Before we could leave, a group of guards blocked the hallway—and with them, a man in a white coat. A scientist.
"Before you go," he said, stepping forward, "we have to check if you're infected."
His voice was calm but firm, and the guards behind him looked tense, as if expecting something to go wrong.
"Alright," I said quietly.
He brought out a small, silver case and opened it to reveal a syringe and a slender vial. Without much ceremony, he pressed the needle into my arm. I winced slightly, watching my blood fill the vial. He inserted it into a strange machine nearby—small and rectangular, with a blinking green light. We stood in silence as it hummed and clicked.
A moment later, the machine chimed softly, and the result appeared on a small screen: Negative.
"You're clear," the scientist said, stepping back. "You're free to go."
As we walked back home, the relief in the air was thick. Mom and Aunt Gaizell wouldn't stop talking, their voices overlapping—something about the station, about the infection, about how lucky we were. But their words felt distant, muffled, like I was underwater. My head felt light, as if it were floating just a few inches above my body. Every step felt heavier than the last.
I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Lae had helped Joeress find me.
Why? How? Was it all planned?
"Cirus."
My mom's voice.
"Cirus."
Aunt Gaizell now.
"Cirus, are you feeling unwell?"
I blinked. We were already standing in front of our house. My feet had brought me here without me realizing. I turned to them—my mom and Aunt Gaizell both stared at me with concern. I looked down at my hands, and for a moment they didn't even feel like mine. They were trembling.
"No… I'm fine," I muttered. "Just a bit tired."
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
My room welcomed me like a familiar dream. Same sheets, same scent, same quiet. I collapsed onto my bed, burying my face into the pillow as a wave of heat crawled up my back. My head pulsed, throbbing behind my eyes. I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead. Burning.
The world began to dull around me. The distant sounds of the house melted away, replaced by the buzzing in my ears. My limbs felt numb. The pillow beneath me was too warm, and the light behind my eyelids shifted like waves on the shore.
I prayed the feeling would pass.
Then suddenly—like flipping a switch—everything changed.
The pain vanished. The heat in my body disappeared, and a gentle breeze kissed my skin. I heard birdsong—sweet and delicate, like wind chimes in the distance. I opened my eyes to find myself lying in an open field, staring at a cloudless, endless blue sky.
Another dream.
I sat up slowly, recognizing the scenery. It looked like the field I played in as a child—but wider, brighter, more alive. Just ahead stood a strange mansion, several meters away, as though it had been waiting for me.
Then, I heard it.
The flutter of wings.
A crystal butterfly hovered in front of me, just like before—its translucent wings shimmering in the light, catching every color of the sky. I expected it to land on me again, to rest gently on my hand.
But it didn't.
It floated there, still and purposeful, as if waiting for me to follow.
I rose to my feet and took a step forward. The butterfly drifted closer to the mansion. And I followed.
As I approached, the mansion's structure became clearer. It was old, but not decayed—elegant, timeless. The first floor was built from white cement, clean and smooth like polished bone. The second level was lined with dark, oiled wood, intricate carvings etched into its panels, whispering stories I couldn't quite hear. Instead of electric lights, lanterns hung on the walls, glowing with soft, purplish flames that flickered as if alive.
The closer I got, the more surreal everything felt. My footsteps barely made a sound. The grass beneath my feet bent like silk and sprang back into place. When I reached the entrance, the tall double doors creaked open on their own—slow, deliberate, as if they'd been waiting just for me.
The crystal butterfly flitted inside without hesitation. I followed, taking cautious steps across the threshold.
Inside, a long hallway stretched before me, dimly lit by those same strange lanterns. The walls were lined with paintings—strange ones. Forests, yes, but twisted and unfamiliar. The trees looked wrong, bent at impossible angles, their leaves glowing faintly with colors not found in nature.
Yet… something in them tugged at my memory.
Then I saw it.
One of the paintings showed the river where I'd first met Lae. Another—an open field, the same one where I'd nearly died. And another still: the dark, damp cave where Lae and I had taken shelter together.
Each place. Each moment. All tied to Lae.
I stopped walking for a second, my breath catching.
