"Little of both. Want to try?"

She shook her head. "I'd rather not make kindling of my own toes."

We stood together for a moment, watching the sky change colors behind the hills. It was quiet. That kind of quiet that invites big thoughts.

"You think people are meant to be one thing?" I asked.

She tilted her head. "No. I think we're meant to become different things at different times. Like wood. Burn it or build with it. Depends on what you need."

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle deep.

And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel lost.

I felt lit.