The sky above the fragmented academy cracked once again.
A soundless shatter.
Not thunder, not magic. Something deeper. Something fundamental.
Jay looked up.
A tear in the heavens, slashing across the ever-drifting sky like a scar that refused to close. The world glitched faintly around its edges— color slipping like watercolor, structures morphing for brief moments into other versions of themselves. Past. Future. Possible. Impossible.
He blinked.
"They're getting worse," Alicia said, walking beside him. Her voice was low, steady. Too steady.
Jay nodded. "The fractures aren't just visual anymore. I can feel them." He tapped his temple lightly. "Reality keeps trying to remember something it forgot."
She looked at him then, searching his face. There was nothing theatrical about her gaze— just quiet determination laced with concern. "Do you?"
"Sometimes," he admitted. "Not in words. Not yet."
