Later That Day - Study Hall
The classroom is quiet, save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional whisper of a turning page. Students are scattered at desks and beanbags, some hunched over assignments, others pretending to be productive.
Mason sits near the back, staring blankly at the same sentence in his textbook for the past fifteen minutes. The assignment in front of him is history, something about planetary conflicts—but the words don't stick.
Across the room, Olivia's at another table, tapping her pen rhythmically against a notebook. She keeps glancing up at him.
When their eyes meet—again—she quickly looks away. It's him. It has to be him. She remembers now. The therapy office. The little boy with the haunted eyes. The field of red crops. The crying. The promises. But that was years ago. He was taken away. Gone.
And this Mason… this older, guarded, quiet version… he's so different. And yet— He remembered my name. And the way he looked at me this morning... She's halfway out of her seat before the door opens.
Mr. Kenner strides in, clutching a clipboard like it's his third arm. "Hey, gang! Just checking in!" His smile lands on Mason first. "Adjusting okay? You made it to all your classes, didn't get lost in the west stairwell?" He chuckles, like that's a joke.
Mason nods stiffly. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Kenner's eyes flick toward Olivia, who is now very obviously not pretending to work. His eyebrows rise a little. "And you—Olivia, right? You two seemed a little... tense earlier. Everything good?"
Olivia's mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. "We just… I think we might've known each other a long time ago."
Kenner blinks. Then grins. "Really? Small world, huh?" He laughs like this is the most wholesome thing he's heard all day. "Well, reconnecting's a beautiful thing! Though I doubt you're that Olivia Mason mentioned in counseling. What are the odds, right?"
Olivia's throat tightens. Her mind races, trying to match the pieces she hadn't even known were missing.
Mason freezes. Olivia turns to him, slowly. "Wait… what do you mean, that Olivia?" Kenner shrugs, oblivious. "Oh, it came up in his file. Said he used to have these dreams—nightmares, really—about a girl named Olivia. Childhood friend, maybe? You know how trauma can blend memory and fantasy. Poor kid went through a lot." Silence.
A kid near the window mutters, "Should he be saying that out loud?"
Another whispers, "Dude, that's, like… confidential, right?"
Silence.
Kenner finally senses something off. "…Did I say something wrong?"
Mason is staring at the floor, jaw clenched. Olivia's heart is in her throat. "Mason," she says gently, "what did you dream about?" But he won't meet her eyes.
Kenner clears his throat, awkward now. "Right. Well, I'll leave you two to it. Carry on." And he slips out, far more quickly than he entered. The room is too quiet. Too still.
Mason sits rigid, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the table like it might disappear if he blinked.
Olivia steps closer. Something in her gut twists—recognition without clarity. She studies his face. That name. Mason. It's been echoing in her brain ever since Mr. Kenner said it. "Montipet. The therapy center. We were both there. That red field… the Skimpock birds you hated. You called them 'the dumb purple flappers.'"
His breath hitches, eyes darting to hers like they're trying to make sense of a ghost. "You hated when they swooped too close," she continues. "You used to flinch. Said they made the sky feel too small."
A shaky laugh escapes Mason's lips. "You gave them names. Every single one."
Olivia smiles. "They deserved names." For a moment, neither of them says anything. The silence hums with recognition—ancient and immediate.
"I thought I imagined you," Mason says. His voice is low, like a confession. "After I was pulled from Montipet, I didn't remember much. Just flashes. And dreams. Nightmares." Her expression softens. "I had dreams too. You were in some of them. At first, I didn't understand why. I thought it was just my brain mixing things up." Mason nods slowly. "You weren't even there in the real memories. But my mind kept putting you in them. In the middle of the fire. The screams. The ruins." His hand trembles. "I think… I think I was trying to hold onto something. Someone. From before."
Olivia reaches out, places her hand gently on his. "You weren't alone." A beat. "Even when you thought you were."
Mason's breath catches, his eyes blinking fast like he's trying to believe her.
He looks at her—really looks. "It's you. It's really you."
"Yeah," she says, her voice cracking. "And it's really you." Silence again, but this one is different. Not hollow. Full of something else. "Why now?"
Mason whispers. "Why here? This school. This town. Out of everyone, you?"
Olivia breathes out a laugh through her tears. "Fate? Dumb luck? The universe feeling sorry for us?"
