When Lucian stepped into spiral ring eight, the world blinked.
There was no wind.
No rite.
No warning.
One breath he was watching the stone shift beneath his feet—
The next, he was home.
The kitchen smelled like apple pie and lemon.
Morning light poured across the marble counter, warming his fingers as he reached for a teacup.
"Are you going to stare at it all morning?" came a voice from behind.
Lucian turned, and there she was.
Camellia.
She laughed as she adjusted a potted herb on the sill. Her braid was loose. Her apron stained with flour.
"You're not really going to skip breakfast again, are you?"
Lucian froze.
This must be the summer before I moved closer to the funeral home.
He hadn't seen her face in years.
Even if he hadn't sacrificed the memory, he'd forgotten it entirely.
But here… it was clear as glass.
He felt the warmth of her shoulder as she brushed past. Heard the squeal of the kettle. All the small details memory tends to blur.
