The Space Between — Ambient Sound Healing (2024)

Katiannah Esmae

Astral Traveler

The insistent shriek of the alarm hadn't disturbed the silence yet, and Katia seized this precious window to project her consciousness out of her body once more. It was the hypnagogic state, the hazy realm between wakefulness and sleep, a time when the mind lingered in a liminal space, that served as an easy gateway into the astral realm.

Countless versions of herself existed concurrently across multiple dimensions. Some near-mirrors of her life, with only the faintest variations - a missing logo on a familiar underwear brand, a children's book title with a different twist. But others offered wildly divergent paths.

In one version she lived in a legendary hippie van parked in the heart of Sedona. There, she strummed her guitar at cozy coffee shops and mystical vortexes, living on the kindness of strangers' tips. Another, far more extraordinary path, had her as a fearless astronaut, nurturing life on a distant Martian colony. As she voyaged through the cosmos, she desperately tried to capture its beauty with the same camera sitting on the shelf in her apartment.

Then came the most jarring dimension: a desolate cityscape overrun with radioactive monsters stalking her through the hungry crumbling streets. In this bizarre twist, she wielded a blunt katana and a temperamental shotgun, her only defense against the horrors of this nightmarish world.

These infinite realities weren't just possibilities, they were a nightly storybook, her great escape. They offered excitement just as much as they served as a reminder that even the deepest heartaches wouldn't last forever. Like a gripping TV show or a book transcending reality itself, she could lose herself in these alternate lives.

Yet, her role was akin to a captivated, yet occasionally horrified, observer – swept along by an invisible current, like playing a scripted virtual reality game. She could experience these alternate universes, but never alter their narratives. The words leaving her lips felt foreign, a dissonance with her inner desires. Actions too, seemed out of sync, akin to a marionette doll controlled by unseen strings; like being awake in a dream she couldn't control.

With her eyelids firmly shut and her body motionless, Katia visualized the intimate details of her bedroom, a familiar vision. Her internal gaze, unseen, fell upon the cheap dresser, its veneer peeling, from water damage and age. Her mind's touch lingered on the sharp corner, a familiar sensation from countless reaches while dusting. Next to the dwindling bamboo lotus candle, which diffused a faint floral fragrance, lay Alan Watts’ “The Cloud-Hidden Heron,” its pages stained by tea—a relic once offered to a tasseographer for interpretation.

Just visualizing her bedroom wasn't enough for Katia. She aimed to deceive her brain, making it believe her body was awake and moving around the room, not just lying in bed. To achieve this, she heightened her senses, focusing intensely on the dresser and mentally recreating the sensation of rolling out of bed. She imagined herself smoothly transitioning over the edge, likening it to the gentle cascade of a waterfall.

At first, it felt forced, and her lower mind begged to return to sleep. But after persistent phantom wiggling, a different sensation emerged. A magnetic pull, she felt, drawing her energetic body. The feeling of spilling over the bed's edge intensified, crescendoing in realism until, for a fleeting moment, Katia was certain her physical form had actually moved.

Experience had taught her better. Instead of the expected jolt of waking back in her body, she found herself free – free from its physical constraints, hovering beside the familiar dresser, separate from the woman nestled beneath the airy lavender comforter. The woman, a physical shell of Katia, slept soundly, her red hair a fiery cascading contrast against the mismatched green satin pillowcase.

In the astral realm, the very fabric of materiality seemed fluid. Unlike the physical world, where atoms held tight to their determined patterns, here they danced freely, reshaping the environment on a whim. This time, Katia found her bedroom reverted back in time, to when it stood as a small farmhouse instead of a high-rise apartment. Drywall became wooden panels and photos of wildlife transformed into a worn set of pots and pans hanging above an old cast iron stove.

The familiar safeguard of reality checks felt more like a pesky routine than a source of wonder. She plugged her nose, inhaling deep the familiar scent of her bedroom despite the impediment. Good. Looking at her hands, she noticed her fingers, usually slender and pianist-like, now stretched impossibly long, looking like hotdogs, the amethyst ring she always wore on her right ring finger duplicating itself onto a second middle finger. A while ago, Katia would have found all of this amusing, but the novelty had worn off with exposure. Like the White Rabbit perpetually late, Katia had somewhere to be.

In her haste, she walked around the room, touching everything within reach—the cold pan, the dusty iron stove with remnants of a dying fire, a random notebook that appeared on the counter, its writing incomprehensibly shifting. She did all this to ground herself in the astral realm, making reality more vivid, flooding it with colors beyond ordinary sight. Whenever she felt herself drifting back to her body, she did something else to anchor herself further, even eating an apple that materialized on the kitchen table. Despite heightened vision, her senses of taste and touch remained somewhat muted.

Finally, two windows manifested, followed by a door. Katiannah walked over to the first window, appearing behind an old worn couch, and peered out at the ominous woods that continued to stalk her. She had seen these woods many times before but had never entered them. While Katia typically found herself fearless during these encounters, the woodlands, shrouded in darkness and fractionally visible by the faint glow of the moon, stirred up a deep, primal sense of terror.

The second window, displayed a mesmerizing beach beneath the Northern Lights, the ocean's surface reflecting the azure and chartreuse swirling hues of the sky. The waves threatened to crash through the window, and Katia knew that if she opened the latch, she would be swept away into the oceanic world.

But today, exploring mystical beaches wasn’t her intention. The manifested door stood out amidst the ephemeral surroundings. It appeared solid and sturdy, as always, its surface adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to shift and morph with each passing moment. However, before her hand could reach for the silver doorknob, a jarring intrusion shattered the projection. The untimely cry of her alarm clock ripped through the dreamscape, yanking Katia back to her physical form. The sensation most people dreaded – the plummeting feeling of falling asleep – was Katia's fuel, a jolt reconnecting her to her material shell. "Dammit," she muttered, her arm instinctively reaching from the warm embrace of her blanket to silence the insistent alarm on her phone.

The wallpaper on her phone had changed. Gone was the picture of her and Yoshio at the botanical gardens, replaced by a generic stock image of a monarch butterfly emerging from a cocoon. Katia barely registered it. This wasn't the first time an overnight update had rearranged her phone's digital display.

More pressing was the shadowing disappointment of just a text from Linda confirming their appointment. No response from Yoshio to her message last night. Briefly, Katia's mind went into hyperdrive, instantly shifting from the calm, theta state required for astral projection, to chaotic beta brain waves.

Had six years of friendship just gone down the sh*tter after what happened last night? A knot of unease tightened in her throat. Maybe Yoshio was just busy. She left his house late, and perhaps, just for once, he decided not to wake up at the ungodly hour of five am.

But damn it, Katia already craved a text with a timestamp predating 5:30 – a full four hours past her usual wake-up call. Like a Moonflower unfurling its petals at dusk, she thrived under the silver glow, not the harsh transition of dawn.

After showering, putting on a plain charcoal gray dress, she brewed a travel mug of coffee, and grabbed the keys to her poorly aging black four door Wrangler. Traffic was horrendous on the thruway, and the coffee tasted different - coconut undertones? Raising a curious red brow, she took another sip, trying to comprehend the flavor profile. It had a tropical aftertaste, which baffled her because…

An antique dining chair, improperly latched down, flew off the truck in front of her, causing Katia to swerve, slam on the brakes, let out a scream of nearly heart-stopping surprise. A scream followed by a string of obscenities that would make a seasoned lonely trucker raise a seductive brow after the coffee spilled all over her legs.

The phone's terrible ringtone, which sounded like a fax machine from twenty years ago, rang once more, displaying Linda’s name.

When the hell did her ringtone default to something so obnoxiously primitive? “Ten minutes, I am ten minutes away,” she griped, her focus torn between trying to swipe her finger across the screen to accept the call while focusing on the road. “I am not even late,” she said out loud to herself, quickly gazing at the car’s digital clock, confirming it was only 11:43. The call connected, Linda's voice instantly blaring over the car speaker.

"Where are you?" Linda demanded to know, the scoff following louder than the question itself. “We have been waiting for almost an hour! I am getting eaten-up by mosquitoes! I am going to have bumps all over my skin for my wedding, and it will totally be your fault!”

Katia raised a brow at Linda’s startling audacity, briefly wondering if she should have bothered extending the made-up family discount to her cousin whom she saw only five times in her life. Her prices were already the lowest in all of Ashville out of a desperation to attract new clients in order to pay rent, and have something left over to eat; she wasn’t even close to living in the reality where she worked for National Geographic.

Frankly, Katia didn’t care much for photography. It wasn’t her passion. But if she saw the world void of the rich color and enchantment of her inner world, then at least she could capture the moments and scenery that left other people awestruck, the photograph serving as a concrete reminder of their celebrated occasions.

To her, all worldly beauty paled in comparison to her inner creations. Perhaps this was a great flaw within herself- difficulty finding beauty in the outside world when her soul could conjure such vivid hues. Normal waking life looked akin to a grayscale photograph compared to the higher-density planes she visited in her dreams or conscious projections. But the average human eye lacked the ability to see what she could imagine, and the human mind had lost the willingness to believe.

“Get here now,” Linda demanded, her disembodied voice filling the cab of the car, causing Katia to drift out of her thoughts.

Katia glanced out the window at the gridlocked traffic. "Unless my car sprouts wings like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, ten minutes is the best I can do. Yesterday, you said noon. You have no right to be upset if you arrived at the park over an hour before we agreed to meet,” resisting the urge to check her text messages while driving, Katia kept her eyes narrowed on the road.

“No, we said eleven. Re-read our texts. I am looking right at it,” Linda snapped. “THESE DAMN BUGS! STOP BITING ME!” Linda screamed.

Katia scoffed, pressing the glaring red disconnect button, leaving Linda to battle the mosquitoes with fiance Paul.

It took another fifteen minutes to reach Seaside Park, which despite the name, actually was a nature preserve which went deeply into the woods. Katia had done several photoshoots there, especially in front of the ancient twisted oak tree, memorable by its thick heavy branches stretching high into the skyline, looking tall enough to touch the clouds as it swayed gently in the wind, as if dancing to a song Katia pursued only it could hear. The tree had been a focal point of Ashville, estimated to be eight-hundred years old, greatly surpassing the average age of an oak by over two hundred years despite centuries of hurricanes and deforestation.

In frustration, Katia found herself tempted to turn the car around and tell Linda to eat bugs, and to find a new photographer. But the dreamer needed the money, and she still had a contract to fulfill on her end, which consisted of save the date, rehearsal, and wedding photos. A grand package consisting of hours of photo editing, all for a measly $500, which at this point, barely paid for her basic utilities for the month.

