NOT ONCE, NOT TWICE, BUT FOREVER

Oliver didn't respond. The words sat in his chest like a buried needle.

But even as they stood there, surrounded by golden lanterns and feasting strangers who didn't eat, he felt a change in the air.

The scent shifted again—not jasmine this time, but something colder.

Nightwater. Pine. Smoke.

The bonfire crackled once—then went silent.

Music faltered.

And somewhere at the edge of the trees, where the light turned silver-blue, a figure stood waiting.

The air grew still.

A hush spread through the festival like a spell. Not panic—anticipation.

And the figure stepped forward.

Hazel.

Fully formed.

Her dress shimmered with the moonlight's grief—gray and ash-colored, trailing behind her like memory. Her hair was looser now, falling like spilled ink. Her eyes—those deep brown eyes—locked onto his like anchors.

Oliver's breath caught.

"Hazel…?"

She didn't speak.

But her gaze held everything she didn't say: longing, sadness, warning.

And maybe… regret.

He stepped forward.

One step—

Two—

She raised a hand.

Not in welcome.

But in command.

He froze.

And then her voice came—not through the air, but directly into his chest.

"If you follow me again… you won't come back the same."

The festival resumed behind him. A cheer went up. Laughter bloomed again like fireworks.

But the light felt thinner now.

Oliver turned briefly—Leo was speaking to a group again, gesturing wildly, like nothing had happened.

When he turned back—Hazel was gone.

Only a single gray feather floated where she had stood.

He stepped forward and caught it.

It was cold. Damp. Real.

He closed his eyes and tucked it inside his coat.

But in the back of his mind, a voice whispered:

You were here before. You just forgot.

But this time, you might remember too much…

"Hey!" Leo's voice cut through the moment like a hand snapping fingers in a dream. "What are you doing over there? You look like you're trying to remember how to breathe."

Oliver turned slowly. His heart was still pounding, but the vision of Hazel was gone—only the feather in his pocket remained.

"I'm fine," he lied.

"Good," Leo said, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Because you're missing the real fun. There's a fire-dance starting by the lower hill. You have got to see what these women can do with smoke and silk."

"Leo—"

"Don't 'Leo' me. You've been walking around like a haunted clock all night. Come on, brother. You need to live a little before you start seeing ghosts in bonfires."

Oliver tried to protest, but Leo was already steering him through the crowd. The rhythm of drums picked up again—soft, seductive, almost drugged.

The tension in his body softened under the weight of sound, scent, and light.

Maybe he was overreacting.

Maybe it really was just a dream bleeding through.

They reached the fire-dance ring. Silk banners billowed in spirals of ember and ash as dancers twirled with veils of smoke trailing their hands. Faces glowed in the amber light, soft with pleasure and awe.

A woman laughed—high and smooth like honey over stone.

And for a while… everything felt beautiful.

Leo handed him a steaming mug of something thick and sweet. "Drink. Forget."

Oliver hesitated—then drank. It tasted like velvet and memory.

The crowd swayed. The drums slowed. The heat kissed his skin.

He closed his eyes.

For just a moment.

—

And when he opened them…

The crowd was gone.

The fire was ash.

The drums were distant—like thunder beneath the sea.

The only thing in his hand was the feather.

Cold.

Trembling.

He was standing alone, somewhere deep in the woods. Fog rolled across the ground like a living thing.

A voice whispered beside his ear.

"Come."

He turned—no one.

But the feather in his hand had changed.

It bled.

Thin rivulets of silver liquid ran down its shaft, pooling at his fingertips.

Then the trees began to move—no, rearrange themselves—forming a narrow path that pulsed faintly with light.

And at the path's mouth stood a figure in a veil of moths.

Not Hazel.

Not one of the festival women.

Something else.

Watching.

Waiting.

As the wind picked up, it carried a whisper not from outside—but inside his chest.

"You were not supposed to leave the picture…"

Then the world snapped.

Light.

Sound.

Laughter again.

Leo beside him, nudging his arm. "You just dozed off standing, man. That's new."

The crowd was back. The dancers swayed. The fire roared.

But the feather was still wet in his hand.

And somewhere, deep inside, something had followed him back.

The festival roared behind his eyes, but Oliver didn't feel its warmth.

Not fully. Not anymore.

The feather pulsed in his hand like a living thing.

Still wet.

Still bleeding.

Yet when he showed it to Leo—nothing. Just a dry, gray plume.

"Man, you seriously need sleep," Leo said, clapping him on the back. "Or sex. Or both. Come on, I think Lysandra's looking for you."

But Oliver didn't move.

His eyes stayed fixed on the woods.

Where the trees had shifted.

Where the woman in moths had stood.

You were not supposed to leave the picture...

The phrase echoed. Not just in his mind—but around him. Like the forest itself had begun to whisper.

Something called him there.

He stepped backward from the crowd, unnoticed.

And the moment the firelight stopped touching his skin, the festival's laughter dimmed to silence.

Not a single person turned.

Like he'd been removed.

Erased.

The trees welcomed him—parting with reverent grace. The fog swallowed his ankles, knees, chest.

And then she appeared again.

Not Hazel.

Her.

The woman in moths.

Her face was veiled, but her voice slid into his chest like silk dipped in ice.

"You have stepped outside your frame."

"What are you talking about?"

"The memory that birthed you was closed. You reopened it."

"Was Hazel… part of that memory?"

A pause. Then a nod.

"She waits inside the fracture. But she is not alone anymore."

"Then take me to her."

The moths around her flared suddenly, revealing her eyes—dark, endless.

"You do not ask. You trespass. And there are consequences."

A new sound rolled through the trees.

Not wind.

Not footstep.

A judgment.

The trees trembled.

The fog fled.

And from the far side of the path, a figure emerged.

Towering.

Hooded in bone-white cloth.

His feet made no sound.

But every step shattered something unseen—like glass breaking in dimensions Oliver couldn't name.

His face was carved in stillness.

Lips sealed. Eyes pale. Skin like stone cracked by centuries.

And upon his forehead: a scar, shaped like a crescent moon—faintly glowing.

Oliver didn't need to ask his name.

He knew.

"Yama…"

The name slipped out like a prayer—and was answered like a sentence.

"You left the memory before you were judged," Yama said, his voice low and echoing with ancient finality. "You touched the picture before you were summoned."

"I was called! Hazel—she called me!"

"Hazel is not the judge."

"Then who is?"

Yama raised one finger, pointing—not forward, but inward.

Into Oliver's chest.

"You knew your guilt. That was enough."

"I don't understand what I've done."

"Intention is the perfume of guilt—not the fire."

Oliver stepped back. The moth-woman did not.

She lowered her head.

"He comes to finish," she whispered. "Not to weigh. Not to wait."

Yama took another step. The air between them crystallized with pressure.

Oliver couldn't breathe.

"You cannot kill what is only a memory," he gasped.

"You misunderstand," Yama said.

"I do not kill."

"I return."

And then his palm moved—slow, smooth, downward—

The moth-woman lifted her veil just enough to whisper into Oliver's ear:

"Run. But know this: once he begins, he never stops."

"And he has already begun."