The walk back felt wrong in ways I couldn't name. Like the air had weight, or like sound was traveling through the wrong medium. Students passed me on the quad laughing about something, but their voices reached me a second too late, lagging behind their mouths.
In for four, out for six.
Dominic's card was in my pocket. I'd already memorized the number even though I'd barely looked at it. Muscle memory or magic or whatever the fuck Witnessing did to your brain.
My phone buzzed. Maya: Coffee later? I'm dying for real caffeine.
Dying.
She'd used it so casually. The way people do when death is still theoretical, something that happens in movies or to old people or to anyone except you and the people you love.
Sure, I typed back. What time?
Noon? That place off campus you like.
Groundwork Coffee. Dark and serious and nothing like Maya's aesthetic, but she was offering anyway because she could tell something was wrong. Except she couldn't really, because she didn't remember dying, didn't know I'd felt her pulse stop under my fingers.
See you then.
Three hours to figure out how to act normal around my best friend who didn't know she'd been dead.
I tried working on my thesis when I got back. Opened my laptop, pulled up the document—forty-seven pages about Sartre and bad faith and authentic choice. The last sentence I'd written: The capacity to choose remains even when—
Even when what? Even when reality splits? Even when you pull someone back from a collapsed timeline? Even when a man in an impossible office tells you you're dissolving?
I closed it.
My reflection in the black screen looked pale. Too pale. Or maybe I was seeing things now, looking for signs of dissolution because I knew to expect them.
I pushed my hair back. The scar on my eyebrow caught my fingertip—eight years old, convinced I could fly. Real. Solid. Still here.
For now.
My phone rang. Unknown number but I knew.
"You left quickly." Dominic's voice, no greeting. "Expected more questions."
"Needed to process."
"And have you?"
I looked at my translucent reflection. "You said I'm dissolving. How long do I have?"
Pause. Sound of a door closing. "Depends on too many variables. Some Witnesses last years. Others burn out in months. Depends on frequency, interference, how well you learn control."
"And you can teach me control."
"That's why I'm here. But I need to assess you first. See how advanced your abilities are. How much damage has been done."
"Damage?"
"You lost fifteen minutes last night. That's not normal for a first Witnessing. Suggests your consciousness was split longer than it should have been. That you might have—" He stopped. "Did you try to save her? During those minutes?"
I tried to remember. Reached back into that blank space. Found nothing but absence.
"I don't know."
"Then we need to find out. Can you meet tonight?"
"Where? Your office doesn't exactly have regular hours."
Something almost amused in his voice. "The office exists whenever I need it. But no, not there. Somewhere public. Library, top floor. Eight PM. Bring thesis work so it looks like studying."
"Why?"
"Because if you interfered, there will be signs. Ripples. I need to examine the timeline around Maya's death-that-wasn't, and I need you present to anchor the search." Pause. "This will feel invasive. I'll be looking at your memories, your choices, probability fields around you. If you're not comfortable—"
"I'm not comfortable with any of this," I interrupted. "Doing it anyway."
"Good." He sounded approving. "Discomfort keeps you cautious. Caution keeps you alive." Another pause. "Iris. If you Witness again before tonight—if reality shifts, if you see something wrong—don't try to change it. Just observe and call me."
"You said that already."
"Saying it again because it's the rule everyone breaks. The rule that gets Witnesses killed." His voice went hard. "You will see things that seem preventable. Deaths that feel like you could stop them if you just acted. You can't. The moment you interfere, you create debts. Reality balances. And the more you interfere, the faster you dissolve."
"What about you?" The question escaped before I could stop it. "You're a Shepherd. You exist. Haven't dissolved."
Long silence. Thought he'd hung up.
"I made a different choice," he said finally. "One you won't have the option to make. One I wouldn't recommend if you did."
"What does that mean?"
"Means I traded my ability to Witness for the ability to guide others. Can't see probability collapses anymore. Only aftermath. Ripples. Damage." His voice went quiet. "And I'm paying for it. Just differently than dissolving."
I wanted to ask more. Wanted to understand. But something in his tone said stop.
"Eight PM," I said.
"Bring coffee. This will take a while."