As for Linda, perhaps the stress of the upcoming wedding folded in on her, temporarily transforming her into a pissed-off banshee. While Katia had only met her a few times, Linda had seemed very proper, polite, and grateful for the deal she was receiving on Katia's services. Linda even sent her a hundred gift card as a 'thank you' present for the Save the Date Photoshoot. This Linda seemed like an entirely different person, an incredibly petulant one.

Finally, Katia reached the parking lot. Without bothering to check her history of text messages to see who was right or wrong about the time difference, she gathered her camera and got out of the truck. She followed the familiar rocky path into the nature preserve, her steps occasionally interrupted by the unexpected obstacle of twigs threatening to trip her. Every step further into the woods should have created a transition from the busy hum of traffic to the distant calls of woodland creatures, but all that assaulted her senses was Linda screaming up ahead, likely at her fiance, as she demanded he do something about the bugs.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, I am here,” Honestly, Katia just wanted to move beyond assigning fault, and just get the photoshoot over with, so she could go about her day, and perhaps try to wrap her head around the entire Yoshio situation.

Linda came into view at the completion of Katia’s sentence, but it was deadpanned, her fake smile turning into a look of confusion as her focus swayed between the man who wasn’t Paul, to a crooked pine with sad drooping branches that replaced the mighty oak once standing in its place.

"New fiancé?" Katia blurted, bewildered. Her gaze darted from the unfamiliar man with blue eyes and full head of hair to Linda, who swatted her arm dismissively.

"Are you crazy? Why would you ask such a disgusting thoughtless thing?" Linda snapped, her focus solely on the mosquitos. "These bugs are unbearable!”

The unfamiliar man offered Katia a reassuring smile. "She's just a little stressed about the wedding. We appreciate you squeezing us in for the photos." His voice was warm, a vivid difference to Paul's gruff demeanor.

Katia stared at the strange man, her legs turning weak. "But...Paul was bald," she stammered. "Six months ago, in November?"

Confusion flickered across the man's face. "My name is Gary," he corrected gently. “You took our photos in May of us at the lake. I've always had a full head of hair, and I hope to never lose any of it. I am not much of a looker bald." His forced laugh did little to ease the growing dread in Katia's gut.

Panic swelled, a dizzying wave threatening to topple her. "Where's the oak tree?" she demanded, gesturing wildly towards the scrawny pine. "Who gets married in front of this thing?" Unlike the oak tree, Katia saw nothing memorable about the pathetic limp-branched pine. If the tree didn’t fall down within a year, they would likely cut it down. Good riddance.

Linda rolled her eyes. "Agreed, it's hideous. But the ceremony is by the creek next to the pavilion, remember? No idea why I need to remind you of this when we just spoke yesterday.”

"Creek? There's no creek!" Katia's voice rose an octave. "There never has been!" Her gaze darted to a path cutting through the familiar woods, a path she'd never seen before.

With lightning speed, she snatched her phone from her pocket, only to fumble it onto a jagged rock, cursing as it hit. "sh*t!" Katia exclaimed, momentarily abandoning her camera to retrieve the device. Glancing at the screen, she noted the time flashing 12:05. She looked away, then looked at the clock again before it flipped to 12:06. Anxious, she examined her hands, finding them unchanged, then foolishly attempted to breathe through plugged nostrils.

"Are you having a stroke?" Linda's irritation outweighed her concern.

Reality seemed to warp, blurring the scenery before her. Checking her phone again, she found no messages from Yoshio, realizing he wasn't even in her contacts.

"This can't be real," Katia muttered, leaning against a tree for support, refusing to believe this was happening.

This wasn't real.

It couldn't be.

Yet, somehow, she had awakened in a different reality, no longer a mere observer but an active participant. And she had no idea how to return to her old life, her native world, where there was something to work out with Yoshio, and where the ancient oak tree stood deeply rooted to Earth’s core in place of the limp pine.

Sylas North

Shaman

The primordial drum pulsed, its rhythm drawing Sylas's conscious awareness deeper beyond the veil that separated worlds. Etheric form following the spectral Jaguar, he emerged amidst sprawling Spanish vineyards bathed in fading dappled sunlight. At the focal point of the vineyard, an altar adorned with floral roses seemed to hold its breath, a deserted bride waited endlessly amidst the fading light, unspoken questions hanging heavy in the stale air.

In this suspended moment, Sylas observed the scene. The faces of wedding guests, their hushed whispers barely audible, blurred into obscurity, everything frozen like the second hand on the father of the bride's wristwatch. Fiona stood there—a ghost of her former self, suspended in time, reliving the heartbreak and humiliation of years past. Draped in a lace-adorned wedding gown with a veil cascading endlessly, her features etched with anguish, she remained oblivious to Sylas's presence, lost in the abyss of her agonizing memories.

Inhaling deeply, Sylas took a step forward, prompted by the jaguar's nudge. Its cold-wet nose simulated the ordinary senses of reality. Approaching fragmented spirit energy wasn't his favorite task; perhaps because he struggled with such social interactions in every aspect of his life. Softly calling out, his deep voice reached Fiona as he stood in front of the woman who stood on the verge of tears.

"Fiona," he said, standing before the tearful woman. "He didn't show up. Staying here won't change anything. You need to accept it. Acceptance has and will continue to lead you to better things.” His words hung in the air, and he groaned, trying to drown out the telepathic snarky remarks of his alchemist spirit guide, Xia.

Fiona finally opened her emerald green eyes, which had served as a temporary shield for the tears now streaming down her freckled cheeks.

With a sigh of desperation, Sylas willed himself to try again. “"Fiona, come back with me. This pain holds you prisoner, but in your current life, you're healing. You've come far." Sylas implored, his voice carrying determination. He extended a hand toward her, a silent invitation to leave the haunting echoes of the past.

The winery, frozen in time, seemed to hold its breath as Fiona hesitated. The distant whispers of Xia's skepticism lingered, but Sylas focused on the genuine upset etched on the younger version of Fiona’s face.

“Sometimes, the hardest moments shape us into the most resilient versions of ourselves. Even in the darkest moments, there's a light within us that keeps us going. And trust me, that light shines brighter than any heartbreak.”

The jaguar, sensing the shifting emotions, nuzzled Fiona, offering silent support. The wedding’s frozen tableau slowly began to dissolve, a sure sign of her readiness to step away, leaving behind the deep echoes of rejection. Fiona took Sylas's hand, and together they walked down the disintegrating wedding aisle, a wooden door being the only thing unfading—a gateway out of the otherworld.

As Sylas reached for the door, he became acutely aware of his physical body, the mental imagery ceasing. The fragmented soul piece persisted as a cooling sensation on his arm, making the hair stand upright. In that moment, Xia, resembling an Egyptian priestess, took control, guiding the energy of the abandon bride back into the physical body of the client on the treatment table, entering through the crown of Fionias head.

Rather abruptly, Sylas stopped drumming. Naloria often lectured him about this, emphasizing the need to fade out to avoid startling the clients, but Sylas found little need. The drum's sudden cessation signaled the end of the session—a rapid change in energy as he concluded communication with the spirit world, the circle closing as the projected image of Xia faded out of his extrasensory senses.

The treatment room retained a residual energy, a lingering aura of the otherworldly encounter. He observed Fiona, still on the table, gradually returning to full awareness. Among all things, Sylas dreaded the post-session conversations the most. The task of explaining his encounters, coupled with the onslaught of questions, weighed heavily on him.

“You can slowly get up. You might feel disoriented,” he remarked, exhaling stagnant, tired energy. His dark eyes glanced at the clock, silently denying him the nap he craved. The past two nights had been sleepless; an impending event loomed within the collective, and he harbored a dreadful sense of what or who would be impacted.

“What did you discover? Oh, did you get any messages from Lester?”

“Lester?” Sylas asked, raising a curious brow.

“Yes, Lester! Oh, he was such a good little boy. I miss him so much.”

Sylas frowned, his mouth drying, leading to a deep swallow. Had he completely failed to pick up on the loss of a child? He must have mentally drifted off for a moment because, before he knew it, Fiona was shoving her phone in his face. “He crossed the rainbow bridge last year,” she remarked sadly, presenting a picture of a terrier breed dog wearing teddy bear print pajamas.

"Look, Fiona," Sylas said, his voice flat and devoid of sympathy. Talking to dead dogs isn't exactly on my menu. I don't know anyone who wastes their time with it." The words hung heavy, a blunt truth, landing with a thud. Fiona's face crumpled, her gaze dropping to the intricate swirls of the carpet.

"Fiona, after examining your energy field, I didn’t find any intrusive entities, although there were a few energetic attachments I had to sever.” Sylas's words hung in the air as he delved into the intricacies of the unseen. Energetic attachments often manifested as cords in the otherworld—some delicate and easily plucked like weeds, others as thick and rooted as a tree unwavering even during the fiercest of storms.

He continued, his voice factual rather than reassuring, lacking the reassuring cadence Naloria possessed "As these cords dissolve, you might experience some energy fluctuations, particularly related to thought patterns from a past relationship. This would be the one in Paris when you were nineteen, during the fall semester, not the one earlier summer.”

Fiona opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her as she stood there in shock, absorbing the weight of Sylas's revelations.

“I also performed two soul retrievals. You were in an accident at either twenty-six or twenty-seven. Time can sometimes be challenging to pinpoint accurately within the energetic field. You were in a red Dodge Charger, and a gray truck made a left-hand turn in front of you. You weren’t physically hurt, but it was enough to... well, cause you to mentally check-out,” Sylas recounted monotonously, his hand running through his short black hair. “The other retrieval was from three years ago, when your fiance left you at the altar in Spain. It took a bit more time to convince that part of yourself to come back, but she did. However, you need to understand; all of this happened for a reason.”

Fiona absorbed the revelations, a mix of emotions crossing her face. “But why? What is the meaning of being rejected in such a terrible way? Of being left there, without event the common courtesy of an answer?”

"Only you can discover the answer to the question, should you dare to travel within to find out," Sylas responded flatly. He understood the weight of such revelations and the profound impact they could have on one's perception of life. The question of why certain events unfolded as they did within her timeline was a journey only she could undertake.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting in ten minutes I must attend, so I trust you to see yourself out.” Sylas lied, speaking with a composed demeanor, though beneath the surface, a conflict brewed. Perhaps he could have avoided bending the truth, but he weighed the urgency of his current responsibilities against the persistent stream of lost soul fragments seeking refuge from the traumas haunting them. The fate of many hung in the balance, and Sylas, as a conduit between realms, held a pivotal role in navigating these metaphysical currents. The dance of duty compelled him to prioritize the broader spectrum of spiritual welfare, even if it meant occasionally veering away from complete transparency. Or, at least, this is what he told himself to justify his mistruth.

