NOT ONCE, NOT TWICE, BUT FOREVER

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The darkness unraveled into light, but it wasn't light he could trust.

Lanterns floated overhead, golden and warm, swaying like lazy fireflies.

Laughter rang through the air—children, adults, drums. It should've felt like peace.

But it didn't.

Something in him stayed frozen, coiled like a warning inside his chest.

You are not where you think you are.

The voice whispered again, not out loud but somewhere deeper—in the echo space between thought and memory.

He turned slowly, his steps weightless, like the ground beneath him couldn't decide whether to hold or swallow him.

All around, people danced. Faces bright, expressions soft. Their smiles stretched just a little too wide.

"Oliver."

He heard it—clear as a bell—but no one turned to say it. The name was caught in the wind, bending through the trees.

The scent of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts curled into his lungs again. He exhaled, but it didn't leave. It stayed. Clung.

Then he saw them—the picture frames.

Lining the base of the bonfire, tucked into tree trunks, hanging from lantern poles. All of them—blurry, faded, incomplete. Some had rotting edges. Some had no faces.

Just like the room.

Just like before.

He stepped toward one, but a child ran between him and the frame, laughing, sparkler in hand, leaving a trail of light and sound that vanished too quickly.

It felt… rehearsed.

Like this entire place was breathing in rhythm—but not its own.

"Remember."

The voice returned—softer now, almost mournful.

And just then, across the fire-lit square, he saw a figure.

She was turning her head. Slowly. Hair falling like a curtain.

And her eyes—brownish. Familiar.

His heart twisted in his chest.

Hazel?

But as he took a step forward, the crowd moved like a tide, folding between them. He lost her face for a second—and when the space cleared again, she was gone.

No—

He pivoted, pushing past a boy holding a wooden fox mask, nearly bumping into a tray of cider. The warmth of the firelight glowed on everyone's skin, but Oliver's felt cold. His palms were clammy. The scents were too rich, too layered.

Cinnamon. Rose oil. Charcoal. Wet leaves. All overlapping. Too perfect.

A woman giggled near the fire, but her laugh repeated a second too late—as if played back on a broken recording. No one else seemed to notice.

Another man threw his head back in laughter… then froze. Mid-gesture.

His smile locked in place, eyes not blinking.

And then he moved again, as if nothing happened.

Oliver's stomach clenched.

He stepped away from the crowd, head spinning. Music played, but it had no source. The drums echoed without drummers. The flutes were breathless.

A shadow flickered behind him. He turned—nothing.

Then a hand landed on his shoulder. Firm. Warm.

"Hey! Watch it, man. Are you blind or just rude?"

The voice broke the illusion like a blade through paper. It had weight. Grit. A realness that didn't belong here.

Oliver turned—and stared.

Broad chest. Thick shoulders. Scars etched like claw marks across skin.

The man's face was smudged with ash or… something darker. But the grin was familiar. Too familiar.

"Hey…" The man narrowed his eyes. "Oliver? What the hell, man. Have you seriously forgotten me?"

Oliver opened his mouth, but no sound came. A name tugged at his thoughts, slippery, half-formed.

"Don't tell me you're still on that weird dream drug crap. Or did you hit your head again?"

The voice. That voice.

And then—snap.

Leo.

The name landed in his chest like a falling stone.

And suddenly—he was laughing. So was Leo. The laughter cracked open the air between them like sunlight in fog.

The weight of something—maybe the illusion—lifted. Slightly.

Leo rubbed at the dark smear on his face. "Damn… maybe this gunk's why you didn't recognize me. You look like you've seen a ghost."

I have, Oliver thought. But he said nothing.

Around them, the crowd had already shifted. New dances had begun. Laughter swelled again, and somewhere nearby, a child screamed—not in fear, but with joy.

Leo slung an arm around his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get food. You look like you've been fasting in another dimension."

Oliver smiled faintly, but his eyes trailed back to the space where the girl had vanished.

Hazel…? Was it really you?

Or was this place still trying to fool him?

They walked through the crowd, shoulders brushing strangers, every step stirring scents that clung to the air like silk: honeyed wine, sandalwood, something darker beneath it—earthy, metallic.

"Smell that?" Leo grinned, inhaling. "This place knows how to live."

Oliver managed a smile, but he couldn't shake the pressure behind his ribs. As if something inside him was watching, waiting for the curtain to fall.

The music shifted—deeper drums, layered with voices humming in tones that barely sounded human.

They passed a table piled with roasted meats and dripping fruit, platters steaming and glittering in the firelight. Children darted between benches, their laughter turning high and shrill. One girl's face passed too quickly—it looked like Hazel's. For a second.

He blinked. She was gone. Again.

"Hey, check out the eye candy," Leo murmured, nodding toward a circle of women near the bonfire.

Oliver turned—and paused.

They weren't just beautiful.

They moved like they'd rehearsed the moment a thousand times: every sway of the hip, every flick of the hair choreographed to perfection.

Their skin gleamed in the firelight, flawless and warm. Dresses clung to curves, shimmering subtly with each step. The air around them was perfumed—vanilla, rose oil, something spiced and ancient.

One of them laughed—and again, the laugh echoed too long, like it had bounced off a canyon wall instead of open air.

Still, Leo was enthralled. "Alright. I've gotta try my luck."

"Leo…" Oliver said, hesitating. "Something's not—"

"Don't start. You always say that right before I talk to someone way out of my league."

He smirked, slicking his hair back and stepping into the fire's halo like a man approaching a throne.

Oliver lingered behind, eyes scanning the women's circle. One tilted her head and looked directly at him.

Her face was calm. Beautiful.

But her eyes didn't smile.

They didn't move.

Like glass set into flesh.

Oliver looked away. The music deepened again, vibrating through his bones like something alive beneath the earth.

Leo had already reached the nearest table where three women perched—laughing, lounging, hair cascading over their shoulders like ink in water.

"Ladies," he began, voice smooth, "mind if I—"

"Do you need water?"

The one in the center had asked it. Her voice soft, warm, but there was steel beneath it. She looked at Leo as though she already knew what he'd say—and judged him for thinking it.

Leo blinked. "Uh… sure."

The women laughed—harder than the moment called for. One of them clutched her stomach.

Oliver watched, unmoving.

Then he saw it.

Just behind the women, nestled between the fire's shadows—

A mirror.

Hanging crooked on a tree.

Reflecting nothing.

Not the fire. Not Leo. Not the women.

Just blackness.

A void where the image should be.

And for a second—just a breath—he saw himself inside it. But not as he was.

Not now.

It was the version of him still stuck in the room of rotting pictures. Pale. Shaking. Blood smudged on his forehead.

He blinked—and it was gone.

"Oliver?" Leo called, waving a hand. "You good?"

Oliver didn't answer. The laughter around him swelled again—but now it grated. Felt too loud. Too timed.

He took a step back.

One of the women turned her head sharply, like she'd heard something far away.

And smiled.

"Remember…" she mouthed.

But no sound came.