Mason watches her. "I don't know if I believe in any of that."
She squeezes his hand. "Then believe in this: I'm here. You're not dreaming. And I'm not going anywhere."
Mason's hand still rests beneath Olivia's. The silence between them now feels like a warm blanket, not a cage. But questions linger behind his eyes. "So… how did you end up here?" he finally asks. "On Skrylimpo-7, I mean."
Olivia leans back slightly, the question shifting something in her posture. Her smile fades, not entirely—but enough. "My parents moved us after Tushagot."
Mason blinks. "Tushagot?"
She nods. "Skrylimpo-4's capital city. You didn't hear about it?"
He shakes his head slowly. "I… I don't know."
Olivia studies him. There's something about the way he says it—not like someone who never heard the news, but like someone unsure whether he's allowed to remember it. "It was a few years back," she continues. "They said it was a terrorist attack. Everything fell apart overnight. The broadcasts were everywhere for weeks—fires, buildings reduced to dust… Thousands of people just…" She doesn't finish. She doesn't need to. "My dad said it wasn't safe anymore. That we needed a fresh start. So… Skrylimpo-7. New job, new house, new school. And that was that."
Mason stares at the floor, jaw working silently.
"Sorry," she says quickly. "I didn't mean to dump that on you."
He shakes his head. "No, it's okay. Just… a lot." A pause stretches between them.
"Did you ever go to Tushagot?" she asks gently.
He opens his mouth—closes it again. "I'm not sure," he mutters. He rubs the back of his neck. "There's a lot I don't remember."
Olivia nods, eyes soft. "Yeah. Me too." They sit like that for a while. Not trying to fix anything. Just… being. Two broken kids orbiting a past they only half remember, brought back into each other's gravity without even realizing it.
The Next Day - Counselor's Office
The room smells faintly of old paper and lemon cleaner. Bookshelves line the walls, stuffed with binders and self-help books, their spines cracked and weary. A soft hum comes from the vent overhead, the only real noise besides the occasional creak of the old building settling.
Mason sits stiffly in the hard-backed chair across from Mr. Kenner's desk, his backpack still clutched in his lap like some kind of shield. His fingers pick nervously at a loose strap.
Mr. Kenner gives him a kind smile, the kind adults think is comforting, but to Mason, it only makes the room feel smaller. He slides into his own chair with a soft grunt, flipping open a thin manila folder. "I know this is a lot, Mason. New place, new school… it's a big adjustment." He glances down at his folder then back at Mason. "These meetings are just so I can get to know you a little better. Help you settle in."
Mason doesn't answer. He keeps his eyes on the floor, his sneakers scuffing lightly against each other.
Mr. Kenner hums to himself as he reads, his finger sliding down a page. "Let's see… placed with Jan and Malcolm two weeks ago... reports of recurring nightmares... panic attacks... previous counseling... Montipet Clinic."
Mason's shoulders twitch slightly at the mention of Montipet, but he says nothing.
Mr. Kenner's finger moves further down the page. His brow furrows slightly. "...Originally from Tushagot."
The word hangs in the air like a dropped stone.
Mason's head snaps up so fast his neck pops. "What did you just say?"
Mr. Kenner blinks, realizing he had spoken out loud. "Tushagot. That's... what it says here. You were originally registered out of Tushagot before you entered the system."
The room feels smaller suddenly, the walls creeping inward. Mason grips the backpack tighter, the fabric bunching painfully in his fists. A strange roaring fills his ears, muffling Mr. Kenner's voice. "Tushagot…"
Flashes—too fast to grab hold of—tear through his mind.
Smoke. Screaming. Skyscrapers crumbling like sandcastles beneath an angry tide. The air thick and burning. The sky—blood red. The fire. The running. The terror.
It wasn't just a nightmare. It wasn't just something his mind made up. It was real.
He was there.
"Mason? Are you alright?"
Mason feels like he might throw up. His chest is tight, like something is clawing at his ribs from the inside. "I thought it was just dreams. I thought it wasn't real. I thought it was just something broken in my head." He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stop the spinning.
Mr. Kenner's chair squeaks as he leans forward, voice low and steady. "Tushagot was a tragedy, Mason. You were very young. Sometimes… the mind locks memories and feelings away when it's too much to handle. It's a way of protecting itself."