After the door closed and Fiona left, Sylas's shoulders slumped, and he felt an overwhelming exhaustion wash over him. The weight of guiding Fiona through the daunting landscapes of her soul left him drained, both physically and energetically. As the residual energies settled around him, he decided to take a moment for himself.

Sylas walked over to the treatment table and lay down, allowing the cool surface to provide a temporary respite. The dim light played upon his closed eyelids, casting a tranquil atmosphere. If he expanded his awareness further, he could hear the faint sound of the singing bowls echoing from the temple downstairs.

In the quiet of the room, Sylas reached into his pocket and pulled out a spliff wrapped in rose petals. With a thoughtful pause, he brought out a lighter and sparked it, the flame casting a warm glow in the dim space. The smoke curled around him, creating a dance mirroring the complexities of the spiritual realm. Sylas closed his eyes, allowing the soothing effects to seep into his weary bones, providing a momentary escape from the demands of his dual existence.

Finally, a moment of peace. With nowhere to be until the evening hours, Sylas was free to disconnect and focus on the present moment. He took another deep inhale, savoring the earthy taste and observing the rising wispy smoke, which assumed sacred geometric forms when he tuned into it.

However, as soon as he tuned back into the material world, Sylas found himself once again checking out, plagued with troubling worries. The eternal cycle of Moros would continue—a battle between existence and nothingness. Soon, Moros would awaken from his slumber and attempt to restore the cosmos to its original state, erasing humanity to once again bask in the silence of the void.

This was the universe's original condition, a timeless nothingness. And for now, the Aethelstone remained hidden in the basem*nt's western wing safe, powerless until the summoner arrived. But with the prophecy foretelling Moros' return in just two months, the summoner was nowhere to be found.

Naloria North

Starseed Alchemist

A soft content sigh escaped Naloria’s lips as she sat atop the grassy hill underneath the apple tree, its branches barren, except for a few semi-solid gala apples which clung from last season, proving their resilience of the passing mild winter. The breeze, scented with the delicate aroma of pine and petrichor, carried secrets of far away lands, distant from the secluded floating island.

What was once commonly accepted as fact—a truth now dismissed as a deranged fantasy by modern society—was the profound notion that Mother Gaia, Terra, or Earth Mother, by any name, the consciousness of the Earth, sang to humanity, to her children, her song perpetually and everlasting. Similar to a nurturing mother soothing her child with a lullaby, Gaia tenderly whispered her loving melodies, accessible to all who cared to listen. One needed only to attune themselves to the subtle symphony of nature: the invisible breeze whispering it’s tales through the leaves, the purifying rain of spring—sounds that, like Gaia's loving song, transcended language barriers, untranslatable in words, and instead, felt deeply within the heart-space.

They say if you have ever lived one complete moment, then you would be ready to die. You would turn over, and say, ‘well, that was it, and that was good.’ Within the pause between breaths, where times illusion suspended, reality halted, and the profound awareness of existence emerges in every vibration—that is the essence of bliss. By simply tuning into the birds song, or the sensation of the grass on her fingertips which pulsed an unfelt resonance, grounding her deeper and deeper to the earth, Naloria simply smiled, ready at that moment, declaring her life happily fulfilled.

The distant chime of temple bells signaled that the universe had divergent paths prepared for her. Her eyes fluttered like a blooming flower greeting the dawn, summoning forth the forest into existence. Briefly captivated, she observed a plump, alert-eyed robin collecting a twig for its nest, nestled high in a towering cherry tree, its branches stretching toward the ethereal cloud-filled sky while its roots remained firmly anchored in the Earth's core.

“Well, it is noon. Sylas should be done with this client.” Naloria chimed outloud to the universe, which responded back in a frogs croak, and the distant babble of a brooke. Forgetting her slip-on-shoes on the grassy patch, underneath the apple tree, she walked barefoot, her proudly calloused feet no stranger to the terrain of dirt and earthy debris of sediment.

“You’re right, he probably is quite miserable,” Naloria advised, talking outloud to the internal chatter of the mind.

Over the last several weeks, Sylas had become more caught up in the drama of life than usual, often taking on the energy of his clients because of his failing abilities to energetically protect himself. He had also become fixated on catastrophic prophecies foretelling the return of a destructive deity and the sacrificial fate of a chronicle of summoners. Naloria worried these dark premonitions, which manifested as sinister shadows in the night, would ultimately consume her brother.

There was no concrete evidence of Moros' return. Over the past century, the energies of the collective had undergone significant shifts, and new guardians of the planet frequently emerged, dedicated to safeguarding existence from threats. Sylas labeled her as overly optimistic, accusing her of being "too immersed in the light and blind to the shadows," but Naloria disagreed. She simply chose not to divert her energy into worrying about the past, or the future, viewing them as two banks of a river with herself positioned in the center, the current carrying her toward the next destination. Unconstrained by the past and unconcerned with what others deemed a predictable future, she embraced the flow of the present.

With her dress pockets weighed down by rocks and pinecones, gifts tenderly acquired with the forest's blessing, Naloria hummed intuitively, her captivatingly soft voice resonating like an ethereal woodland enchantress. If anyone had the chance to hear her sing, they might have mistaken her voice for Mother Gaia herself. Nature itself seemed to acknowledge her presence, echoing her melody through birdsong and tousling her naturally textured hair with the wind's gentle caress. As strands obscured her vision, momentarily casting doubt, she nearly stumbled over a fallen branch, which, despite its descent, retained the wisdom of the tree and the endurance of its fall.

Nestled within a tranquil valley, bathed in the gentle glow of the late afternoon sun, was the temple, the place Naloria proudly had called home for over five years. Delicate tendrils of ivy wrapped around weathered stone walls as solar power lanterns, adorned with faded hues of age, swayed lazily in the mild breeze.

The moment she walked inside time seemed to slow and existence blurred into a dreamlike haze. As Naloria ascended the spiral staircase, oblivious to the trail of dirty footprints she left behind, she descended the south corridor, her senses enveloped by the resonating sound of a singing bowl emanating from the meditation room below, followed by an abrupt, pungent skunky odor. With an exasperated sigh, she shook her head and rolled her eyes, hastening her pace towards the treatment room. Aware that her brother no longer had a client inside, she saw no need for courtesy and entered the room without knocking.

"Are you seriously smoking in here, Sylas?" Naloria questioned, her voice attempting a failed hushed whisper. "I could smell weed all the way down the hallway. You know, Ying complained last week about a strange smell coming from this room. You're lucky he's so clueless and thought you were burning herbs."

"That is exactly what I am doing," Sylas remarked sarcastically with a shrug, taking a final puff of sanity before Naloria snatched the blunt from his hands. She took a quick inhale of her own before extinguishing it on the abalone shell filled with burnt rosemary.

“Take a walk with me," she demanded from her brother.

“Ah, I see, so it is only okay for you to smoke in here, as long as I light it first,” Sylas teased, slowly arising from the treatment table. The two siblings descended the spiral marble staircase into the main foyer.

Never did the intricate mural cease to mesmerize her; a celestial masterpiece crafted on the ceiling by devoted monks. The vivid colors, meticulously blown into the crafted design depicted the profound cycle of Samsara with every grain of sand seeming to hold a tale of its own, intricately woven into the larger narrative. From the delicate formation of lotus blossoms symbolizing purity, to the swirling currents of the ocean reflecting the vastness of existence, each element resonated with a symbolic richness of detail.

Within the elaborate drawings of the mural, each element—fire, water, air, terra, and space—told its own tale, representing distinct chapters in the unfolding narrative of existence. These weren't mere symbols, but conscious entities waiting to be invocated. Earth, the anchor, cradled us with the warmth of a loving home. It wasn't just soil and stone, but the very essence of Mother Gaia, her consciousness a silent hum beneath our feet. With every rustle of leaves and every whisper of wind, Air's wisdom resonated, carrying whispers of insight from unseen realms. Fire, demanding the utmost caution, stood as the alchemist, transmuting -

“AH-OH-'' Naloria screamed, her momentary loss of grace evident as her foot missed the edge of the stairs, threatening to send her tumbling down the last ten steps. In the nick of time, Sylas's strong arm reached out, grabbing hold of her, averting a potentially painful outcome.

“You really should refrain from looking at the mural while walking; it might end up being the last thing you see in this lifetime,” Sylas remarked dryly, showing no amusem*nt at his sister's constant carelessness.

“If the mural is the last thing I see, then I can say I died a pleasant death. Although I can’t die tonight. I have a date.”

“How is Thomas?” Sylas questioned.

"Thomas?" Naloria asked, pausing in her stride for a moment. "Oh! Yeah, Thomas. That guy. Yeah, we broke up last week. Not like we were even together. There were only three dates. Tonight I am seeing Amara. Remember her? The cute barista at Moonbucks?"

Sylas's raised eyebrow remained unaffected by his sister's romantic endeavors. No, he didn’t remember Amara; frankly, he couldn’t keep up with his sister's dating life, which changed more rapidly than the weather conditions on this island. "Amara of Moonbucks, can’t say I recall her. Let's hope your date tonight surpasses the trilogy of attempts with Thomas,” he remarked with a monotone delivery.

"Says my brother, who, if I didn't know any better, I'd think took a vow of celibacy. How long has it been since you've even been on a date, let alone slept with a woman?”

Sylas used to be quite the ladies' man, often seen with a various different attractive women on his arm. However, after their parents were murdered, her brother underwent a significant change. He took on the responsibility of being her guardian for two years to prevent her from being placed into the system.

That year, now over a decade past, marked a turning point for Sylas, shifting his focus from women and academic pursuits to abandoning graduate school. Opting instead for a full-time role at a factory, he earned a wage barely surpassing the minimum, all in an effort to secure a roof over their heads. Their dwelling, a dismal underground apartment, endured the torment of flooding with each rainstorm. The saddened air, heavy with lingering dampness and the shadows of neglect, clung to every nook, its musty, moldy essence eternally imprinted in Naloria's memory. It was a far cry to the comfortable three-bedroom ranch their parents once rented in the heart of Warrensburg.

“Let's walk to the greenhouse. I have some gardenia seeds yearning to be cradled by the earth. I can plant them early since the weather has been so mild.”

Beyond the temple, the sun stretched its radiant golden beams, showering conscious warmth upon her. A blissful sigh escaped her lips, a harmonious response to the caress of sunlight, as if she willingly absorbed the rays into the depths of her being.

