NOT ONCE, NOT TWICE, BUT FOREVER

When the noise stopped, Oliver lay on his back, Hazel beside him—eyes wide, chest heaving.

Not in the picture.

Not in the hallway.

But in a field.

Twilight.

Lanterns broken.

The fire cold.

The crowd gone.

Just them.

And beside Hazel—

A small child with a moon-shaped scar.

Watching.

Silent.

Eyes ancient.

Yama… reborn. Or remembering.

The field held its breath.

The sky had dimmed to bruised twilight, and the air smelled of ash and something older—something unburnable.

Hazel's breath caught beside him, but it wasn't from fear. Not quite.

It was the recognition of fate.

Standing only a few feet from them was a child, no older than nine—bare feet dusty, hair wild with the wind.

But the scar on his forehead—round, pale, and precise like a silver moon—announced him before his lips ever moved.

He stood with the stillness of a sculpture carved from judgment itself.

His eyes weren't cruel, nor angry—only exact.

Oliver found himself kneeling without choosing to.

Hazel trembled, not out of weakness, but out of something more primal: knowing.

"You've returned in a child's form," Oliver said.

"You see a child because you still imagine innocence has weight," Yama replied. His voice was light—but it echoed behind the bones.

"We escaped the picture."

"The picture was never a prison. It was a door. You chose to walk through."

"Then what is this?" Hazel asked, her voice small but unbroken.

"This," Yama said, stepping forward, "is the moment before reckoning."

A breeze stirred the long grass. The trees creaked—not in wind, but in warning.

"Hazel," Yama continued, "You should not have passed him the stone."

"He was already part of it," she replied.

"Intent does not erase consequence. Even gods obey that rule."

Oliver stood slowly. "Then speak. If you're here to weigh us—do it. But don't hover like some ghost pretending to be a god."

Yama tilted his head. "You mistake me."

"Do I?"

"Ghosts mourn. Gods forgive. I do neither."

Hazel reached for Oliver's hand, but Yama's eyes dropped to their fingers.

"That bond will cost more than either of you can repay."

"Then collect the debt," Oliver said, stepping forward. "I'm tired of bleeding for something I don't understand."

For a moment, just one, Yama blinked.

And in that breath—the field screamed.

The grass turned black.

The trees snapped backward like cracked ribs.

And the ground opened beneath them.

Not into flame.

Not into darkness.

But into memory.

Hazel vanished from his side—pulled down into a spiral of her past.

Oliver fell too—but not into his own.

Into hers.

He landed in a stone corridor, firelight flickering on moss-covered walls.

He heard her crying.

A younger Hazel.

Begging for someone to remember her name.

He ran.

The corridor kept changing. Doors appeared. Behind each—another Hazel.

One silent. One screaming. One kneeling in red robes, her wrists stained.

And always—the scent of jasmine and rot.

Yama's voice echoed overhead.

"If you stay here, you will drown in what is not yours."

"If you leave, she is lost."

Oliver turned.

At the far end of the corridor, Hazel stood—older, real, present.

Her eyes locked to his.

"Don't forget me," she said.

"I never did."

The corridor groaned—collapsing inward.

Yama was bringing the memory down.

Ending it.

Weighing it.

Oliver ran through crumbling dust and shards of vision.

He reached her.

Grabbed her hand.

And pulled her through the collapsing world.

The last thing he heard was Yama's voice, soft as death's breath:

"You carry her judgment now."

They tumbled into the field again—shaking, gasping, real.

The fire had returned—but it no longer warmed.

The moon was high—but it no longer guided.

The festival was not gone—it was waiting.

Silent. Still.

Every face turned toward them.

And at the edge of the firelight, Leo stood watching.

One foot in shadow.

One foot beyond.

And something behind his smile that hadn't been there before.

Lantern light flickered across his shoulders, but it did not touch his eyes.

They were fixed on Oliver and Hazel—both collapsed in the grass, breathless, as if the very world had tried to swallow them and failed.

But Leo's stare wasn't born of concern.

It was curiosity.

The dangerous kind.

He had seen the collapse from across the circle.

One moment, Oliver had vanished into that frame.

The next, Yama had returned—not as the specter of whispers, but as a child who did not age and did not need to.

Leo knew what that scar meant.

Not because someone told him.

Because he had once tried to forget it.

He had seen it in a different life.

And that life had ended before it was over.

"Leo."

The name pulled him.

Oliver was rising—slow, unsure. Hazel stood behind him, her hand still in his, though her eyes scanned the crowd as if expecting it to vanish again.

"What… happened?" Oliver asked, breath sharp.

Leo stepped forward. "You fell."

"It wasn't just a fall."

"No," Leo agreed. "It wasn't."

Their gazes locked.

Something had shifted.

Not in the air. Not in the crowd.

But between them.

Hazel looked from one to the other. "You saw him too, didn't you?"

Leo said nothing.

"The scar," she pressed. "You know it."

A long silence. Then Leo nodded—once.

"His name was never meant to be spoken at a festival," he said. "He doesn't come for light. He comes for balance."

Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Then why are you still here?"

Leo smirked, but the humor didn't reach his eyes. "You think I'm here to celebrate?"

"Then what are you here for?" Hazel asked.

"To see who remembers," Leo said. "And who doesn't."

Around them, the festival resumed—but not truly.

The music played, but the rhythm was slightly off.

The laughter rang out, but behind it was something hollow.

As if everyone had been told to continue, even if their hearts no longer agreed.

Oliver looked around, his senses frayed.

"We need to leave," he whispered.

"You can't," Leo said.

"Why not?"

"Because this isn't over."

Leo's gaze turned toward the firelight.

"You think judgment ends after the first act?"

The drums picked up again. Faster this time.

Like something was chasing the sound.

Hazel turned to Oliver, her grip tightening.

"He followed us. The stone—it wasn't just broken. It was opened."

"Opened to what?"

She didn't answer.

But the look in her eyes said it all:

To memory. To power. To him.

"Yama doesn't chase," Leo said quietly. "He waits. Until you walk right back into him."

"So what, we pretend this is normal? Join the circle again and dance until he appears?"

"No." Leo's voice darkened. "You dance so he doesn't."