17th of Gloamreach, Year 150 A.V.
43 Drowmere Street, Noxhollow
The moonlight lingered behind him as Jack stepped away from the window, shadows slipping off his shoulders like a shawl of half-formed thoughts.
The house felt bigger now.
Not in space—no, it was modest in size—but in weight. Every wall, every corner, seemed to hold its breath around him. A stranger inside a quiet life.
He moved slowly, passing the coat rack again without looking at it. The lamplight overhead flickered as if aware of his movement. Something in the construction of the house—worn gears hidden behind decorative molding—responded to proximity. An elegant bit of arcano-mechanical design.
He crossed into the next room on instinct alone.
The kitchen.
At first glance, it wasn't anything unusual. Narrow counters. Black-tile floor scuffed in the corners. Open shelves stacked with jars and tins. A simple stove in the corner, its belly cold and silent. But the longer he stood there, the stranger it became.
Jack narrowed his eyes.
There were no plates. No mugs. No cutlery in the drawers. No sign of casual meals. Instead, the shelves were lined with small corked vials, bundles of dried herbs, and arcane measuring tools—slender rods etched with silver lines, two-pronged tongs made from darkened glass, a mortar still dusted with something chalky and faintly blue.
This isn't a kitchen.
It's a lab.
He reached for one of the jars. Inside: what looked like dried dreamroot—glassy white threads bound together with a wax seal. The label was handwritten in tight, careful script:
> "Veilrose – 2nd distillate. Use sparingly. Burns in starlight."
Another: a jar of soft red powder.
> "Crimson ash. Traced back to Hollowmere. Avoid inhaling."
He glanced toward the stovetop.
It wasn't ordinary iron. The burner plates were laced with inlaid sigil lines—like heat runes, but built for precise alchemical temperatures. The bottom cabinet was lined with lead, and inside were several small sealed scrolls bound in iron wire.
Jack crouched low, pulling one free. The parchment crackled beneath his fingers.
> "Personal tonic mix: mind-shield variant – Notes: effective for shallow dreamtraps, fails under resonance strain. Rework with starflame ratio?"
He leaned against the counter, exhaling through his nose.
Michael didn't cook. He crafted.
This was someone who used ritual in place of recipes. Who brewed protection and clarity and sleep instead of stew. No comfort food. No kettle. Just the controlled chaos of a scholar trying to hold himself together with tinctures and time.
Jack let the scroll drop gently back into the cabinet and stood again.
He opened a tall cabinet next, half-expecting preserved fruit or crackers.
Instead, a small folded chalkboard leaned inside, its surface scrawled with half-erased runes and diagrams of fragmental glyph theory. It smelled like wax and old ink.
And beneath it, tucked in a box carved from graywood:
A set of seven hand-labeled vials, each filled with liquid that shimmered faintly in the light.
> "Calm."
"Clarity."
"Sleep."
"Anchor."
"Forget."
"Endure."
"Empty."
The last one made Jack pause.
Empty?
He touched the vial gently. The liquid inside swirled like smoke caught in water—no label on the bottom, no date.
He slid the drawer shut.
A soft creak echoed from somewhere upstairs—pipes settling, or maybe just old wood breathing.
Jack straightened, eyes scanning the now-familiar room one last time.
This wasn't a kitchen. It was a mind laid out in tinctures and chalk.
Jack lingered in the kitchen a moment longer, then turned back toward the hall. The house didn't creak, didn't groan—it simply shifted its weight behind him like a breath being held.
He padded quietly past the sitting room, into a narrow corridor that led to a pair of doors. The first opened with a soft push.
The bathroom.
It was simple. Clean. Quiet.
A half-clawed tub with brass pipes curled along its base sat in the corner, its fixtures designed more like alchemical nozzles than anything remotely domestic. One dial was marked with three layers of overlapping glyphs and an etching that read:
> "Regulate flow by moon phase."
Jack arched a brow. "Of course."
There was a shallow shelf lined with jars and vials. Soaps and tinctures, but nothing that looked like it came from a market shelf. These were handmade. One bottle was labeled "clarity binder." Another, "veilburn salve." A small tin simply said "tension scrub – post ritual use."
It wasn't just that Michael lived alone. He ritualized everything. Even bathing felt like it came with a protocol.
Jack walked further in, letting the door shut behind him. His boots clicked against black and gray tiling, the edges of the room illuminated by soft light that hummed from a crystalline sconce above the mirror.
He turned toward the sink, letting out a slow breath—and finally looked up.
There he was.
Not Jack Summer.
Not the boy from the 21st century who binge-watched anime with subtitles and skipped school to marathon crime dramas.
But Michael Vaelborne.
Dark, tousled hair—less messy now, but still with the ghost of sleep in it. A sharp jaw. Strong cheekbones. Eyes like dusklight—gray with the faintest shimmer of green. Pale skin, touched with the wear of stress and long nights.
It was a face built for solitude. For quiet.
For thinking too much.
He didn't smile.
Didn't reach out to touch the glass.
Just stared.
So this is me now.
His throat felt dry, but he didn't look away.
No second chances. No reset button. This is the body I walk in. The voice I lie with. The skin that bears the mark.
Jack let the moment stretch a little longer. Not dramatic. Just… final.
Then, slowly, he reached up and splashed water onto his face. The temperature was off—too warm, then too cold—but he didn't care. The shock grounded him. Reminded him he was still breathing. Still here.
He glanced once more at the shelf of tinctures and bottles.
Then wiped his hands on a towel—soft, slightly worn, its hem stitched with a faded sigil that looked like a mountain split by a river.
Michael's mark? Or his family's?
Jack didn't know yet.
But he intended to.