Chapter 51- The Static

In—
Out—

We breathe.

Still sitting on the old bridge, Ydoc gave the world one last look.
The pixies tending their ponds, the monsters who left him with candy and comfort…
They were all gone now.

Even the ponds had quieted.

Only the rain remained, and him with it.

He stood slowly, one hand briefly pressing to his temple—
Sharp pain.
Sudden and low, like the crunch of thunder right under the earth.

“Tch—god…”
A breath. A bitter chuckle.
Then a groan that bent him double for a second.

A nosebleed, inky and black as ever, dripped from one nostril.
He blinked at it, too tired to panic.

“Heh… Froosta’d scold me for that…”

He rubbed at it with a sleeve. Useless. It just smeared.
The rain was doing a better job of cleaning him than he was.

He started walking.

One step.
Then another.

The bridge moaned under his feet—ancient wood, slick with time and drizzle.

The pain still throbbed, but it wasn't sharp anymore.
It had dulled into a deep ache behind the eyes. Familiar.

“When did these start?”
he asked aloud, not expecting an answer.

Not from the Divide.
Not from the spirits.
Not even from himself.

But the question lingered—a thick thought that wouldn’t leave his mind.

He’d always had headaches, but not like these.
Not until the amnesia.
Not until everything before had blurred into that sepia glow…
Like photographs in a dusty hallway—pretty, but just a little wrong.

“My past feels… old,”
he whispered.

Warm, yes.
But faded.
Edges all frayed.

But these new memories?
These now-moments?

They were… loud.

Not in noise. But in texture.
And worse—
They were unstable.

Static.
Like someone was recording over them while they were still being written.

He closed his eyes, thinking of the girls on the bridge.

He couldn’t recall their names.
Did they even give them?

Their clothes were fuzzy. The sound of their voices already warped.
But their eyes—
Bright.
Vibrant.
Real.

And that green candy…

The taste still lingered, crisp on his tongue.
Tart. Honest.
Alive.

“Only the color stays…”
he muttered.

That thought sat with him.

Why?

Why did the feeling remain, but not the shape of the moment?

Why could he remember the tear, but not the exact words the tiger said?

Why could he feel Froosta’s breath on his cheek, but not recall the tune he hummed?

“What’s… doing this to me?”

The rain answered only with its slow, rhythmic drip drip drip.

And somewhere far off…
A low rumble.

A storm was coming.

But the real storm…
was in his skull.

The pain didn't fade.

That was new.

Usually it hit like a hammer,
then left him alone—
a brief, cruel visitation,
like—

“Edwards,”
Ydoc chuckled,
but it came out all wrong.

A bark. A sputter. A laugh pulled through gravel and grief.

“Tch—hah…
Gods, it really is like him.
Always hits hard… then disappears like nothing ever happened.”

He stopped walking.

The laugh turned to silence.

“Hah…”
“It really was abusive.”

The rain said nothing.
The bridge was far behind him now.
He stood, hunched slightly, at a natural fork in the land.

The Crossroads.

A flattened stretch of old earth, worn smooth by centuries of travel.
Stone plates, mossy with use.
Four paths.
Four directions.
Each, a promise or a warning.
Or both.

In the center:
an aged wooden sign, half-swallowed by vines.
Its arms pointed outward—each with a single pictograph carved deep and stained with age.

Ydoc stepped closer, squinting.

There were no words. Only shapes.
The Divide had its own language, older than language.

And the Divide, as always, refused to be clear.

He recognized the path he’d come from:
🍂 Leaves falling.

“The Realm of Fall…”
he nodded.
Where the Stone-Hedge was.
Where Froosta had last been seen, carrying sweet Vexira into the snow.

It was closed to him now.
No going back.

He turned his gaze to the left path.
Its sign:

🌸 A flower in bloom.
At its center—
an eye. Soft. Unblinking.
Surrounded by smaller blooming buds.

Ydoc tilted his head.

“…Spring?”

But something about the symbol made his brow tighten.
The way the eye gazed outward…
The buds curved not like petals, but…
like faces.

And the flower—
Was it welcoming?
Or… watching?

“A cult?” he muttered. “Or just very dramatic gardening?”

The pain in his skull pulsed again.

He took a step back from that path.
Not today.
Something about it felt wrong.
Not evil…
but too personal.

He looked down at the crossroad.
The stones were wet with rain, each one a different shade of moss.
The dirt between them looked like veins.

“Where next?”
he whispered.

He hadn't yet looked to the other two signs.

When he did look at the right path,
the sky above it was... wrong.
Beautifully, achingly wrong.

Where the rest of the Divide was thick with silver clouds and watercolor rain,
this road—this lonely little road—
was drenched in deep cerulean.

A blue so bold, so saturated,
it looked like the sun rose from that direction alone,
even though it was clearly midday.

The trees that lined that trail leaned toward it,
like worshippers or widows,
pulling their roots ever slightly eastward,
as if something wonderful used to live there—
or still did.

Ydoc’s eyes drifted to the signpost.
This one was different.

It had been changed.
Twice.

The original pictograph was still faintly visible:
A dragon, tall and hideous.
Its shape was crude, burned into the wood.
Spiky claws, massive jaws—
the kind of monster that mortals warned about in taverns.
The kind children pointed at in storybooks and said,

"This one eats knights."

But then—
layered atop it, nailed with love and haste—
was a new sign.
It was...

...silly.

A childlike carving, painted in soft strokes and careful hands.
The dragon now had a wide, dumb grin,
the kind that said I love you so much I forgot how to blink.
It was surrounded by blue flowers—daubs of paint that shimmered even in the gloom.
Little hearts circled its head,
and at the center of the sign...

...two dragons, hugging.

Carved carefully.
One large, curled slightly inward.
One small, nestled into the hug.

Ydoc stared.
Longer than he meant to.

Something in him… tinged.

It wasn’t just cute.
It wasn’t even just sweet.

It was...

“Depressing,” he said softly,
but not with cruelty.

The sign—whoever made it—wasn’t just changing the path.

They were pleading.

Begging the world to see them differently.
To see their softness, their capacity for warmth.
A monster that had once scared everyone, now saying:

I want love.
I want hugs.
Please don’t be afraid anymore.
Please... someone see me.

Ydoc exhaled, slow.
The ache in his chest ached more.

“Whoever you are…”

He whispered the words like a prayer.

“…you sound just as lonely as me.”

And then—

a voice.

Not from the forest.
Not from the Divide.

From within.

From the places in him that didn’t have names.
From soul-scars he couldn’t remember getting.

“He would not want to see you…”

Ydoc flinched.

The voice was quiet. Male? Female? Old? Young?
He couldn’t tell.

But it wasn’t cruel.
Just…

...heartbroken.

Like it had tried, once,
and been turned away.

He didn't know who the dragon was.
Didn’t recognize the name.
Didn’t even have a name.

But the pain that whispered?
That pain knew them.
That pain remembered.

The Holokons—those spirit-beings who spoke in dream and echo—
They had all loved him.

But this one…
This dragon…

This friend...

“Did I hurt you?”
Ydoc asked the wind.
“Or did I just disappear?”

The cerulean road waited.
So bright.
So blue.

But he didn’t move.