Darkness breathed around him.
Not silent. Not still. But slow—like a tide made of ink, pressing in from every direction.
Where am I…?
He tried to move. Fingers, lips, anything. Nothing answered. His body remained a stone submerged beneath some terrible, soft weight.
He wasn't cold. Not warm, either. Just… here. Floating between the seams of sleep and something else.
Did I die again?
The thought slithered through his mind, uninvited. Panic tried to rise, but even that was dulled—like his heart had been wrapped in gauze.
Faint impressions whispered around him. Voices? No. Not words, but impressions—curved thoughts curling into his skull. The scent of burnt oil. The taste of copper. The steady thrum of something alive, not far away.
And under all of it… pressure. Not physical. Something deeper. A presence—not cruel, not kind—but watching. Waiting. Just beyond the veil of perception.
This isn't the forest.
Something sterile hung in the air now. Soap. Disinfectant. Distant, muffled footsteps on stone tiles. A sense of walls and ceilings—enclosure. Civilization.
A hospital…?
He tried again. To scream. To speak. To blink. Anything.
But there was only stillness. A living tomb of flesh and mind.
Michael's body. Jack's mind. Which one's really breathing now?
Then, softly, faintly, at the edge of all thought—a memory stirred. Not his. A name, a scent, a lullaby hummed through cracked memory. Someone's hand brushing his forehead. A woman's voice whispering through dreamlight.
"Seek the paths unseen."
His breath caught—though he wasn't sure he'd drawn one.
Thalia.
But whose memory was that?
And somewhere beyond the dark, a soft beeping echoed.
Regular. Mechanical. Real.
Jack stirred.
Not fully—just enough to feel the weight of himself again. Warmth. A bed. Something steady, mechanical, beeping in the background. He didn't dare open his eyes yet. Not out of fear—but hope.
Please… let it be Earth.
The thought whispered through him, frail and desperate.
Maybe it had been a dream. A vivid, twisted hallucination. The forest. The stars. That damned glowing sigil—
His eyes opened slowly, blearily.
A ceiling came into view. Smooth. White. Pale light filtered through a frosted window to his right. He turned his head slightly.
Monitors. Cabinets. A glass vial on a counter. The unmistakable sterility of a hospital room.
Relief flooded him in a wave so sudden it nearly choked him.
I'm back. Oh my god, I'm—
Something moved.
A shadow at the edge of the room.
A soft, unfamiliar voice called out—
"Oh, thank the Veil! You're awake!"
Jack froze.
That voice—it didn't match. The words didn't match. He turned slowly, dread rising in his gut like a cold tide.
The woman approaching wore a soft gray uniform—not quite modern, not quite Victorian. Elegant, practical. Her eyes were wide with concern, and a thin ribbon threaded with sigils hung from her neck like an ID badge.
"Are you in pain?" she asked gently. "Do you remember what happened?"
He blinked at her. Once. Twice.
"…No," he said flatly, masking the spike of panic with practiced calm. "But I'm guessing I passed out?"
The nurse sighed in quiet relief. "Yes. At the city gates, poor thing. You're lucky someone found you before the fog rolled in."
The fog. The gates. Noxhollow.
Not Earth.
He exhaled slowly and turned his gaze back to the ceiling.
So much for waking up.
He softened his expression—just the right touch of confusion, half-lidded eyes. If there was one thing modern Earth had taught him, it was how to bluff.
Alright, Jack. Play it cool. You're the protagonist now. Think like one.
He turned toward her again and blinked as if just noticing her presence.
"Huh… Miss, how long have I been here?" he asked, rubbing the back of his head with feigned uncertainty.
She looked at him with a mix of caution and kindness. "Two days. You were found unconscious just outside the city gates. You've been feverish, muttering strange things in your sleep."
"Two days…?" he echoed softly.
Two days in this world already? What else have I missed?
"Your fever finally broke this morning," she added. "Do you remember your name?"
He hesitated. Then gave a sheepish shrug. "Michael Vaelborne… right?"
The nurse nodded slowly. "That's what the ID tag on your coat said. You had no other belongings."
He gave a breathy laugh, feigning relief. "Then I guess I'm lucky I still remember that much."
Internally, Jack felt like a con man bluffing through a high-stakes interrogation.
"You wouldn't happen to know where this is, would you?" he asked, squinting. "Still a little foggy."
She tilted her head. "The South Ward of Noxhollow General. You've lived here your whole life, haven't you?"
Noxhollow. He repeated it silently, letting it settle.
So it wasn't a dream.
The forest, the stars, the sigil—it had all been real.
He let out a long breath. "It's all a bit… jumbled. Feels like waking up from a dream that's still clinging to your skin."
"You should rest," she said kindly. "Doctor will want to see you soon. But… it's good to see your eyes open, Michael. You scared a few people."
"Wouldn't be the first time," he mumbled under his breath with a grin.
She didn't quite catch it, but she smiled and stepped away, leaving him with the quiet hum of the ward.
As the door clicked shut, the grin slid from his face.
Alone again.
He lay still, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling above—its edges laced with subtle arcane seams, humming faintly beneath the plaster. Not Earth. It had never been Earth.
But I'm not Jack Summer anymore either, am I?
The name clung like a phantom limb—real, familiar, but hollow here.
Michael Vaelborne was the name on his coat. The name in their records. The name of the boy whose life he now wore like a second skin.
His hand drifted to his palm, fingers brushing the faint warmth beneath the bandage.
The sigil.
He didn't dare look at it here. Not until he was sure he was alone.
Because he was being watched. Not by the nurse. Not even by the doctor.
But by the city itself.
By the Veil.
Jack closed his eyes.
Not to sleep—but to sift.
The memories still hung in the corners of his mind like cobwebs, too fine to grasp, too stubborn to ignore. Some came clearer than others—like whispers behind a veil.
A man hunched over a forge, face lined with soot and time. A voice that rumbled more in silence than sound.
Dalen Vaelborne. The father Michael feared to disappoint, even in quiet admiration.
Then came another—gentler. Hands ink-stained from copying scrolls, her lullabies soft and full of stories.
Thalia.
She smelled of parchment and lavender. She once said, "Truth isn't always bright. Sometimes it hides in the margins."
Jack could feel the ache Michael had never spoken aloud. Could sense the emptiness left behind.
They were gone. Both of them. Taken by a sickness that moved too fast for names or reasons. And in their absence, only pieces remained.
Three siblings.
Simmon, the eldest—already grown, already distant, apprenticed to some merchant firm on the city's northern slope.
Judith, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, who had once debated street preachers for fun and could eviscerate egos with a glance.
And Sorae, the youngest. Quiet. Curious. She would be twelve now.
He didn't know them. Not really.
But Michael had.
And now those memories—fragile, incomplete—were his to carry.
I'm not him, Jack thought. But even as the thought came, it rang hollow.
Because somewhere beneath the weight of dreams, the sigil, and the name stitched into his coat…
Maybe he was.