Deep within the sanctuary of her heart lay a nearly forgotten memory of existence on another celestial plane, where the sky blossomed as an ethereal masterpiece, brushed with lavender and fuchsia strokes. In this dreamy realm, three distinct planets graced the heavenly skies, each as captivating and sizable as the sun and two moons. Every night on this distant planet, which Naloria often dreamed of, a telepathic concert unfolded—an otherworldly exchange where the sun, moon, stars, and distant planets sang to each other. Listening to their songs and ancient stories was as simple as flipping a mentally pictured radio station dial.

But that was another lifetime ago, a memory obscured by the fog of reincarnation. Now, all she felt was a growing desire to unearth it all, to remember the planetary symphony and the secrets of the galaxies.

"I find myself lacking the time and inclination to entertain the prospect of a relationship," Sylas replied, his words falling on deaf ears as Naloria continued forward.

Abruptly halting in her tracks, her brown eyes softened as they fell upon an injured blue jay, lying silently amidst the mint leaves, crying out in pain with a broken wing.

"Mom loved blue jays," Naloria uttered softly, her voice carrying a tender empathetic tone as she slowly lowered to her knees in front of the struggling bird. Memories stirred, like leaves awakened by an unseen breeze—the time a bluejay gracefully descended to her mother Cecelia, landing right in her hair. Cecelia, with a gentle smile, told Naloria it was a sign from angels.

“Naloria, don't.” Sylas commanded, reaching his hand out to grab her shoulder. She shook it off, a low rattle-snake like hiss of a warning emanating from her throat. “Shut your blunt sucking hole Sylas.”

Naloria gritted her teeth, channeling her frustration into the connection she was forging with the Earth. Ignoring Sylas' barking commands felt like trying to ignore a particularly insistent mosquito, but she needed focus.

The universal light hummed through her, a buzzing warmth flowing into her palms and down towards the trembling creature. Opening her heart space, visualized as a swirling vortex of emerald, Naloria allowed herself to be a conduit of co-creation with this energy,

As her brother's words turned into incomprehensible noise, she held her hands just above the bird's body. Shortly after, it sprang back to full vitality, hastily departing in a fit of panic and seeking refuge in a nearby tree.

Naloria swayed, a wave of nausea rolling over her like a rogue wave at low tide. It felt like the time in middle school she rode the Tilt-a-Whirl on the field trip. The carnival grounds, a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and cacophonous sounds, melded into a disorienting dance in which she didn’t want to partake. Overwhelmed by the dizzying sensations, stuck in a world refusing to stand still, where the sky and ground became interchangeable, she shared her carnival experience in a way she hadn't intended – all over her crush at the time, Andrea Spinner.

Dazed and wobbly, Naloria stumbled, the white rose crown she always wore lovingly toppling. Before it could hit the ground, Sylas reached out, catching both the crown and Naloria's arm.

"Whoa there Nala," Sylas said, a hint of concern cutting through his usual stoicism. "You pushed yourself too hard. I told you, there's a natural order to life, Naloria." He gently placed the crown back on her head, noticing the stray white feather in her hair, a confirming symbol of her connection to a higher realm.

Healing the bird was a monumental undertaking, pushing the limits of her newfound abilities. But she didn't want to admit this to Sylas.

"Natural order? Or is it your cold-hearted order you're so worried about?” The words tumbled out, sharper than she intended. "Since when did healing a bird become a cosmic transgression?" Her voice held a tremor, a mix of defiance and tiredness.

She couldn't fathom how he could turn such a blind eye to an animal in suffering. Here she was, finally rediscovering a power residing deep within her soul, and all Sylas saw was a broken natural order which felt more like a restraining leash than a well-guiding compass. She wouldn't let him clip her wings just as they were starting to sprout.“I had to do something,” she exclaimed, shaking her arm free from his steadying yet gentle grasp.

“Naloria," Sylas countered, his voice softening a touch, "this isn't a game. It's a responsibility. Healing requires balance, and you nearly drained yourself. We can't have you collapsing every time you channel these energies.” There was a hint of concern in his eyes, a flicker betraying the stern facade.

Naloria scoffed, the crown of roses feeling heavy against her suddenly burning cheeks. "There has to be another way. Maybe a way to use this power without nearly fainting."

Sylas sighed, a weary sound that tugged at a thread of sympathy within her. "Indeed. But it takes discipline. Training. You can't just jump in headfirst and expect to control the tides.”

Unlike traditional energy workers who clung to pre-established symbols and inherited lineages, Naloria's approach was refreshingly new. She sighed at expensive attunements, dismissing them as fading echoes in the vast ocean of energy, like the wake of a ship soon swallowed by the waves.

Here, there were no rigid structures, no hierarchies separating student from master. Naloria believed all souls held the birthright to manifest, to tap into the eternal wellspring of creation and become conduits of healing light. No limitations existed. It was an open door, a house with a welcoming porch light. Inside, a loving force embraced you in pure understanding whispering, "Welcome home again my dear child. Let's create together.”

She knew Sylas was right, of course. Her impulsiveness had always gotten her into trouble. “Alright," she conceded, the defiance draining out of her, replaced with temporary weariness and a desperate need to restore her energy before the date with Amara. "More training and meditation it is. But don't expect me to become some kind of emotionless robot while you play gatekeeper.”

A ghost of a smile played on Sylas's lips. "There's a happy medium in there somewhere, Nala. For now, how about you get some sleep before you see... what's her name again? Amber?”

"Amara," Naloria corrected, though she did have a one night stand with an Amber once during a summer trip to Maui. With a yawn, Naloria excused herself and walked back towards the temple, her steps lighter despite the dizziness.

Reaching her room, she pushed open the worn wooden door and was met with an inviting wave of lavender-scented air. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating suncatchers hung from the ceiling with invisible fishing line. Crafted from colorful mismatched crystals and shimmering glass beads, they cast an array of prismatic rainbows that twirled playfully around the room as the breeze danced through. Their light danced on the slightly rumpled bed overflowing with pillows and a well-worn stuffed animal – a wide-eyed doe.

Perhaps, amidst the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, or maybe in the quiet space between dreams, another fragment of her past would surface, an echo from a life both familiar and foreign. But for now, sleep, and with it, the promise of renewed vitality, was the most enticing invitation.

Yoshio Sasaki

The Emperor

The weary Professor of Chemistry, Yoshio Sasaki, finally finished his evening office hours. Seminars and meetings had left him drained. He yearned for takeout and sleep. But fate, as it often does, had other plans. Locking his office door, he turned to find a student, her fiery red hair a mess mirroring the dirt on her dress.

"Office hours are over," Yoshio announced curtly, "Back on Tuesday at two.”

“I am not a student,” She remarked, her voice stressed and tense, her verdant eyes worn with a sense of panic.

Yoshio, however, was in a rush to leave. An early flight to a New York City conference loomed tomorrow, and his presentation on chemical genomics remained unedited. Academia, teaching basic, unchallenging graduate-level courses on Bioinorganic Chemistry, wasn't his dream job, nor did he see himself staying at the university forever. His ultimate goal was a Nobel Prize, a prestigious title to add to his ever-growing list of credentials. Yoshio craved lasting recognition, a legacy built on groundbreaking discoveries. A hunger for knowledge, to constantly learn more, and to shatter the headlines with revolutionary findings that left a lasting impact on the world, far surpassing his lifespan, consumed him in constant nag.

Despite countless hours spent buried in textbooks, he perpetually felt one step behind. Yoshio yearned for innovation, a spark that mere effort or knowledge couldn't ignite.

Startled by a sudden movement, Yoshio nearly bumped into the woman. She had cut in front of him, her silence a powerful plea for attention. "Ah," he stammered, "then why are you here? Visitors need to check in at the front desk first. They can point you in the right direction." Unless, he thought with a glance at the clock, they were already closed for the night.

Ignoring his attempt to brush her off, the woman pressed on. "I need to see you, Yoshio Sasaki," she said urgently. "I spent all day chasing rumors of you across different colleges. Finally, I found you. You teach chemistry here?" Her voice held a inflection of disbelief.

Yoshio's brow furrowed. Judging by her disheveled appearance and hurried speech, she wasn't a colleague or a reporter seeking an interview about his latest groundbreaking article on metabolomics published in ChemiSphere last quarter. A flicker of annoyance crossed him – who was this woman, and why was she wasting his time?

"Yes, I teach bioinorganic chemistry here," he admitted, a hint of impatience in his voice. Hopefully he won't be teaching chemistry much longer. Stagnation wasn't an option for Yoshio, nor was a salary pathetically shy of six figures.

"sh*t," she spat, shoving a stray strand of hair back into the growing mess that mirrored her wild words. "Don't you even recognize me?"

"Nope," Yoshio replied flatly. The rest of his response hung heavy in the air, unspoken but clear: Now get the hell out of here. He continued his walk down the hallway, reaching the front foyer. But she stepped in his path once more, like a pesky fallen tree branch blocking his way.

“But you do know me. Maybe this version of you doesn’t, but in the dimension I am from, you and I are good friends. It’s me, Katia Esmae. I am helping you write a book about Quantum Multiverse Theory. I have lucid dreams and astral project often. You’ve done quite a few studies on my brainwaves. You did an EKG…or was it an EEG? What is the one that tests brainwaves? I don’t recall. Hell, it’s probably called something stupid in this world anyway, like a QXR, or something ridiculous. Anyway, you told me all parts of my brain lit up like a fireworks display. You said—”

“Excuse me, I must be going,” Yoshio responded, cutting her off. Katia, clearly unhinged, wasn’t a story he had time to entertain. When she cut in front of him once more, Yoshio found patience wearing incredibly thin. “Look, Ms. Esmae, I am not sure who put you up to this, if this is your idea of a joke, or if you are simply delusional, but I need you to step out of my way so I can leave.”

Katia gave an exasperated sigh, shaking her hands before retreating to stand beside him, which further irritated Yoshio. He really didn't want to call campus security and humiliate the woman by having her removed from the grounds. They were rapidly nearing such a point.

"I know how this looks, I know it looks crazy!" she claimed frantically. Yoshio thought she might start begging for money to feed a habit next, which would explain a lot. "But we do know each other in this other world, and the other you would have helped me. You would help me understand what the bloody f*cken hell is going on."

Her constant obscenities bothered him, unpleasant like good tea spoiled by sugar or cream. "There is only one version of me, and he's standing right here in front of you, asking to be left alone. If you need medical help or a mental evaluation, I can call 977. Either way, if you don't leave me alone, I will be calling Campus Security to escort you away, Ms. Esmae."

