NOT ONCE, NOT TWICE, BUT FOREVER

"Remember…" she mouthed.

The woman's lips moved again, but no sound came. Her eyes stayed locked on Oliver's—still smiling, still frozen.

Then, in a blink, her head tilted back and resumed laughter with the others, as if nothing had happened.

Oliver stood rooted, breath shallow.

That wasn't a smile. That was a warning wearing a smile.

"Yo, you seriously spacing out over there?" Leo called, one arm already slung across the shoulders of a dark-haired woman.

Oliver walked toward them, slowly. As he approached, the shadows around the bonfire seemed to stretch, deepening unnaturally. The light flickered—not like a fire, but like a faulty projector.

"This is Lysandra," Leo said, proudly puffing his chest. "She just offered me water like she knew exactly how parched I am."

Lysandra gave a polite smile, eyes lowered—but something about the way she studied Oliver made him pause.

She didn't seem surprised to see him.

"You have… something on your face," she said quietly, brushing her finger across his cheek.

Her touch was gentle, cool.

But as soon as she touched him, a sharp static shot through his chest—like a defibrillator wired straight to memory.

Hazel's voice slammed into his skull.

"Don't follow it… Oliver, don't forget me!"

He jerked back with a gasp.

Lysandra blinked slowly. "Did I hurt you?"

"No. I… I just—"

"He's fine," Leo jumped in, laughing. "He's always dramatic around pretty women."

"Am I pretty?" Lysandra asked, tilting her head.

The way she asked it wasn't coy—it was clinical. Like she needed confirmation.

Leo didn't hesitate. "You're stunning."

She smiled again, slower this time.

The laughter in the crowd rose behind them. Oliver turned toward it—and froze.

The same child passed by again.

Same sparkler. Same laugh. Same skip.

Exactly the same.

Looping.

"Did you see that?" he asked, grabbing Leo's arm. "The girl—she just ran by again. Same movement."

Leo raised an eyebrow. "What girl?"

Oliver looked around. The child was gone.

Or had never been.

"You might've hit your head harder than I thought," Leo muttered, glancing toward the cider table.

"I'm getting us drinks," he said, already half-walking. "Don't pass out or start levitating while I'm gone."

Oliver turned back to Lysandra—but she was already walking away.

And for a heartbeat, her feet didn't touch the ground.

They hovered.

Half an inch. Maybe less. But he saw it.

His eyes darted to her shadow—it stretched the wrong direction.

And just then—across the bonfire—he saw her.

Hazel.

Not a lookalike. Not a shade.

Her.

Brown eyes locked on his.

Mouth trembling.

Lips moving, slow and desperate.

"Wake up."

She mouthed it once.

Again.

Then her face blurred.

Dissolved like ash in wind.

The fire cracked, and everything returned to normal.

Music. Laughter. Voices.

Leo returned with mugs of cider, grinning.

"Alright. I got the spiced one for you. Maybe it'll loosen whatever's crawling up your spine."

Oliver took the mug numbly.

But he didn't drink.

He stared at the liquid inside—

And for just a second, he saw his reflection.

Eyes empty.

The mug hit the ground with a dull crack, cider splashing over his boots like blood.

"Shit, man!" Leo knelt to scoop it up. "That was the last spiced one. What's going on with you tonight?"

Oliver tried to speak, but the words tangled in his throat. The reflection, the whisper—it hadn't come from him.

It had spoken independently, like something else inside the glass had borrowed his shape.

"Sorry," he murmured, brushing his hands down his coat. "Must've… slipped."

Leo squinted at him. "Did you even sleep last night? You look like someone who's been chewing nightmares."

Oliver forced a small laugh. "I've had… strange dreams, yeah."

Leo grinned. "Well, you're not dreaming now."

But even as he said it, the music stuttered again. Just for a second.

Like a skipped track.

A lantern above flickered—then snapped back to stillness.

Oliver looked to the bonfire. The flames didn't move.

For two full seconds, they were perfectly still, caught mid-flicker—then abruptly surged back to life.

The illusion was breaking—but gently. Slowly.

"Come on," Leo said, tossing the broken mug aside. "Let's go see if Lysandra's still around. I think she likes me."

"Are you sure she's… real?"

"Of course she's real. She's got hands, hair, a mouth, and she roasted me alive with just a look. Sounds real to me."

They wandered back toward the long tables. Food was piled high—unchanging, uneaten. A roasted bird still steamed, exactly as before. The pomegranates were just as split, their juice unmoved on the wooden platter.

"No one's eating," Oliver muttered.

Leo shrugged. "Maybe they're waiting for a prayer or something."

A soft gust of wind stirred Oliver's coat. But the smoke from the fire didn't shift.

And again—that scent.

Jasmine.

Hazel.

He turned sharply.

A figure at the edge of the firelight, back turned, hair curling down her back like memory given shape.

"Hazel…"

The name slipped out before he could stop it.

The figure paused.

Then slowly—agonizingly slowly—turned her head.

But her face wasn't finished.

Just eyes. No mouth. No nose. A half-face built from fog.

Oliver stumbled back.

When he looked again, she was gone.

"Okay, seriously," Leo said, grabbing his arm, "you're sweating like you saw the witch of the woods."

"Maybe I did."

"Oliver. Look at me."

He did.

Leo's face was real. Alive. Full of expression, breath, sweat. Not perfect.

The only imperfect thing in this place.

"You remember when I got that scar on my jaw?" Leo asked suddenly, tapping his chin. "At the lake near Ash Hollow?"

Oliver nodded.

"Then tell me something… Why can't I remember how we got here?"

Oliver's breath caught.

"I mean it. One minute I was at home. Next, I'm… here. No journey. No waking. Just here. Eating ghost fruit and flirting with goddess-tier strangers who talk like riddles."

Oliver felt something tighten in his chest. "So… you feel it too."

"I feel it," Leo whispered. "But I don't want to look too closely. Because I'm afraid if I blink too long…"

He nodded toward the sky.

"The stars might blink back."

Face wrong.

Lips not moving.

But the reflection whispered anyway:

"You were here before. You just forgot."

He dropped the mug.