Mason shakes his head, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He forces the words out through gritted teeth. "I didn't just lose my home." His voice breaks. "I lost me."
A long silence falls between them.
Mr. Kenner slowly closes the folder, pushing it aside like it's something fragile. He doesn't speak, doesn't press. He just lets Mason sit there, breathing hard, coming apart and trying desperately to stitch himself back together.
Outside the window, a few students walk by laughing, their voices muted by the glass. Life moving on, unaware.
Mason leans back in his chair, exhausted, the backpack slipping from his lap to the floor with a soft thud.
A faint buzzing starts behind his eyes. His fingers twitch against the edge of the desk. He feels hollowed out, unsteady.
For the first time, he realizes the truth:
He wasn't haunted by nightmares.
He was haunted by his own memories.
Mason didn't remember standing up. One moment he was frozen in the stiff-backed chair, Mr. Kenner's voice blurring into background noise, his mind caught on that single devastating revelation: Tushagot. His home. His past.
Not a nightmare. Not a lie. Real.
The next moment, he was drifting down the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him like the world locking him out.
He felt weightless, almost detached from his body. Each step was like wading through deep water — slow, sluggish, wrong. The air around him was too thick, like it was pressing against his skin. The colors of the lockers smeared into each other, their sharp blues and reds bleeding together into muddy, nauseating shades.
The faces around him, the students rushing between classes, were little more than faceless blurs.
The noise was unbearable — the screech of lockers slamming, the thunder of footsteps, the sharp bursts of laughter — all of it pulsing against his skull, pounding in time with his heartbeat.
He clutched the folder Mr. Kenner had given him tighter, his fingers digging into the edges until the paper crumpled.
"Tushagot... Tushagot... It burned. I burned..."
The thought spiraled through him again, louder, sharper, each repetition another needle into his brain.
He didn't see the figure rounding the corner until it was too late.
CRASH.
He staggered back, blinking furiously as strong hands grabbed him, steadying him before he could collapse.
"Mason?!"
The voice cut through the fog, piercing and familiar.
Olivia.
He blinked again, harder this time, trying to bring her into focus.
Her face wavered in and out — wide, worried eyes, freckles scattered across pale skin, hair catching the hallway's sterile lights like strands of fire.
It was her. It was really her.
She was saying something, but the words barely registered over the roaring in his ears.
"Mason, hey— are you okay? Look at me."
She's seen kids panic before. She's panicked before. But this—this is like watching someone fall through ice.
Her hands cupped his elbows, grounding him, but it wasn't enough.
He couldn't breathe. The hallway was too small. The air too heavy. It was like the world was folding in on itself.
His legs buckled, and Olivia tightened her grip instinctively. "Mason!"
He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came — just a broken, hollow sound like air escaping a punctured lung.
His vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in. He could see Olivia's mouth moving, could feel the urgency in her touch, but he was slipping further and further away.
"Say something," he begged himself, "Anything. Hold on. Please."
But his body wasn't listening.
He swayed dangerously.
Olivia's face blurred again, dissolving into a mix of color and light.
She looked terrified now, really terrified, like she knew he was about to fall.
"Mason, stay with me! Please!"
The floor lurched under him.
The last thing he felt was Olivia's arms tightening around him, trying to catch him — then he was gone.
THUD.
Mason collapsed against her, his weight dragging them both down.
Olivia grunted as she fell to her knees, struggling to keep him from hitting the floor too hard.
Around them, the hallway erupted — gasps, footsteps skidding, students backing away, staring.
Olivia cradled Mason against her chest, brushing the hair out of his face with trembling fingers.
His skin was clammy. Too pale. His breaths came in short, shallow gasps.
"Someone get a teacher!" she cried, her voice breaking.
Nobody moved at first — everyone just stared.
"NOW!" she screamed, sharper this time.
That broke the paralysis. A girl sprinted down the hallway, shouting for help.
Olivia bent over Mason, her forehead pressing gently against his.
"You're okay," she whispered, the words tumbling out in a desperate prayer, "You're okay. I've got you. You're not alone anymore."
But deep down, a cold knot of fear tightened in her stomach.
Because even as she held him, even as she said the words, she knew —
Mason was already somewhere far away.