The morning began with organized intentions.
I had made a checklist:
Feed the sentient butter scone
Re-charm the dish rack so it stops insulting Naomi
Alphabetize the singing teacups
It was a simple, quiet sort of day.
Naomi was still half-asleep, yawning through her first cup of marshmallow-latte while muttering something about "dream-bread rivals." I had just stacked the last humming teacup by musical pitch when there was a knock at the door.
No one ever knocks in Atheria.
At least not politely.
So of course I opened it with caution—and there it was.
A smooth wooden box, sealed with wax that shimmered between gold and deep navy.
The seal read:
> "From the Grand Archive of Atheria<
Filed under: Reika (Elsewhere Variant — Primary Thread)"*
There was no delivery person. Just the faint scent of ink, lavender, and... time.
I hadn't even brought the box inside before Naomi popped up behind me like a gremlin.
"Open it."
"I don't know if I should."
"That's never stopped you before."
"…True."
We set it on the counter. The box was heavier than it looked. Quiet, but dense—like it carried something that mattered more than weight.
I broke the seal.
The lid clicked open with a whisper.
Inside was a folded note... and an object I didn't recognize.
The Object
It was a small orb, smooth and colorless—almost glass, almost crystal. About the size of a tangerine.
Floating inside it: a single glowing thread of light, gently shifting between silver and teal.
The note said:
> "This belongs to all of you."<
To the Reikas who walked forward, and the ones who turned back.
To the version who waited.
To the version who opened the journal.
To the one who must choose.
—The Archive, Fourth Fold Access Division
Naomi blinked. "Okay. That's not ominous at all."
"I'm not ready," I whispered.
But my hands were already shaking.
The Stopwatch Flickers
The moment I touched the orb, something happened.
The stopwatch in my apron pocket buzzed—not ticked, buzzed. Like it had come alive.
I pulled it out.
The face no longer showed a countdown.
It showed a single message, slowly flickering into place.
> "Ready for Chapter 45?"<
I swallowed hard.
"Nope," I muttered.
Naomi rested a hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to do anything yet. But… maybe it's okay to want to know. Just a little?"
I held the orb gently. It pulsed faintly in my palm. It wasn't cold. Or warm. Just there. Like a question waiting for a voice.
The journal on the shelf—the one I wasn't supposed to open—shivered slightly.
Everything in the café felt still.
Time… paused itself.
But I didn't trigger it.
It paused on its own.
I breathed.
Naomi squeezed my arm.
And quietly, I whispered to the world, to the Archive, to all the versions of myself out there in strange corners of reality:
"…I think I'm ready."