Tylor sat on the porch steps long after the others had gone inside, his eyes locked on the burned symbol in the oak's bark. The Weaver. Whoever—or whatever—it was, had already started leaving messages in their world. Silent ones. Subtle. Like whispers hidden in wood grain.
Amaira joined him quietly, sketchbook in her lap. "I didn't draw that page, Tylor," she said without looking up. "I tried to rip it out… but it grew back."
He looked at her. "Like it wanted to be remembered."
Kayla appeared at the screen door, holding Elena's journal. "It's happening again. Pages that weren't there yesterday… are now. But they're not in Mom's handwriting. It's older. Sharper."
She passed it to Tylor. He opened to the latest entry.
"The Weaver sees beyond cause and effect. He stitches memory with consequence. His arrival is not an invasion—it's a correction."
His breath caught. "A correction of what?"
Amaira turned the page. On the opposite side, inked faintly in red:
"He undid what the Collective couldn't. Even Chronarch feared him."
The air grew colder, and wind stirred the swing on its own. No birds. No bugs. Just silence.
Kayla walked to the oak and placed her palm on the mark. "I've seen it before… in a dream I thought I forgot."
Tylor stood. "Where?"
She looked up, eyes distant. "Not a where. A when. The timeline where Amaira died."
Silence thickened around them.
"She didn't die because of the fracture alone. Someone pulled the thread. Changed the moment. Not just time… but memory."
Tylor clenched his fists. "And you think it was him?"
Amaira answered instead. "I think it always was."
Suddenly, her sketchbook rustled. A new page flipped open.
A drawing appeared in real time—lines forming themselves in black ink.
A forest.
A path lined with old clock faces half-buried in moss.
And three figures, drawn from behind, walking toward a crooked cabin with gears for windows.
At the top of the page: "Where Threads Begin."
Kayla's eyes widened. "We've been summoned."
Tylor nodded, adrenaline returning. "Then we follow it. Whatever the Weaver is… he made this personal."
But even as they packed to leave, the clocks in the house—previously silent—began to tick again.
Not together. Not in rhythm.
Each beat a countdown to something unseen.
And the final tick of the grandfather clock struck thirteen.