The takeout he'd ordered would have been ready for pickup by now. He envisioned it wilting under a heat lamp, each passing minute making the food soggier.

"977!? It isn't 911 in this world? How far off the branch did I fall!?" Katia began to hyperventilate softly. But before he could interject, she stopped, her composure rapidly changing with fiery intensity. "Whatever, if you won't help me, then I'll... I don't know, I'll figure something else out!"

"Yes, please do, Ms. Esmae." He neared the exit, freedom from the insane only a threshold away. A quick glance confirmed Katia wasn't following. The automatic double glass doors whooshed open with his approach, bringing in the scent of wet rain on pavement. It must have just started pouring. He didn't remember seeing rain in the forecast this morning. A sigh escaped his dry lips, which he moistened with his tongue.

With his car parked in the west lot, Yoshio had intended to walk to the Italian restaurant for his food, then drive home. The rain threw a wrench in those plans. Now he had a choice: brave the downpour and walk across the entire front yard to his car, or turn around and head down the hallway to a different exit. And he knew if he turned around, there she would be.

Rain it was, then. Yoshio braced himself for the downpour, the discomfort of a wet shirt a lesser evil than another minute with Katia.

"Don't leave!" pleaded Katia, her voice rising. "I can prove I know you – well, a version of you. Ugh-" she stammered. "You belong on the show 'Worst Cooks in America' because you somehow find a way to butcher anything involving a stove, an oven, or an open flame. I bet you're on your way to pick up takeout now, in fact, probably from that Italian Eatery down the street since they use non-dairy cheese. Let me guess, eggplant parmesan?"

She had to be connected to the restaurant somehow, a degenerate employee, maybe a deranged regular customer, or simply a manic eavesdropper. She could have been standing outside his office door for quite some time. Before Yoshio could respond to her about overhearing his takeout order and making a probable conclusion about the rest, she continued speaking.

"Your parents moved to America when you were two after your father's job relocation to New York. You're not a coffee drinker, but you consume pools of tea a day, and it's loose-leaf herbs, never cheap pre-bagged sewer sh*t.” She took a step forward, and like an orchestrated dance, Yoshio retreated a step back, creating distance.

"Ms. Esmae, with all due respect, your frequent use of profanity makes it difficult to believe any version of myself would be close friends with someone who communicates in such a vulgar manner.” Although her assumption was correct, Yoshio considered it to be a sign of having a stalker. Because the alternative, the insane babble Katia sprouted about alternative versions of himself, simply couldn’t be true, now could it?

Finally, he made it to the double doors which parted, vestibule flooded with the humidity of the rain. What Katia said next, caused him to instantly stop on heel.

"If you're not going to help me, then at least tell me where I can find Ayumi. Maybe your sister will believe me, if you won't. Or at least yet, explain why you've become such an asshole in this reality."

That name. It had been twenty-nine years since it last graced his ears. His parents had slowly silenced it, then demanded the same from him. He'd conceded, never meeting the sister he'd glimpsed only in their fleeting joy. A four-year-old couldn't grasp much, and confusion had shadowed his early childhood. His parents returned from the hospital, a hollow shell of their former selves, a different person in place of the baby they'd so eagerly awaited.

Yoshio often pondered what life might have been like had Ayumi not passed away during childbirth. He imagined the companionship of having a sister, wondering if it would have alleviated the loneliness that had characterized much of his upbringing. With a father renowned in epidemiology and a mother deeply immersed in pharmaceutical research, Yoshio found himself mostly in the care of nannies. Before Ayumi's untimely demise, their household had been filled with pancake towers in the morning and bedtime stories told by his father. Afterwards, the unpleasant robotic voice of the books on tape replaced his father's comforting expression.

In the aftermath, Yoshio felt a shift. A coldness had settled within the house, mirroring the frozen winter now resided in his parents' hearts. Nothing he did seemed to meet their expectations, a saddened contrast to the encouragement he once received. The once proudly displayed pictures on the fridge now lay scattered on the floor, forgotten like fallen leaves in late autumn. Even his efforts, such as the Valentine's Day card he proudly colored with markers in first grade, were met with dismissal. "Focus on your studies, Yoshio," they'd chide, their voices devoid of the warmth a child craved. They saw his creativity as a frivolous childish pursuit, demanding he grow up faster in preparation for the harsh world.

He craved answers. Why were his parents, once a source of laughter, love, and attention, now perpetually shrouded in sadness, their lips forever refusing to say Ayumi's name? It wasn't until he was eight did he finally understand.

Ayumi had been born stillborn, a fact he unearthed only through relentless questioning of his Aunt.

The thing Yoshio couldn't wrap his head around was the fact that the birth and death certificate listed only his parents' surname. No one knew her name, Ayumi, except his parents, him, and his aunt. How Katia knew it was an unsettling enigma.

“I went to the hospital, but the cardiology department said she doesn’t work there. I Googled her name, but I can’t find her anywhere. Is she practicing medicine in this world? If she-”

Yoshio reached his breaking point, his emotions simmering. With a swift spin, his dark eyes narrowed into a disgruntled glare, involuntarily energetically emanating his intense desire for Katia to cease speaking and vanish into thin air.

This had to have been a disgusting prank.

"Miss Esmae, I am officially deeming this harassment. I strongly advise you to cease speaking. Should you persist in bothering me, I won't hesitate to escalate matters. I'll involve not only campus security but the police as well, leading to your arrest."

The words finally silenced Katia. Her lips formed a tight line, eyes quickly darting away to the cold floor.

With his left hand clenched tightly into a fist, his nails digging half-moon marks into his skin, Yoshio abandoned Katia in the school foyer, leaving her to become someone else's concern.

In a state of frustration, distress, and confusion, Yoshio experienced a lapse in memory, completely forgetting to collect the food he had ordered until he reached home and received a phone call from the restaurant. He politely requested them to donate the food to Howard, a homeless man who resided in the alleyway behind the restaurant. However, they refused to comply, citing some ridiculous rule, which only served to heighten Yoshio's irritation.

The immaculate townhouse, meticulously cleaned by a professional every week, provided a pristine environment for Yoshio's attempt to unwind. With a deep exhale, he consciously endeavored to release some of the day's frustrations, hoping to disperse the memory of his encounter with Katia like dissipating clouds. Yet, her abstract presence lingered, taking up the entire blue sky, completely obscuring his vision.

How did she know so much about him?

Inquiring at the Italian Eatery about her, they denied employing any woman with ginger hair.

How could she possibly know about Ayumi? His parents had passed away a decade ago in a car accident while en route to an opera. There was no way she could have heard it from them, and his Aunt Mika had relocated to Kyoto over fifteen years ago.

If, by some improbable twist of fate, Katia spoke the truth, did it imply that, against all odds, a semblance of his sister still existed? Alive and evidently working as a cardiologist.

With considerable hesitance, after a prolonged and introspective moment, Yoshio yielded to the gentle nudging of his intuition. Approaching the laptop perched atop the dining room table, he abandoned his travel plans and delved instantly into research on Quantum Multiverse Theory, or Many-Worlds Interpretation.

In this theory of belief, every quantum event triggered a branching of reality, giving rise to a multitude of divergent timelines and possibilities. Each decision, no matter how trivial, spawned an infinite array of alternate universes where every potential outcome is realized.

Central to this theory was the concept of superposition. Imagine a particle existing in multiple states at once, a blurry haze of possibilities. Only when observed does reality collapse, solidifying into a singular outcome. But Many-Worlds flipped this on its head. It proposed the other possibilities didn't vanish. Instead, they branched off, each one a separate universe where a different outcome held sway.

Was this a legitimate explanation, or merely a fantastical escape hatch for those clinging to the ghosts of loved ones l, what ifs, and failed dreams?

The implications were staggering. If Katia wasn't entirely delusional, then somewhere out there, in a universe splintered from a past choice, Ayumi might be very much alive. A spark of hope, fragile yet persistent, ignited within Yoshio. The dull ache of grief, a constant companion for years, seemed to flicker for the first time. Yoshio knew he couldn't be with his sister, but knowing she lived a fulfilling life somewhere, in a different quantum universe, might be enough for him to accept her death in his reality.

But a nagging skepticism remained. The theory itself was controversial, existing on the fringes of accepted physics. Yoshio needed more. He combed through research papers, listened to lectures by prominent physicists on the topic. The more he delved, the more he discovered the theory's complexities and its lack of experimental verification. It was a potentially possible hypothesis, precise in its explanation of certain quantum phenomena, yet frustratingly untestable.

The hours of research ticked by, time losing all meaning. Somehow, through various searches, he kept ending up on the same poorly designed, half-baked, eye-sore of a website. Starving, dehydrated, and sleep deprived, Yoshio decided to call the number listed.

Katiannah Esmae

Astral Traveler

Everything felt wrong. Katia squeezed her eyes shut, but whenever she opened them, the mocking Moonbucks coffee cup glared back. A brief slumber offered no escape. Attempts at astral projection fizzled, her energy depleted. Hours bled by in the darkened room, the shadows twisting into menacing shapes. How had she landed in this bizarre dimension, unable to return?

Exhaustion claimed her again. A rude jolt of static – an unfamiliar buzzer – ripped her awake. aweary-eyed, she checked her phone. Who the hell was visiting at four in the morning?

With a groan, Katia rose, still clad in yesterday's grime-streaked dress. She shuffled across the familiar carpet to the door, squinting through the peephole. Gasping, she saw Yoshio, impeccably dressed in a white dress shirt and black trousers. Unlatching the chain, she opened the door, ushering him into the living room.

Her wide smile vanished upon seeing his expressionless face. She shut the door after him as he removed his polished oxfords and perched stiffly on the worn green sofa.

“You’re just going to walk in, sit down, and not say anything?” Katia questioned, running a hand through messy tangled hair. “Do you remember who the hell I am or not?” Then again, there wasn’t anything to remember. They had no past together, and based on Yoshio’s deadpan reaction, Katia assumed the Yoshio she knew didn’t bodysnatch the oh-so-serious bore of a man in front of her with the personality of sh*tter paper.

“Must filth pour out of your mouth every time you open it? No, Katia, I don't remember you. We met yesterday, you were… rather conspicuous at the university." He unscrewed the thermos, the unmistakable aroma of Earl Grey with bergamot filling the air.

Katia's brow furrowed, hazel eyes hardening. "The other you had no problem kissing this 'filthy’ mouth," she retorted, rolling her eyes. His offensively displayed disgust only fueled her irritation. “And I'm sure you would have done much more than that if I reciprocated,” Katia scoffed.

