The echo of Zain's words lingered long after he'd gone silent.
Noel sat at her desk in the museum's research wing, the pale morning light streaming through the tall windows. She tried to focus on the documents in front of her—ancient ledgers and artifact reports for the restoration of a centuries-tea set—but her eyes kept darting toward the closed door, as if expecting something, or someone, to walk in and explain this absurd reality she was slowly spiraling into.
Jack, as he now called himself, hadn't said much since their conversation the night before. It was almost like he was giving her space to breathe—to process.
She was grateful. And confused. And just a little bit furious that this strange, calm voice in her head could throw her world off-balance so completely.
I'm not a hero in a fantasy novel, she told herself. I catalogue pottery shards, not uncover government conspiracies.
Still, the name Spectra buzzed at the back of her skull like a silent alarm.
She shook her head and forced herself back into focus. A clipboard full of research notes sat to her left, and on the wall behind her, pinned newspaper clippings formed a timeline for her current project: tracing the origin of a lost collection of imperial artifacts that may—or may not—have passed through illicit hands in the 1960s.
Something about the dates made her pause.
"About two score and eight years," Jack had said.
Roughly 48 years ago. The same era her newest artifact led to. Was it coincidence? Or—
"No," she muttered aloud, pressing a palm to her forehead. "I'm not doing this."
She needed a break.
.....
Later that afternoon
Noel sat by the window of the train, chin resting on her palm, watching the blur of green fields and distant houses slide past. The soft hum of the train and the occasional clack of tracks beneath her barely distracted from the thoughts looping in her mind. She hadn't planned the trip, not really. It had come on a sudden impulse, a desire for quiet, normalcy, maybe even escape.
Her grandfather had sounded delighted when she called the night before. "You come down this weekend and I'll whip up that spaghetti and meatballs you love so much," he'd said, his voice warm and full of promise. Noel had laughed and agreed, grateful for something familiar and comforting to look forward to.
But now, with her reflection staring back at her from the train window, she couldn't shake the weight in her chest.
Jack had been quiet since the morning. Perhaps sensing her need for space, or perhaps locked in his own thoughts. Either way, the silence was a welcome change—at least for a little while.
She arrived just after noon. The town was smaller than she remembered, the station quieter. Her grandparents lived only a few blocks away, and the short walk helped clear her mind. The small yellow house at the end of the lane looked exactly as it always had: comforting, warm, and untouched by time.
Her grandfather opened the door with a wide grin. "There she is! Right on time for lunch."
"I told you she'd come," her grandmother added from the kitchen, waving a spoon. "It's the spaghetti spell. Always works."
The smell of garlic, tomatoes, and spices wrapped around her as she stepped inside. Her grandmother waved from the kitchen, still in her apron, humming softly. For a few blissful hours, she allowed herself to forget everything. They ate, they laughed. She helped dry the dishes.
They talked about her job, the museum project, the strange coincidence of the tea set's date aligning with stories from her grandfather's youth. She smiled. Laughed. For a while, she forgot the weight she was carrying.
....
Later that evening, after her nap in the sun-drenched living room and the goodbye hugs, she boarded the return train back to the city. As the train rocked gently, Jack's voice finally broke the silence.
"Nice family," he said quietly.
"Yeah," she whispered. "They've always been the constant in my life."
There was a pause.
"Thank you for the quiet today. I think I needed it too."
Noel blinked. "You were... silent. I thought maybe you were asleep."
"Not exactly. Just... reflecting. I remember that dish. My grandmother used to make something similar."
She smiled faintly, though her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her bag. "You remember her?"
"In flashes. It's like trying to grip water sometimes. The more I try to hold onto it, the faster it slips away."
She didn't respond right away.
"I won't ask you to give this up," Jack said after a while. "Not now. Maybe not ever. But I do need your help, eventually. Even if it's just to understand what happened."
Her fingers curled against the seat.
"I haven't said no," she said finally. "But I'm not ready to say yes either."
"That's fair."
And with that, he faded again—giving her the silence she needed.
...
Back home, she stepped into her apartment, dropped her bag by the door, and made herself a cup of tea. It was late, but she needed to feel grounded. Safe. Real.
The following morning, she returned to the museum. Her office still smelled like old parchment and linen-bound texts. She sat at her desk, ready to resume the research she had started before all this began.
She opened her laptop, ready to pick up where she left off—cross-referencing dates around the artifact she had been cataloging.
But something was wrong.
The archive had new entries. Files dated with today's date that she hadn't written. One folder was named "Light Fragmentation: Color Hierarchy Records."
She opened it.
Inside were scans of ancient scrolls, images of stained glass depicting robed figures under spectral banners. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Purple.
Her heart thudded in her chest.
"Jack?" she whispered.
His voice came quietly. "That... shouldn't be there."
"You didn't do this?"
"No."
She leaned back slowly in her chair. A cool draft seemed to pass over her skin, though the windows were all shut.
....
Later that night, she was jolted awake from a dream.
But it wasn't hers.
She had seen a cold, circular chamber. Six robed figures standing around a glowing prism. She had felt Jack's terror, his betrayal, the searing pull as his soul was torn from his body. It had felt so real.
She sat up, breath heavy, and when she looked at her hand—for just a moment—a faint, violet glow pulsed in her palm.
It faded.
But she knew one thing now.
Something had begun.