He hung up.
I stood there holding my phone, trying to process impossible information. Witnesses. Shepherds. Timeline collapses. My thesis about authentic choice felt absurdly naive. What did Sartre know about freedom when reality itself was negotiable?
At eleven-thirty I changed clothes. Black jeans, gray sweater, the usual armor. Checked my reflection—still pale, still wrong around the edges.
Groundwork was exactly as I'd left it. Dark wood, exposed brick, the smell of espresso and used books. Maya was already there at our usual table, two cups waiting. She'd ordered for me. Black coffee, nothing to soften it.
She looked up and smiled. That same warm smile that had been frozen on her face in the parking lot. Except in that timeline there'd been blood.
"You look terrible," she said as I sat. "Did you sleep?"
"Not really."
"Thesis stress?" She pushed my coffee toward me. "You need a break, Iris. You're going to burn out."
Burn out. Everyone kept using words they didn't understand.
"I'm fine."
Maya studied me with those brown eyes that had been empty twelve hours ago in a timeline that didn't happen. "You're not. You've been weird since yesterday. What's going on?"
How did I answer? I watched you die. A man in an impossible office told me I'm dissolving.
"Just stressed," I said. "Senior year. Graduation. The void."
She laughed but it was worried. "The void can wait. You need to take care of yourself." She reached across the table, grabbed my hand. "I'm serious. Those weird texts last night scared me. And now you look like—"
Her hand was warm. Solid. Real. Alive.
I'd felt this hand go cold. Felt the pulse stop. Felt the exact moment when skin was just skin.
"I'm okay," I said, pulling back. "Promise."
She didn't look convinced but let it drop. Started talking about her sister's wedding, her mom's stress over seating charts, the dress fitting next weekend. Normal problems. Comprehensible suffering.
I listened and nodded and tried to be the person she remembered. The person who hadn't watched her die.
At seven-forty-five I walked into the library with my laptop and fresh coffee, playing dedicated student. Top floor was nearly empty—just a few seniors with that desperate deadline energy.
Dominic was already there, corner table, books spread around him like any professor. But when I sat across from him, his gray eyes were sharp, assessing.
"How was your day?"
"Had coffee with Maya. She doesn't remember anything."
"Of course not. From her perspective, nothing happened." He pulled out a notebook. "Notice anything unusual? Gaps in conversation? Moments where she seemed uncertain?"
"No. Completely normal."
"Good. Suggests the collapse was clean." He looked up. "Now. Those fifteen minutes. Close your eyes."
"I told you—I don't remember."
"Your conscious mind doesn't. But the memory's there. Fragmented, scattered across probability fields, but there." He leaned forward. "Close your eyes, Iris. Trust me."
I didn't trust him. But I closed my eyes.
"Good," he said softly. "You're in the parking lot. Maya's been hit. You're running toward her. What do you feel?"
"Terror. Can't breathe right. Counting—"
"In for four, out for six. Yes. What do you see?"
"Her eyes. Open but empty. Blood everywhere."
"What do you do?"
"Check for pulse. Nothing. Call 911. Tell them—" My breath caught. "Tell them she's dead."
"And then?"
"Then..." Nothing. Blank space. But his voice was pulling at something.
"Stay with it. You're in the parking lot. Maya's dead. You've called 911. What happens next?"
And suddenly I remembered.
Not clearly. Not linearly. But in flashes like lightning.
I'd grabbed her hand. Not just checking pulse. I'd grabbed it and pulled—
My eyes snapped open. "Oh god."
Dominic's expression was grim. "You interfered."
"I didn't mean to—"
"What did you do?"
"I don't know. I just wanted her back. Held her hand and pulled, like I could drag her back somehow, and then everything went white and—" I couldn't finish.
Dominic swore quietly. Ran a hand over his face. "You created a bridge. Pulled her consciousness from the death timeline into this one. That's why her body vanished. You didn't just Witness the collapse—you caused it."
The library felt too bright. Too real.
"What does that mean?"
He looked at me and for the first time I saw fear in his eyes.
"Means you're not just a Witness," he said quietly. "You're a Catalyst. And that changes everything."