Kelechi didn't leave the office that night.
He stared at the photo, trying to remember if it was real. The image felt familiar — but the moment? Completely foreign. He couldn't even tell what building they were in. It looked like a library, or maybe a lab.
He flipped the photo again. Same handwriting. Same eerie message.
Stage 2 begins when you stop pretending you're sane.
And just below it, almost too faint to see:
The Garden watches its roots more closely than its flowers.
What the hell did that mean?
By 10:14 p.m., he'd given up on pretending he was okay.
There was a thread — a glowing, crimson one — floating above his monitor like a divine fishing line. It didn't move with the air, didn't bend when he waved his hand through it. It was tethered to something he couldn't see, humming faintly like it knew secrets.
He grabbed his phone. No missed calls. No messages. But the date was wrong.
Thursday, March 17th.
Except — today was Friday. It had been Friday this morning.
Kelechi checked his calendar. His meetings were backdated. Even the weather app showed "March 17th – Showers expected."
He opened a browser and typed "current date." The search engine cheerfully confirmed:March 17th, 2022.
His hands shook.
"Your mind's trying to unsee the truth — but the thread won't let it."
At exactly 10:37 p.m., the intercom buzzed.
He hadn't asked for security. No assistant was on duty. No appointments scheduled.
And yet, a mechanical voice said: "Mr. Okafor. There's a courier here with a delivery. She says it's urgent."
He hesitated.
"Put her through," he said.
Footsteps approached his door moments later, followed by a soft knock.
Kelechi opened it — and found a girl no older than 18 standing there. Her eyes were covered with a silken black blindfold, and she wore an old-fashioned courier uniform — navy blue with silver buttons. She held a leather-bound book, sealed shut with three crimson strings.
"For you," she said, holding it out. Her voice was calm, disturbingly neutral. "From the Archivist."
"Who?"
But the girl was already walking away.
The book was heavier than it looked. Its cover was etched with a symbol — a triangle inside a circle, bisected by a jagged line. Kelechi didn't recognize it… but the moment he touched it, the thread above his monitor quivered.
Three strings sealed the book shut. No clasps. No lock. Just cords — too tight to cut, too strong to untie.
The first one fell away when he whispered, "Why me?"
The second unraveled when he touched the thread with one finger.
The third?
That one burned away on its own.
The book fell open.
The pages inside were blank… until he blinked.
Suddenly, handwriting appeared — precise, slanted, like a calligrapher's journal. He turned the first page and saw a date:
March 18th, 2022Memo #1: Subject 7319-A begins Stage Two. Thread Stabilized. Garden alerted. Monitoring required.
The ink faded even as he read it, replaced by new lines forming beneath.
Memo #2: Subject exhibits resistance to memory resets. Behavioral fractures forming. High probability of recursive awakening. Recalibration required.
"What the hell—"
The book vibrated. Not metaphorically — it literally hummed in his hands.
Memo #3: Thread Anchor has manifested. Secondary Threadbearer required for stabilization. Dispatching Collector to initiate contact.
Suddenly, the lights in his office flickered.
The building groaned.
And then came the howl.
It wasn't a human scream.
It was lower. Wider. Like a chorus of metal grinding inside a hurricane.
The air warped — rippling like heat waves — and a presence filled the room.
The thread above him snapped taut.
And from the shadows behind his desk, a shape unfolded. Not walked — unfolded. Limbs that shouldn't bend. Eyes that multiplied. A robe made of paper pages, fluttering like wings.
It whispered in a voice like dry leaves: "You read the book."
Kelechi didn't answer.
"You touched the thread."
Still silence.
"You broke chronology."
The thing moved closer. Its head cocked to the side like a curious dog.
"You're ahead of schedule, Mr. Okafor."
Kelechi's voice was hoarse. "What are you?"
The creature's mouths opened all at once.
"I am a Collector."
It raised one long-fingered hand. From its robe, a silver chain unraveled — at the end of it, a hook.
"I am here to remove you from the board."
Kelechi didn't think. He ran.
He slammed the door open and sprinted down the hallway, heart pounding, echoing off the marble floors of Obsidian Tower. Behind him, the air cracked as the Collector phased through solid matter.
"The Garden requires pruning," it whispered, its voice close and far at once.
Kelechi turned a corner — and ran directly into someone.
He staggered back.
Nnadozie.
Again.
But this time, he wasn't smiling. He looked… scared.
"You opened the book?"
Kelechi nodded.
"Damn it." Nnadozie grabbed his arm. "Okay. Change of plans. We need to hide you inside a memory."
"What?!"
"It won't last — but it'll throw off the Collector's path for a few minutes. Just long enough to get you out of this stage."
He pulled a pin from his sleeve — a sharp silver needle — and jabbed it into Kelechi's forearm.
The world shattered like a mirror.
Kelechi was 12 years old again.
He stood on a red dirt road in Enugu. The sun was warm, the smell of jollof rice drifting from a neighbor's window. Kids laughed in the distance.
And across from him, his mother smiled, holding his schoolbag.
"You're going to be late, kelekele," she said, using the nickname she hadn't used in over a decade.
He wanted to cry.
He knew this wasn't real — but it was the most real thing he'd felt in days.
A thread curled around her wrist. Faint. Soft. Blue.
Stage Two had begun.
And the world was no longer what it seemed.