The forest had changed.
Not in shape. Not in color.
But in memory.
Mira walked ahead this time, her eyes fixed on the path. Lysira followed close, watching the trees—not for threats, but for patterns. For signs the world was repeating itself.
Noé said nothing.
The vision from the grave still hung behind his eyes.
Not the boy's words.
Not even the kiss.
It was the feeling—
That somewhere, he had lived a life...
And then someone had erased it.
The dirt path curled forward, winding like a question no one knew how to ask.
Then—
He stopped.
"Wasn't this tree cut down?" Mira asked.
Ahead of them stood an old willow. Massive. Splintered at the center.
But whole.
Lysira narrowed her eyes.
"I saw its stump. It was rotting. We passed it an hour ago."
The wind shifted.
Noé turned.
And saw himself.
For just a second—
Standing further down the path.
Clothes torn. Arm bleeding. Staring back.
Then gone.
Like the moment had looped wrong.
He didn't tell the others.
He just kept walking.
Mira slowed her steps.
The others didn't notice at first.
But her pace changed—like her body remembered something her mind didn't.
She stared at the trees.
"I've been here," she whispered.
Lysira raised an eyebrow. "That's not possible."
"No," Mira said. "I mean—I remember running. Through this forest. Not today. Not with you. Just me."
She touched a tree trunk.
For a moment, her hand trembled.
"I was crying. I think... someone was chasing me."
Noé turned, eyes narrowing.
"Mira—"
She stepped back. Shook her head.
"No, no, that doesn't make sense. I've never been here. I was raised near the coast. There are no willows there."
The silence stretched.
Lysira didn't speak. She didn't move.
Because she'd seen the same thing.
The tree that wasn't broken.
The stone that didn't hold the right name.
The version of Noé that looked like he'd survived something... without them.
Her fist tightened.
Magic pulsed through her wrist—strong, but chaotic.
She wasn't used to this.
Not to forgetting.
Not to being outside the logic of magic.
And for once, she didn't know whether to run from the truth—
Or chase it.
Mira didn't move.
Her fingers were still on the bark, but her eyes had gone distant—like she was watching a version of herself walk away, and she didn't know if she wanted to follow.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
Noé turned. Not fast. Just enough.
"Of what?"
She shook her head.
"That maybe I'm not who I think I am."
No one answered.
The wind rustled, slow and careful—like even the forest didn't want to interrupt.
Lysira watched them.
Noé wasn't looking at her.
Not like he used to.
Not with curiosity, or wariness, or even trust.
Just distance.
She hated it.
Because she couldn't fix this.
Not with magic. Not with logic. Not with runes.
Just with silence.
Noé finally spoke.
"Do you hear that?"
Mira froze.
"Yes."
Lysira heard it too now.
Faint. Hollow.
A bell.
Not loud. Not near.
But backwards.
Like time trying to remember its own chime.
Not ruined. Not ancient.
But half-built, hovering over its own shadow.
Stone walls curved upward but never finished. The bell tower floated just above the steeple—like caught between moments.
Mira stopped walking first.
"I've seen this before."
Lysira turned sharply. "Where?"
Mira blinked.
"In a dream. Last winter. I was inside, but it was snowing upward."
Noé said nothing.
Because now he saw it too:
A child. Sitting on the edge of the stairs.
Feet swinging. Hair silver and short.
Humming.
When they got close, the child didn't move.
Just said softly:
"You're early."
Noé stepped forward.
"Who are you?"
The child looked up.
And smiled like someone who already knew how the story ends.
"I remember you. But not from now."
The child tilted their head, eyes too old for their face.
"Your names feel wrong," they said softly.
Noé tensed. "What?"
"You're not Noé," the child whispered. "Not just Noé."
Then their gaze shifted.
First to Mira.
"You were once called Elvarein. In the place before your first dream."
Mira's lips parted.
"I've never... I've never told anyone that."
She looked at Noé, then at Lysira.
"I don't even know where I heard it."
Then—
The child turned to Lysira.
And smiled.
But not kindly.
"You used to be Caelira, before the spells locked your memory.
Before you bled into time."
Lysira stepped back.
"No one knows that," she breathed.
The child stood slowly.
And looked up at Noé.
"You haven't found your name yet. That's why the clocks still wait."
Then they turned—
And walked into the chapel.
The door didn't open.
The world just let them in.
Noé stood at the threshold of the half-built chapel.
The stone beneath his feet felt real—too real.
Like the world had decided to make this place solid, even if everything else was still soft around the edges.
Mira and Lysira stood just inside, hesitant.
The child had disappeared into the misty interior, not looking back.
No doors. No welcome.
Just a sense of invitation that wasn't for him.
Noé took a step forward.
The air pushed back.
Not hard.
But enough.
Like breath.
Like the world exhaling in front of him.
He froze.
Mira turned. "You coming?"
Noé's lips moved—but no sound came.
He looked down at his arm.
The mark was glowing. But dim.
Not in warning.
Not in danger.
In silence.
Lysira watched him. Something passed between them. A flicker.
He nodded, once.
"You go," he said. His voice was steady, but thin.
"Why?" Mira asked.
"I... don't think I'm supposed to see what's inside."
She opened her mouth to argue—
Then stopped.
Because she felt it too.
Not fear.
A boundary.
As if the world itself had placed a line he couldn't cross.
Lysira took Mira's hand, gently.
Noé stepped back.
They walked in.
The chapel didn't glow. It didn't shift.
But it accepted them.
Noé was alone again.
He sat on a low stone, just outside the steps. The forest was silent.
Too silent.
The mark on his arm pulsed once.
He closed his eyes.
And then he heard it.
Tick.
Not from a clock.
From within.
A memory—
buried too deep to belong to him.
A girl's voice.
"When you left, I thought the world would end.
But it didn't.
It just forgot me."
Tick.
"You promised you'd come back.
Not as a hero.
Just... as someone who remembers."
Tick.
Noé's fingers clenched.
He didn't remember that voice.
But part of him did.
And that part—
Was waking up.