"In this hypothetical scenario, I highly doubt any version of myself would-"

"Did you come here solely to insult me?" Katia snapped, her arms gesturing wildly, the movement sending a forgotten candy wrapper scattering across the coffee table. "Because if that's it, get the hell out." She refused to be belittled.

"I'm here because you mentioned something yesterday, something I've never spoken of," Yoshio revealed, his fingers clenching his pants, a detail Katia didn't miss. "You brought up Ayumi, my sister."

"Right. Ayumi. We became friends after we met. We were supposed to be at her wedding together..." Katia's voice trailed off, a cold dread slithering down her spine. What became of the Katia who worried about unrequited sentiments? Did she still exist? Or was her body just... empty now, a shell on autopilot? Or did that world collapse entirely, taking everyone she loved along with it? The vast unknown stretched before her, and a wave of terror crashed over her. She knew nothing.

"Ayumi is dead." Yoshio's voice, usually steady, betrayed a faint tremor Katia hadn't noticed before. The news slammed into her, pulling her back to the present. Her previously expressionless face morphed into a frown. Suddenly, Katia understood a bit more about the monumental difference in temperament between the man she knew and this one sitting on her couch, taking another long sip of tea, hot steam billowing off the surface. He always had the uncanny ability to gulp down boiling hot beverages at a shockingly impressive speed.

"She was a stillborn," Yoshio continued, voice trailing off. "My parents never put a name on her birth certificate. At times, they even denied naming her. But I know her name was Ayumi, and..." He pulled out his cellphone. "I did some research. What you're suggesting has been mentioned in Quantum Multiverse Theory, but there's little scientific proof. I'm still not sure I believe you, Katia, but I can't ignore our encounter. If I can somehow prove this theory exists, then not only would I find peace knowing my sister, in some alternative reality, is alive, but it would open infinite doors for further research, theories, and discoveries."

"Ah, the Yoshio I know, always chasing the next scientific breakthrough," Katia said with a weak smile. Maybe there was hope for this Yoshio after all, even if their connection was a pale shadow of what it once was.

"Last night, I kept finding the same webpage. A temple, apparently with experience in this… fringe theory. It might be a bunch of new age nonsense, but it's the only lead I have. It's a few hundred miles off the coast of Miami. I booked a flight and train, then a monk named Ying will ferry us to a floating island."

"Great! When do we leave?" Katia asked, jumping to her feet. "I need to pack. I need to shower and change clothes. What's the weather like there? How long will we be gone? What's the place called? Does it even exist in my reality? You said you spoke to someone there? What did they say? Did you tell them –"

"Katia," he boomed, cutting through her barrage of questions. "There's no ticket for you. That wasn't my responsibility so I didn't book you one." His tone was cold. "But I'll send you the details. You can book it yourself. The plane leaves in four hours. We need to move."

The silence stretched, a tangible weight in the air. Katia blinked rapidly, owlish and speechless for a moment. "Of course you didn't," she finally muttered, her green eyes hardening into a glare. Draining her bank account wouldn't be her problem, not really. It would be some other Katia's mess to clean up. Right? With a huff, she tossed the words over her shoulder, "Fine. Send me the information. I'll book it, take a shower, then pack. Just stay put until then, and don’t touch anything in the fridge." Throwing him a withering look, Katia stomped off to her bedroom, slamming the door with a final, decisive thud.

The simmering irritation that had Katia slamming her bedroom door eventually cooled into a begrudging acceptance. And after hours of awkwardly silent travel later, they reached the harbor just as the sun sank beneath the horizon. A monk dressed in robes silently greeted them, ushering them into a wooden row-boat. Katiannah despised the heaviness of each discomforting passing second she spent in awkward silence, sitting between Yoshio as Ying silently rowed them toward the center island. Amidst the shimmering moonlight, stood a stone-faced temple, its steeple reaching for the starry constellations, as if yearning to touch the cosmos,the surrounding lanterns hypnotic glow softly guiding the way like a silent beacon of hope in the night. It seemed as though the temple's purpose was to serve as a lighthouse, a sanctuary for those who felt lost in the vast electronic sea of the universe.

Perhaps she could have enjoyed the wonder of the moment more if she could disconnect from her brain, which clung to her old life, desperately trying to hold on to it, only to fall miserably, like attempting to collect rain with bare hands.

It wasn’t as if she had much going for her in the old reality. College, a supposed gateway to a brighter future, proved a suffocating prison. Her mind, a restless butterfly, captured in a net of daydreams, proved focussing on droning lectures a challenge. As a result, her grade suffered immensely. The corporate world wasn't much better.The soul-crushing daily routines, relentless demands, and pointless meetings were a thorn in her spirit. Her uncanny ability to project her consciousness and her vivid inner landscapes were misfits in a world obsessed with production. She felt adrift like Charlie-in-the-Box, yearning to escape the mundane and explore the fantastical realms blooming within her heart.

Would life have been better if she chose the path of living in the stoner van in Sedona?

What decision would have possibly led to such an outcome?

In that parallel life, she never met Yoshio. She lived happily alone, as free and wild as an untamable horse, engaging in casual hookups, and fully embracing the impermanence of life.

But that didn’t seem like happiness to the version of Katia who drew in a deep huff of cool air in a mildly desperate attempt to center herself, mentally swept away in a whirlwind of memories, specifically the night before she awoke in this parallel world.

While Yoshio had apologized, declaring their dinner meeting as a huge disaster, Katia found the entire situation amusing. She had no idea that Yoshio, the Quantum Physics Professor at the prestigious Lalome University, couldn’t cook a basic pasta dish, or anything at all, vegan grilled cheese somehow included.

To be fair, Katia wasn't much of a cook either. Her meals mainly consisted of take-out from nearby diners, or homemade spaghetti with marinara sauce, grilled cheese served with microwaved tomato rosemary soup from a can, frozen burritos, vegetable stir-fries, and occasionally, when feeling particularly adventurous, extra cheesy-chicken quesadillas. These choices were probably not the healthiest and likely took years off her life.

“At least you didn’t undercook the chicken. I appreciate not getting salmonetta,” Katia responded, grabbing the blue notebook filled with her experiences in the astral realm off the kitchen table to place safely in her tote.

"Salmonella?" Yoshio corrected, a playful smirk slowly forming on his lips as he watched her gather her belongings, his gaze fixed on her. He didn’t want her to leave, but it was already past midnight, and they both had to work the next day. Instead of delving into the intricacies of the multiverse, they spent their time scrubbing the stovetop clean from hardened burnt-on pasta and starch. Later, they ordered takeout from a cheap Italian eatery, but they received the wrong order, including dairy-filled cheese for Yoshio, who found the meal inedible due to his lactose intolarence.

“Or is it? Maybe all the other worlds say salmonetta and you and this dimension are wrong, and I am right,” Katia quipped, taking a step closer to Yoshio.

“All possibilities do exist,” Yoshio mused with fascination. “Salmonella, salmonetta…” His mouth went dry, and somehow, his heartbeat resonated in his head, beating like a loud drum.

“I honestly have no idea if that is how they say it,” Katia remarked honestly with a shrug. “Seemed like a good excuse to use though. Especially when I am constantly mispronouncing sh*t,” she said with a small laugh. “I am probably considered a Neanderthal compared to you. Primitive. Spaghetti brained. A few clowns short of some weird-ass circus that-”

Without thought, the movement happening in natural flow, Yoshio lessened the gap between him and Katia, taking her hands into his own, finding their warmth instantly drawing. “Katia, I would never think any of those things, nor should you. Why do you say such terrible things about yourself?” Yoshio asked, his dark mahogany eyes softening into a gaze filled with adoration Katia failed to see.

The question made her nervous. She couldn’t recall a time someone had called out her occasional moments of self-deprecating humor. The tips of her fidgeting fingers traced the soft skin of his palms, and suddenly, Katia wondered what it might feel like to have his hands freely roaming her body, a thought that gave her goosebumps, an indication of the thrilling existence of being alive.

“I don’t—I am not sure,” Katia whispered honestly. Was that her heart echoing loudly or Yoshio’s? She couldn’t tell. Everything felt like a blur, a dreamy haze, but she had full control. And unlike lucid dreaming or astral projection, this wasn’t something she was experiencing behind her eyes. This world was concrete, real, and right in front of her. This was her waking life.

“Why do you not see how incredibly gifted you are, Katia?” Voice barley above a whisper, the space between them lessened. “You fail to see the pivotal role you play in this world.”

Katia shrugged her shoulders in doubt. “I might be furthering your research for the book you're writing, but I am not anywhere close to saving the world, or even doing anything remotely dangerous.” Everything always felt akin to a lucid dream or virtual reality. While her body safely rested, her consciousness projected itself across the quantum multiverse, every experience fleeting and temporary. She was never allowed to stay very long within a different dimension, especially ones which verged further from her current path and trajectory.

“It’s not about the book, Katia. It hasn’t been about the book for a while. It is about-” Mouth dry, Yoshio, a man of science, a publisher of over twenty-seven scientific articles, fully lost the ability to communicate verbally using the English language. The sentence trailed off, the pause afterward as pesky to Yoshio as the emptiness between their lips.

Six months. That's how long Yoshio's desire to kiss Katia had simmered, a silent heartache that intensified with every shared conversation, every stolen glance. He remembered the exact moment it ignited - the night she performed at the coffee shop. It had been the first time Yoshio heard her play the guitar, and while she didn’t sing, she soulfully strummed chords to the song "You and Me" by Lifehouse. The way her face lit up as she played, so absorbed in the moment as she lightly swayed on stage while a few young couples danced in the courtyard around the warming bonfire. She played a critical role in his world. Yoshio felt a pull towards her, an invisible force as undeniable as gravity.

Taking a deep breath, Yoshio finally mustered the courage. "Katia," he began, his voice thick with nerves, "I would like to kiss you, if I may.”

Responding nonverbally, Katia, lost to the moment, to the power of irresistible suggestion and curiosity, arose on her tiptoes, melding their lips together, her hands leaving the sanctuary of his hands to settle on his lean chest. She deepened the kiss, hoping to feel something.

Hoping to feel anything.

That wave of exhilaration, that electrifying jolt, the magnifying pulse of connection–anything at all.

A crushing realization settled in Katia's gut as the kiss deepened. Yoshio, with his deepening breaths and passionate embrace, seemed to be experiencing everything she wasn't. This perfect man, who believed in her like no other ever had, who supported her like a rock – his love was a one-way street. A wave of frustration washed over her, a bitter co*cktail of disappointment that despite everything, they wouldn't work.

