Cecilion stared.
He stared until his eyes stung, until the world blurred, until even the sound of the wind seemed foreign. His breath trembled in shallow gasps, rising and falling with a rhythm too frantic to be normal.
He was losing it. Slowly, then all at once. His thoughts, once fragmented but functional, were now slipping like sand between his fingers—no matter how tightly he tried to grasp them.
Nothing made sense anymore.
He still hadn't pieced anything together—no clues, no answers, no solid thread to follow through the chaos. And now? More had been added.
More confusion. More dread. That woman outside the door before he collapsed—he was so sure he knew who it was. Her presence dwelled at something deep inside him, something buried, something sacred or cursed.
A memory? A hallucination? A name he should've remembered?
