The next morning, Kaelith found her name scratched into her front door.
It wasn't spray paint.
It wasn't ink.
It was carved—slowly, violently—into the wood like someone had all night and no intention of being quiet.
She stared at it.
Not because it frightened her.
Because the handwriting was hers.
The loops. The pressure. The exact curl of the 'K.'
But she hadn't written it.
At least—not while awake.
She ran her fingers over the grooves. Fresh. Deep. Whoever—or whatever—had done this had meant for her to see it. To feel it.
To remember it.
She didn't call the police.
What would she say?
That her house was haunted by her own forgotten self?
Instead, she packed her bag, slipped the relic into the inner pocket, and went straight to the asylum.
Straight to him.
Saevus was already sitting at the table when she arrived.
His wrists were shackled today, a precaution that felt like a formality.
He didn't need to move to be dangerous.
He only needed to speak.
"You watched it," he said without lifting his head.
Kaelith sat across from him.
No pretense. No folder. No pen.
"The video. The message. Was that you?"
He smiled faintly. "No."
"Then who?"
His eyes flicked up to hers.
"Someone who remembers you better than you do."
Kaelith's fingers curled into fists. "Why now? Why not years ago?"
Saevus leaned in.
"Because you were still sleeping. But now?"
He studied her.
"You're waking up."
Kaelith dropped the medallion onto the table.
It landed with a cold metallic sound that felt too loud for the quiet room.
Saevus didn't touch it.
He didn't need to.
His expression shifted.
Almost reverent.
"The anchor," he whispered. "You kept it."
"I didn't know I had it. It was hidden in my floor."
"They thought they buried it well. But you were always drawn to it. Even in this life."
She shook her head. "This life? You make it sound like I've lived a hundred."
His smile was thin. "You've lived one. But you've been rewritten many times."
Kaelith stared at him. "What is it? What does it do?"
Saevus lowered his voice. "It remembers you. Even when you forget yourself."
The door opened behind her.
A nurse stepped in, whispered something to the guard.
Then left just as fast.
Kaelith glanced back.
Saevus noticed.
"They're watching you now," he said.
"They always were."
"No," he murmured. "Not them. Her."
She narrowed her eyes. "Who?"
He tilted his head slowly.
"The one who ran first. The other survivor."
Kaelith's heart stopped.
"There was someone else?"
"She remembered too early," Saevus said. "They tried to erase her again. She ran."
Kaelith stood.
"Where is she now?"
He didn't answer.
Just smiled.
Like he knew exactly what she'd find.
It didn't take long.
Kaelith knew the right databases. The internal access. She ran the facial scans and keyword tags.
She found a name: Dahlia Venn.
A psychiatric nurse who once worked under the federal trauma rehabilitation program.
She'd vanished three weeks ago.
No case.
No leads.
Just gone.
But before she disappeared, she'd left one encrypted message in a private staff forum.
Kaelith decrypted it using her old credentials.
The message was one line:
"Tell the Oracle I tried."
Kaelith stared at the screen.
Everything around her felt too still.
Too quiet.
The relic in her coat pocket burned against her side.
She was running out of people.
And time.
Because somewhere out there, someone else still remembered.
And not all of them wanted her to wake up.