Ashe followed me through the winding alleyways, boots splashing through shallow puddles left from the night’s mist. The sounds of the square faded behind us—voices still buzzing, distant shouts, the low rumble of something waking that could not be put back to sleep.

  He broke the silence first.

  “That was… incredible,” he said, breathless despite himself. “Perfect, even. I didn’t know you were a preacher, Thomas.”

  I shook my head, slowing. “It wasn’t me speaking.”

  As soon as the words left my mouth, my vision swam.

  A pressure bloomed behind my eyes—sharp, invasive—like fingers digging into my skull. I staggered, one hand bracing against the cold stone wall.

  Then the whisper came.

  Not loud. Not commanding.

  Regretful.

  I’m sorry, Thomas.

  The voice slid through my thoughts like a blade wrapped in silk. My stomach lurched. Heat surged up my spine, flooding my chest, my throat, my mouth.

  “No—” I gasped.

  Pain detonated all at once.

  It felt as if something were tearing loose inside me, ripping memories free by the root. I doubled over, retching violently. Dark blood spilled through the donkey mask, splattering the cobblestones beneath me.

  “Thomas—what’s going on?” Ashe grabbed my arm, panic cracking through his composure. “Hey—look at me!”

  I couldn’t. My knees buckled.

  Another wave hit, worse than the last. My ears rang. The world tilted sideways. I tasted iron and ash and something ancient.

  “Ashe—” I tried to say his name, but it came out as a wet, broken sound.

  He lunged forward, arms wrapping around me just as my legs gave out. “Thomas!” he shouted, voice breaking. “Stay with me—don’t you dare—”

  The alley spun.

  The walls blurred.

  The firelight at the end of the street stretched into a thin, trembling line before snapping into darkness.

  I hit the cobblestones with a dull, hollow thud.

  And everything went black.

  ***

  My vision swam in and out, like I was surfacing from deep water only to be dragged under again.

  I was back at the inn—or I thought I was.

  Lucius sat on Ashe’s bed, elbows on his knees, eyes sunken and rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days. He was saying something I couldn’t hear. Ashe stood over him, shouting, wild with fury, hands cutting through the air as he pointed first at Lucius, then at me. Lucius lifted a hand as if to calm him, or maybe to surrender.

  The room tilted.

  The sound folded in on itself.

  And then—

  I was home.

  Old Tumbledown.

  Whole.

  Untouched.

  The air smelled of baked bread and clean woodsmoke. The street stones were uncracked. No ash. No blood. The Verity block stood proud and warm, sunlight spilling across familiar doors.

  My mother rushed to me first, wrapping her arms tight around my shoulders.

  “Thomas,” she said, laughing softly through tears. “It’s good you’re finally here. Come—come, we’re about to eat.”

  Her hands were warm. Real.

  James grabbed my sleeve, small fingers clutching tight as he beamed up at me. “Big brother! You missed me, right?”

  My throat closed.

  “I—” My voice broke. “I missed you so much.”

  Uncle Callus stepped forward, broad and solid as ever, his hand clapping my shoulder. “Good to see you, son. You’ve grown.”

  I nodded dumbly, afraid that if I spoke again this would all vanish.

  Our house stood open—but inside, it was no longer the cramped little home I remembered. The walls stretched outward into a wide hall, polished floors gleaming beneath hanging lanterns. Doors lined the sides—many doors. More than our house ever had.

  My mother reached up and gently removed my leather hat, fingers lingering in my hair like she used to when I was a boy.

  “Come,” she said. “Everyone’s waiting.”

  They guided me forward.

  The dining room opened into something vast—a grand banquet hall filled with long tables and candlelight. Verity banners hung from the rafters. Faces turned toward me as I entered—men and women bearing my features, my eyes, my jaw, my smile. Generations of Clan Verity.

  Whole.

  Alive.

  Laughing.

  Food covered the tables in impossible abundance: roasted meats, fresh bread, bowls of fruit, steaming stews. Wine glimmered in glass goblets.

  At the head of the table, my father stood.

  Whole. Unscarred. Smiling.

  He raised a glass.

  “Welcome home, son.”

  The hall erupted in cheers.

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  Hands guided me to a seat beside James. Plates were set before me, heavy with food. Someone pressed a cup into my hand. Laughter rolled over me like warmth.

  I blinked hard, tears slipping free.

  “I thought you were gone,” I whispered.

  My mother squeezed my hand. “We were never gone, Thomas.”

  Something about the way she said it made my chest ache.

  My father leaned closer, voice gentle but carrying an echo I couldn’t place. “You’ve done well. You’ve carried us far.”

  I looked around the table—at the smiling faces, the impossible fullness, the peace.

  Too full.

  Too perfect.

  My gaze drifted to my hands.

  They were clean.

  No blood beneath the nails. No scars. No tremor.

  A faint unease stirred.

  Then I noticed it.

  At the far end of the hall, just beyond the light of the candles, shadows pooled unnaturally thick. Faces there smiled too—but their eyes were empty, names flickering faintly across them like smoke.

  Erased.

  My breath hitched.

  My father’s hand closed over mine, firm now. Heavy.

  “Eat,” he said softly. “Rest. You’ve been fighting so long.”

  James tugged my sleeve again. “Stay this time, okay?”

  The hall grew quieter.

  The candles flickered.

  And somewhere, far away, I thought I heard my own name being called—desperate, real, afraid.

  But here, at the table, everyone was smiling.

  Waiting.

  For me to stay.

  After dinner, my father rose from his seat and motioned for me to follow.

  “Thomas. Come.”

