The silence of Eli's absence followed Ivy through the halls like a second shadow.
It wasn't that he was hiding.
It was that he was slipping—like a name at the edge of a dream, like the end of a sentence she never got to hear. And that, somehow, was worse.
The fourth mark wasn't pulsing anymore, but it still felt alive—like a creature lying in wait beneath her ribs. The other glyphs responded faintly when she passed ripple-glitches in the walls, flashing cold blue or warm violet depending on proximity.
But no glow meant Eli.
And today… there was no glow at all.
---
The ripple in the west hall opened briefly at midday.
Just enough to let her through.
She entered without hesitation, her boots echoing across the strange marble flooring of the alternate corridor—the one that didn't belong to Morley, not really. This version had black-lacquered lockers and flickering crystal light sconces. It smelled like ink and thunder.
And the air was thin.
She placed a hand against the ripple-glass lining the left wall.
"Eli," she whispered.
It didn't respond.
She pressed her palm harder. "Eli, I know you're there. I know what I did might've… might've pulled the mark too far."
Still nothing.
"I don't remember the right version," she said. "I don't remember who I was when I loved you. But I know you're part of it. Please… don't fade now."
---
A crack shimmered through the ripple wall.
Not a door. Not a full opening.
Just a seam.
She slid her fingers into it.
Pain bloomed through her glyphs—white-hot, searing—but she didn't pull back. Instead, she focused. Reached. Pulled.
The ripple shuddered.
And for one breathless moment, she saw him.
Not standing.
Not smiling.
But curled against the wall on the other side of the seam, face pale, hands clenched over his chest like he was holding himself together.
Eli.
She gasped.
His eyes flicked open.
He saw her—and a faint, broken smile cracked across his lips.
"Took you long enough."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean for the glyph to—"
"Don't," he said. "Don't apologize. Not for remembering."
"You're fading."
"I know."
"I don't want to lose you."
"Then don't forget me."
"I'm trying," she said. "But I don't even know who you are to me yet."
He looked at her—not with sadness, but knowing.
"You will. But you have to want all of it. Not just the good. Not just the version where we were in love."
"I do."
"Then take this."
He lifted a hand.
A thread of light stretched from his fingers to hers—like spun memory, like a whisper turned solid.
"Keep it tied to your glyph," he said. "It'll hold me here. For now."
She grasped it gently. The thread pulsed once—and merged into her fourth mark, sending a jolt through her bones.
When she looked up again, the seam had closed.
Eli was gone.
But the thread remained.
---
She stumbled out of the ripple corridor into the real hall, heart pounding, hand glowing faintly at the fingertips.
And that's when she saw her.
At the end of the corridor.
A girl.
With Ivy's eyes.
But not her face.
Not quite.
The other girl turned her head, recognized her, and smiled—slow, careful, like someone seeing a memory they had trained to forget.
Ivy stepped forward.
The girl stepped back—into the mirror.
Gone.
---
End of Chapter 24