She saw him again today.
The boy.
This time, he looked tired before he even spoke.
Sometimes he comes to her angry.Sometimes distant.Sometimes like he's seeing her for the first time.
But not this one.
This one already knew something.
Not much. Not enough to stay, or trust her, or ask the right questions.
But enough to be careful.
Enough to look at her like he was bracing for something that hadn't happened yet.
She hates that look.
It means the story is folding again.
It means she'll have to play the same lines.Say the same gentle things.Smile the same way.Pretend not to notice that his eyes flick to her hem when he thinks she isn't looking.
(The dress burned differently every time. She doesn't remember how it first caught fire.)
He asked her where they were.
She said what she always says: "Somewhere between remembering and being remembered."
She doesn't know what it means. But the words always come out that way.
Like someone else wrote the scene.
Like it's part of the page and not her.
She watches him walk away, toward the tree.
He always finds the tree.
She used to follow. Used to warn him.
Don't dig.
Don't touch the dirt.
Don't ask about the key.
It never helped.
Some versions of him forgot the warning.
Others ignored it.
One laughed in her face and said, "There is no key."
That one never came back.
This one might.
But not the same way.
None of them ever come back the same.
She sits on the swing. Feels it sway without wind.
Her hands fold neatly in her lap.
She doesn't know how long she's been here.
Just that she used to remember more.
And now, sometimes—when he doesn't show up at all—she wonders if she's in the wrong story.