This dream… it wasn't random.
It was a memory. Or… pieces of one.
The butterfly drifted onward, and I followed, slower now. My eyes scanned every new painting, searching for meaning.
Then, without warning, I bumped into something solid.
A wall?
No—a massive painting.
I looked up and froze.
It was a portrait of my mother.
And beside her stood a man… a man who looked just like me.
He wore the same kind of necklace Neal had given me. His expression was serious, but his eyes held something familiar—curiosity, maybe. Wonder. My mother stood close to him, and both of them wore outfits I'd only seen in books. Rough canvas jackets, belts with tools, boots caked with dust.
Archaeologists.
Could that man be... my father?
Before I could think more, a loud crash echoed from a nearby room, the sound sharp and sudden like thunder. My head snapped toward a heavy wooden door to my right.
Something was calling me.
I stepped closer, hand outstretched toward the doorknob. Just before my fingers touched the brass handle, the door burst open with a gust of wind.
Inside was a small, circular room. At its center stood a pedestal, and atop it—a crystal. Not like the butterfly, but solid, pulsing with a vivid blue light. Its glow shimmered brighter than any ocean I'd ever seen.
It radiated… something. A presence.
As I stepped closer, I saw it had markings—letters, or maybe symbols—etched into its surface in a language I didn't understand. The air around it buzzed faintly.
I reached out, slowly, cautiously, drawn to it by something deep in my chest.
Just as my fingers hovered inches away, a searing pain exploded through my skull. My body flared with heat, my knees buckled.
It was worse than before—like fire crawling through my veins.
The dream dissolved into darkness.
"CIRUS!"
"CIRUS, WAKE UP!"
My eyes snapped open.
Everything hurt.
My limbs felt like they'd been tied to boulders, my chest ached with every breath, and my forehead throbbed as if something was clawing at the inside of my skull. Blinking away the blur, I saw my mom's face hovering above mine, eyes filled with panic and worry. Her palm pressed gently against my forehead, and I could feel the slight tremble in her fingers.
"Cirus, are you okay?" her voice cracked—shaky, thin, breaking under the weight of fear.
I tried to respond, but only a weak breath came out.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, quick and urgent. Moments later, Aunt Gaizell burst into the room holding a small metal bucket steaming faintly, and a folded white rag slung over the edge.
Without a word, she set the bucket down beside the bed and dipped the rag in. The scent of warm herbs and water filled the air, calming in contrast to the stiffness that gripped my body. She wrung the cloth out with practiced hands and pressed it gently against my forehead, the warmth soothing the fire beneath my skin.
"Don't worry," she said calmly, giving my mom a brief glance, "he's just having a fever. His body's exhausted."
My mom exhaled, a breath so heavy it was as if she'd been holding it for hours. She lowered herself, resting her hand around mine, her thumb softly tracing the back of my palm.
"You should rest," she whispered, leaning close, her voice steadier now. "I'll go cook some soup for you, okay?"
I gave her a small nod—barely a tilt of my head—and she smiled with a mother's quiet strength before leaving the room, brushing my hair once before stepping out.
"I'll grab some medicine," Aunt Gaizell said, already halfway through the door. "Don't move too much, alright?"
And then they were gone, and silence swept into the room like a blanket. The ticking of the clock on my wall filled the emptiness with its slow, steady rhythm. I stared at the ceiling, the soft glow of afternoon sunlight filtered through my curtains, casting lines of gold across my desk and the floorboards.
Everything in my room was just as I left it—books still stacked on the shelf, my jacket draped over the chair, a half-finished sketch of a forest taped to the wall. But something inside me had changed.
Without realizing it, my hand had drifted to the necklace around my neck—the one Neal had given me.
My fingers ran along the familiar grooves of the pendant, the metal cool against my feverish skin. I held it tightly, grounding myself in its weight, in the memories it held. It was strange… how something so small could feel so important.
As I lay there, sweat beginning to cool on my skin, I closed my eyes. For the first time since I woke, the pain dulled, if only slightly. But the image of that glowing crystal and the voice of the dream still echoed in the corners of my mind, like a song I couldn't forget.