Like everyone else she had ever kissed, or even dated long-term, the connection felt mute. She never questioned that love existed, but doubt plagued her, casting its shadows, whispering into her ear that she wasn’t capable of feeling such deep romantic sentiments towards anyone; that lightning wouldn’t ever strike in her life.

Pulling away, both gasping for air as if they'd been holding their breath for an eternity, Katia stumbled back. The wooden table behind her offered a welcome barrier, grounding her as Yoshio stood across from her, his desires unfulfilled, as his deep sentiments hung unrequited, like heavy saddened storm clouds. "It's late," she managed, voice strained. "I should go. You have that board meeting tomorrow, and I have..." well, she couldn’t really think straight at the moment, but some early afternoon, pain in the ass appointment took up calendar space.

Yoshio nodded slowly, a flicker of despair crossing his normally calm features. "I apologize, Katiannah," he said, using the full weight of her name. "If I did something wrong…”

Katia wasn’t sure if she had ever seen him so nervous before. Typically, Yoshio exuded an air of calm, collectedness, and articulation. But now, he stood there, his posture stiff, and his gentle eyes averted. “"No," she forced a smile, the effort evident in the tightness around her eyes. "It's not you. I truly need to head home. But Thursday, after your afternoon class? Free then?”

Grabbing her bag and keys, she offered a quick, tight hug, a friendly peck on the cheek – a sharp difference from the yearning kiss that hung heavy in the air between them.

A wave of regret washed over Katia. What if she'd made a different choice? What would have happened if she stayed with him? Did she make some sort of grand mistake by not sleeping with him when she had the chance? Was her hesitation the catalyst for this fractured reality? Was everything truly that fragile or was this mess, this alternate world, a consequence of her constant exploration of lucid dreaming and astral projection? Neither idea extended her comfort.

Lifting her gaze, Katia looked at Yoshio's shadowy silhouette, the dark circles under his eyes illuminated underneath the full moon's glow. This Yoshio was a shell of the man she knew, a contrasting reflection shaped by the anguish over the death of Ayumi. Grief for a sister who, in Katia's reality, was still alive, happily thriving as a heart surgeon, and fervently sporting an engagement ring, with a wedding planned in June.

In fact, doubling as a bridesmaid and a performer, Katiannah played a loving role in Auumi’s wedding, who had become a good friend of hers over the years of knowing Yoshio. Yumi specifically requested a solo acoustic rendition of "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" for her first dance with the brilliant neurosurgeon she'd marry.

As they drew closer, Katiannah's viridescent eyes softened into a dreamy gaze, finding the temple alluring, its presence enveloping them in a sense of mysticism. Would this be a sanctuary of answers, or was she currently heading into the disquieting forest that constantly appeared outside the windows in the astral realm?

Yoshio offered her no comfort. Instead, he poured silently over his notes, handwriting just as poor as the man she admired. But she didn’t share a past with this Yoshio. They had no history, and he had no memory of her other than threatening to throw her out of the university, only to later somehow show up at her doorstep in slight belief. Regardless, she didn’t want a relationship with the man who sat across from her. She wanted her friendship back with the Yoshio who made tire rubber instead of pasta.

“So, Ying, what music do you listen to?” Judging by how slow the boat moved toward the island, Katia predicted they still had a minute or two before arriving. “Are you sure you don't need help?” Katia questioned, truly loathing the idea of simply sitting there while one person did all of the work.

Ying responded with silence, his attention not swaying away from the approaching island.

“I play the guitar,” Katia exclaimed, motioning to the acoustic carefully strapped to her back. “I had to forego packing most of the clothes I wanted to take to bring the guitar, but I figured I could find a washing machine somewhere. Does the temple have one?”

The bullfrogs croaked, singing into the night, while grasshoppers responded with a rhythmic chirp. Fireflies, like tiny lanterns, danced against the darkness. The light breeze, scented with winter's end tousled the treetops, creating ripples upon the water's surface.

“I can play pretty much anything. Are you a Beatles fan? John Legend? Lazy Song by Bruno Mars? Would you place your hand on Ed Sheeran's beating heart?” Katia found herself becoming more anxious as they approached the temple.

“I am sure Ying would prefer to spend the rest of the trip in silence,” Yoshio blurted out, massaging his temples with his left hand in a poor attempt to ease an on-coming headache.

“And I am sure that Ying can speak for himself,” Katia quipped back, nodding her head in acknowledgement at Ying, who simply continued to quietly row the boat. When the monk failed to respond or acknowledge her presence, Katia simply sighed, reclining in her seat, bending her neck like a goose to see the moon. It had been a while since she had seen the sky undisturbed by light pollution. As they slowly drifted along the river, Katia caught a quick glimpse of eternity while absorbed in the cosmos.

“You told me once that we are created in the stars,” Katia said to Yoshio, her voice like the wind's whisper on the water.

“It’s factual that most of the atoms that make up your body were indeed once part of stars. But that is all that there is to it. This isn’t some romanticized concept. It’s basic science,” Yoshio responded, closing his notebook and securing it into his briefcase.

“I bet you’re so popular with the ladies,” Katia muttered bitterly, and maybe a bit unfairly, but she found Yoshio’s despondency arduous.

No response other than the loud hoot of an owl, followed by a moment of reflective silence.

When the boat reached the pier, Ying secured it, and silently extended his hand to help Katia off. She gratefully accepted as she transitioned from the boat to dry land. Ying offered assistance to Yoshio, who held up his hand in polite decline, disembarking from the small row boat.

Without words, they followed Ying through the gardens, The foliage surrounding the island blocked out the finer details while on the boat, but now on land, Katia bore witness to the whimsy fairy lights that adorned the landscape. Mushroom houses nestled between flower beds which just started to sprout the first flowers of the season, little bearded gnomes with festive hats and faerie statues surrounding them. Sunlight-powered butterflies, crafted from shimmering glass, fluttered delicately on invisible wires, their wings catching the fading light and casting rainbow prisms across the path. A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, and a symphony of tinkling chimes filled the air. Katia looked closer - the chimes weren't made of metal, but rather handcrafted from seashells and colorful glass, each one chiming a unique, melodic note.

"I bet this place looks beautiful in full bloom," Katia remarked. Even in the daytime, she knew the sun would illuminate the finer details of the garden hidden by night. But Katia hoped not to be around in the morning. Because tomorrow, she wanted to wake up in her own bed, in her own reality.

The temple felt like a vortex. The second Katiannah stepped inside, a wave of familiarity washed over her – a sense of belonging and knowing that couldn't be explained. Suddenly, the rapid fire of thoughts constantly swirling around in her head ceased to a pure silence as the overhanging mural in the temple caught her focus. It left her mouth dry and her lungs without breath. It was captivating, and the more Katiannah stared at it, the more engrossed she found herself in the fine details; each carefully created line a story of its own.

There was a word for this. A word that described the completely overwhelming sensation of looking at art that transcended the ordinary; art that proved the truly gifted nature of humankind.

“That is the Wheel of Existence,” A deep voice informed, breaking her away from the captivating state of trance the mural effortlessly evoked. “It has that effect on people. Just don’t look at it while walking up or down the stairs.”

At the top of the grand spiral staircase, a man stood, tall and brooding in posture, a close-cropped beard adorned his angular face, emphasizing the rugged contours. “I am Sylas,” he introduced himself, extending a welcoming hand. Katiannah smiled politely, taking his hand into her own, her pale skin serving in contrast to his, her small fingers appearing even more dainty in his large palm. Yet, despite brawn, his hands were soft, radiating a warmth that reminded Katia of the dark velvet blanket on the back of her sofa. And with the brief touch, a glimpse of something flashed into Katia’s mind’s eye- a rapid image, but it was as fleeting as a camera flash. Sylas drew his hand, taking a step back as he stood in opposing height. He had to have been at least six feet tall; she had to bend her neck upwards to see his smoky amber eyes, their depths concealing secrets and sorrows.

“Nice to meet you Sylas, I am Katiannah, but please feel free to call me Katia. I am not sure what Yoshio told you over the phone about my situation.”

The corner of his lips slowly crept like ivy into a smile, his eyes narrowing in quizzitive fascination. “He told me you had him questioning the fragility of existence. That you are not from this reality,” Sylas mused, giving Yoshio a nod of acknowledgement. “It is late. You have both traveled far. How about I show you to your rooms, and we reconvene in an hour over tea in my office?” Sylas proposed. Without waiting for confirmation, he ushered the pair to follow them, which Katia.

After being shown her bedroom of where she would be staying the night, Katia took the guitar off her back and placed it on the bed. She didn’t have any clothes to spare to change into, so she decided to meet with Sylas wearing the clothes she arrived in. With time to spare after brushing her hair, Katia laid on the small twin sized bed, the hard mattress a slab of concrete compared to her bed of memory foam. Uttering a deep sigh, she exhaled a dark cloud of stress and anxiety and within a minute of laying down, she found herself pacing the small bedroom, examining and studying every detail, eventually lowering to her hands and knees to crawl, memorizing the tactical sensation of the porous sandstone floor.

Sylas North:

Prior to Katiannah's arrival, Sylas opted for a breath of fresh air, discreetly retrieving a pre-roll from his desk. Ironically, it contained the ground sativa-dominant hybrid 'Shaman.' He sought a boost in mental energy to endure whatever awaited in the impending meeting, finding this preferable to sipping coffee at such a late hour.

An owl perched in a nearby tree kept Sylas company as he stood in silence, inhaling the earthy herb and exhaling a wispy, pungent cloud of smoke. One didn't need to possess energy-reading abilities to detect the apprehension accompanying Katia and Yoshio's arrival.

The previous night, Sylas received a phone call from an unfamiliar area code. Though tempted to ignore it, intuition compelled him to answer. The caller, Yoshio, courteously introduced himself and recounted an elaborate story about his encounter with a woman named Katia, who purportedly hailed from a different dimension.

Typically, Sylas brushed aside such occurrences. After all, every decision spawned a new branch in the multiverse, birthing a fresh array of possibilities. Events like premature deaths occurring before the fulfillment of a soul's contract resulted in more significant and noticeable leaps into alternate universes. The majority of the population remained blissfully ignorant of these transitions, attributing them to mere faults in memory, with many too occupied in their daily routines or Netflix dramas to perceive these discrepancies.

The only difference here, as far as Sylas knew, was Katianna’s self-awareness. They spoke only their names to each other, but her trepidation hung heavy in the air, radiating to the top of her aura, like heat rising.A thoughtful rumble, rougher than sandpaper, escaped his lips as he unintentionally synced with her aura; he certainly didn’t need to be in the same room as her to read her.