  James immediately tightened his grip on my sleeve, scowling like I was being stolen away. My father reached to gently pry him off, but James huffed and clung harder until my mother laughed softly and scooped him into her arms.

  “Let your brother go,” she said, kissing James’s hair. “He’ll be back.”

  James crossed his arms, unconvinced, watching me like I might vanish if he blinked.

  I followed my father down the long corridors of our home.

  The halls stretched farther than they ever had in life—wide, clean, glowing with warm lamplight. Family portraits lined the walls, generations of Verity faces watching us pass. Some smiled. Some looked solemn. All of them felt… attentive.

  My father walked with his hands clasped behind his back. After a time, he sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For putting all of this on you. So young.”

  My chest tightened. “You didn’t—”

  He lifted a hand, stopping me gently. “You shouldn’t have had to carry such weight. No son should.”

  We continued in silence for a few steps.

  “But you don’t need to worry anymore,” he went on. “The Father has always provided for us. Always has.”

  As he spoke, I heard it again.

  A voice.

  Distant. Trembling. Calling my name.

  “Thomas.”

  It didn’t belong here.

  I slowed, my heart beginning to pound. The warmth of the hall felt suddenly too close, too soft, like a blanket pulled over my face.

  A thought broke through the silence.

  “Mara,” I said suddenly. “Is she here?”

  My father stopped.

  For the first time since I arrived, he did not answer right away.

  The silence stretched.

  I turned to him. His expression hadn’t changed, but something in his eyes had—an absence, like a door quietly closing.

  “No,” he said at last.

  My breath caught.

  “She’s… still alive.”

  The words hit me harder than any blow.

  “What?” I stepped closer. “Where is she?”

  My father looked away, stroking his chin the way he used to when thinking through hard truths.

  “I can’t say.”

  “Why?” My voice shook now. “Why can’t you tell me?”

  He finally met my gaze.

  “Because this place,” he said gently, “is not meant for the living.”

  The distant voice called again, louder now. Urgent.

  “Thomas!”

  The lamps flickered.

  My father placed a hand on my shoulder—warm, steady, anchoring. “You’ve done so much. Lost so much. Would it not be easier to stay?”

  Around us, the hall seemed to lean inward, the portraits watching more closely now.

  “Here, there is no pain,” he continued softly. “No forgetting. No cost.”

  My throat burned.

  “And Mara?” I asked. “Does she remember me?”

  Something unreadable passed across his face.

  “Yes,” he said. “But if you stay… she never will.”

  The voice beyond the walls rose into a shout.

  “Thomas, wake up!”

  The warmth began to crack.

  And suddenly I understood.

  This wasn’t home.

  It was a mercy.

  My father squeezed my shoulder one last time.

  “Whatever you choose,” he said, voice heavy with love and sorrow, “know that we are proud of you.”

  The hallway began to dissolve into light.

  And I had to decide whether to sit back down at the table—

  Or follow the voice calling me back into pain, memory, and the unfinished world.

  We stopped before a single door at the end of the hall.

  It was plain—no carvings, no markings—yet it seemed heavier than anything I had ever seen. The light around it was different, too. Not warm like the banquet hall, not soft like home, but white and waiting, as if it led somewhere unfinished.

  My father stood beside me.

  “This,” he said gently, “is the choice.”

  He placed a hand on the door, not opening it yet.

  “You can come back to the table,” he continued, voice calm, steady, kind. “Be with us forevermore. No more pain. No more fear. No more suffering.”

  Behind us, I felt them without turning—my mother’s presence, James’s small warmth, Uncle Callus’s quiet pride. The hallway felt fuller now, breathing with memory. Laughter drifted faintly from the banquet room. The smell of bread and stew clung to the air.

  “No more loss,” my father said. “No forgetting. No cost.”

  My hand trembled inches from the knob.

  Then—

  “Thomas!”

  The voice beyond the door broke through everything.

  Raw. Cracked. Desperate.

  “Thomas, wake up!”

  It wasn’t distant anymore. It was close—too close. It hurt to hear.

  “I love you,” the voice cried. “Come back to me! Please!”

  My chest seized. My breath came in sharp, uneven pulls.

  I knew that voice.

  I turned slightly, and there they were—my mother and James standing at the end of the hall. My mother smiled through tears that never fell. James waved, trying to look brave, trying not to beg.

  My father followed my gaze.

  “But remember this, son,” he said softly. “We will always be with you.”

  I looked back at him.

  “Even if you no longer remember us,” he went on. “Even if the world takes pieces of you away.”

  The words cut deeper than any blade.

  “We love you,” he said. “The Father loves you.”

  My vision blurred.

  I pulled him into a hug, burying my face against his shoulder. He felt solid. Real. Safe.

  “I love you,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I love you so much.”

  His arms wrapped around me, strong and steady, the way they always had been. For a moment—just a moment—I wanted to stay there forever.

  Then the voice called again.

  “Thomas!”

  I pulled back, tears spilling freely now. My father smiled at me—not proud, not disappointed—just understanding.

  “You’ve always had a good heart,” he said. “That’s why this hurts.”

  I turned to the door.

  My fingers closed around the knob.

  The hallway behind me grew impossibly quiet. The warmth faded, replaced by a gentle ache—like stepping away from a fire into the cold.

  I took one last look.

  My mother lifted her hand in farewell. James tried to smile, eyes shining.

  Then I turned the knob and stepped through.

  The world dissolved into white.

  Not light—white. Endless. Empty. Cold and blinding.

  The warmth vanished. The sounds vanished. Even the pain vanished for a heartbeat.

  And then—

  I fell.