Energy, a universal language, permeated everything. It was an open library, brimming with infinite knowledge whispered on the wind, etched in the stars, and pulsing beneath our very feet. Modern mystics called this energy field the "Quantum Nexus," which transcended space and time itself – a boundless river flowing in every conceivable direction, unseen yet ever-present. With some remembering, shedding of limitations, and training, anyone could navigate its currents, like a seasoned sailor riding invisible tides.

Rooting himself back to the Earth by alternating his focus from Katia to the soles of his feet, Sylas rooted himself back into the scene of the lush grounds, noticing two doe trodding along the treelines of the woods. The deer reminded him of the fawn he saw yesterday during a soul retrieval. The client, now a sixty-seven year old woman, had a horribly abusive father, who every weekend would come home drunk from the bar, and beat his wife.

Yesterday, as his elder client snored like a wild boar on his treatment table, Sylas entered the fragmented pocket of energy through shamanic journeying. Frozen in time, he found his client, only eight years old, hiding underneath the kitchen table, small hands covering her face as the standstill projected image of her father banged his fist against the table in rage over the broken whiskey glass.

The astringent odor hung in the air, just as foul as the father's rage. The sight of the mother, battered and bruised, tears rolling down her cheeks, her mouth agape pleading a silent cry for help, caused the entire scene to tremble, nearly crumbling, as he fought to regain his composure. His protector guide, Kali, donning golden armor matching her aureate eyes, with dark, naturally coily hair untamed by the circlet silver crown adorned with black tourmaline crystals, stepped in front of him, only to be dismissed by Sylas’s command. It took him a while, but eventually, with the help of a doe, the spirit animal of his client, the fragmented energy, unknowingly abandoned for fifty-nine years, found its way back home. It entered the elder woman through the crown chakra, a gentle breeze carrying the echoes of the once terrified eight-year-old girl back into the strong, resilient woman she had become.

The endless cycle of soul retrievals, fueled by the consistent wave of clients in need, left Sylas exhausted. He began to wonder if, despite his best efforts at energetic protection, venturing so frequently into the otherworlds was leaving parts of himself unknowingly behind.

However, like lacking a compass, Sylas found himself without a mentor to consult. Not anymore, at least. With Morgan's passing, the responsibility of overseeing the entire floating island settled squarely on his shoulders. He did have that, though: no one to answer to, no superior breathing down his neck, or board of directors. Just a simple temple on a floating island nestled in the heart of Levitas. As much of a delight as Sylas found this, it also meant he had to stand taller, stronger, wiser. Protecting the temple was his sole responsibility.

Though they hadn't encountered any threats in over two decades, long before Sylas and Naloria had sought refuge at the temple's doorstep in their time of need, a sinister threat lurked on the horizon. Sylas could sense it deep in his bones, akin to the foreboding sensation of an impending storm.

Taking one last inhale, Sylas extinguished the joint, carefully placing the remainder on a stone ledge hidden behind a large clay pot nurturing a budding jade tree. He cleansed his hands with lemon-basil scented soap, refreshed his mouth with green spearmint mouthwash from the adjoining bathroom, in his bedroom, and then made his way downstairs to the main level, stepping into his office.

The tea Sylas had requested from Ying awaited them, steaming gently in three porcelain cups on his desk. When Katia and Yoshio entered, he gestured towards the two chairs opposite him, facing the vast expanse of night sky visible through the window. Once they settled into their chairs, Sylas also sat down, the worn leather office chair responding with a creak.

”Ying brewed us all some tea; a herbal blend that should help you sleep tonight.” Scalding steam arose from the top of his mug, carrying with it the delicate floral aroma. “How was the boat ride in? I hope Ying behaved himself,” Sylas teased, placing the porcelain mug on his desk, since it was burning his hands.

“He doesn't talk much, does he?” Katias murmured softly, her green eyes fixed on the reddish-brown liquid swirling in her cup, as if she sought solace in its depths, hoping for a comforting message to emerge.

“What do you mean? Ying is hilarious. You should see him do karaoke. Naloria, my sister who is not home at the moment, bought him a karaoke machine last month for his birthday,” Sylas advised, taking a slow, mindful sip of tea, tasting the sweetened undertones of orange blossom beneath the floral scented notes of French lavender, red rose, and chamomile.

“To be honest Mr. Sylas, I hope not to be around for karaoke night. I really want to get back to my world, my reality, whatever you want to call it.” The robin's egg blue mug warmed her hands as she cradled it. Several times, it drifted towards her lips, but she resisted the urge to take a sip.

“Sylas is fine,” he said gently. “You mentioned wanting to return. What is it about this reality that is so wrong to you? What if, as the dreamer in this scenario, you're exactly where you need to be?” The shaman folded his hands, leaning back in his chair to truly study her. Not the facade, not the temporary role of Katia, but the soul beneath the mask of incarnations she wore.

“"Everything feels wrong," Katia sighed, a pointed glance in Yoshio's direction silently accusing him. "The people I know here... they treat me like dog crap. But beyond that, I just don't belong. Have you ever encountered anything like this before?"

"Several times, actually," Sylas replied, rising slowly. "And if more people were aware, I'm sure I'd hear of many more."

"And have any of them ever gone back to their own reality?" Katia pressed.

"Only if that's their soul's true desire," Sylas explained. "You seem to believe you're powerless. We all have a certain level of agency, even in these situations.”

Drowsiness clouded Katia's mind, making the philosophical pondering of duality difficult to grasp. "What do you mean by that?" she mumbled.

“Like everything, it's a balancing act. If your higher self, your soul yearns for your old reality, then that's where you'll return. But Katianah," he said, using her full name for emphasis, "is that truly what you desire?”

Sylas knew Katia would readily agree with his words, but her energy spoke a different truth. He didn't need to rely on ordinary measures. His gaze softened, not with affection, but with focused concentration. An observer witnessing this brief exchange might interpret it as a loving look. However, within the white expanse of his office, Sylas saw a different truth. Katia's aura, previously invisible, began to take shape, revealing the story beneath the protectiveness of the ego.

While some described auras as singular or dual-toned, Sylas perceived them as a vibrant spectrum of prismatic color, and the more the tuned into it to read it, the more it zoomed in and expanded. He could easily become absorbed in its intricacies; an unfathomable amount of soul level information.

Her energy reminded him of a peaco*ck's feathers, thousands of shimmering threads of indigo complimented by an expanse of a glimmering gold glitter overlay. The indigo softened at the edges, transitioning to a vibrant violet around her crown chakra, where the gold morphed into a verdant jade that complemented her almond-shaped eyes near her heart space. Intricate symbols, heavy with a bewildering familiarity, appeared like an archaic scroll carved onto ancient ruins, displaying knowledge humanity has long lost and forgotten.

Her root chakra, the foundation of her being, was the most unsettling. A storm of dark gray swirled there, a common sight for those bearing traumatic scars of their current incarnation, especially early childhood trauma survivors . But what truly startled him was the gaping void where the other half of this energy should reside. It resembled a hollow at the base of a tree, its roots incomplete, leaving it unanchored in vulnerability. A soul retrieval, he realized, was desperately needed. Never before had he encountered such a fractured root system.

But he didn't dare read further into the metaphorical paper, her akashic records, without her permission. Blinking reset the field of vision, like shaking a Etch A Sketch. Now, Sylas could only see the rather frantic woman in front of him, and Yoshio who impressively managed to gulp down the tea, still boiling hot, indicative of the wisps of steam lifting off the surface of Katia’s cup, the herbal brew looking like the black sea.

Sylas plastered a smile on his face. "Another cup of tea?" He wasn't wired for houseguests, that was more of Naloria's forte. He also remained unsure of Yoshio's purpose. Was it a quest for knowledge, or a soul-guided mission yet beyond Yoshio's conscious grasp? Sylas didn't need to read his energy to sense how deeply asleep Yoshio remained to the greater reality. But awakenings, if they occurred at all in a person's life, unfolded in their own time. Some never saw past the illusion. The temple held no judgment; all souls incarnated on Earth walked their own intricate path of existence.

"No, thank you," Yoshio replied, gesturing towards a nearby bookshelf piled with "Free Books." "In fact, I'm starting to suspect this visit was a waste of valuable time, especially if you base your practices on demonstrably false notions like chakras, energy healing, and… Faeries?"

Katia, about to answer Sylas's earlier question, sighed and rubbed her temples, clearly irritated by Yoshio's dismissiveness and flat out disrespect.

"A waste of time, you say?" Sylas mused, a genuine smirk playing on his lips. He sank back into his worn office chair, the familiar squeak a comforting counterpoint to Yoshio's skepticism. His gaze didn't settle on the mundane white ceiling, but rather pierced through it. He saw billowing curtains of energy parting like a grand theater revealing a new act, a world unseen by most.

This life, Sylas thought, was precisely that: a grand drama, a play unfolding within a vast, cosmic performance. In Hindu philosophy, this concept was captured by the word Līlā, the universe as a divine game orchestrated by a higher power referred to as Brahman. It was a playful creation, a sandbox brimming with possibility, where existence itself was a performance. But layered within this playful dance was Maya, the illusion that obscured the true nature of reality. Maya wasn't a mere mistake, but a deliberate amnesiac veil crafted by the mind, keeping one from seeing the world as it truly is. Waking up, and discovering that you are the playwright, the actor, and the audience in all of this remained part of the fun of it all.

There's a rightful reason not all souls awaken during their current incarnation cycle. Without the necessary internal work – dissolving the ego to tap into the universal oneness – the prospect of randomly waking to discover godhood is a power not everyone can handle. Not god in the kingly, throne-sitting, holding the scales of judgment sense, but god as the creator sees it: the soul, the everlasting, where creator and creation aren't separate entities.

"What is time, really?" Sylas asked Yoshio, the tea now cool enough to drink. "It's a human construct, an illusion that can be bent under the right conditions. How long before society ascends, creating the tools to manipulate it? Imagine: manipulating gravity, crafting artificial wormholes, building machines that outrun time itself. When this illusion finally shatters, Yoshio, how will you feel?"

"Time is merely a measurement, a means to track the relentless progression of chemical reactions. All this talk of rewriting reality is nothing but science fiction for the romantically inclined. We can barely manipulate the fundamental components of the universe, let alone alter the structure of reality itself. Perhaps when we have mastered the control of subatomic particles, then we can entertain the notion of bending the rules of the timespace continuum." Rising from his seat, Yoshio looped his index finger through the handle of his teacup. "I'll wash this cup in the kitchen I passed on my way from my room. Then, I'll seek out the library, hoping to find more credible literature than publications on chakras, ghouls, ghosts, and flying rhinos" he added flatly before exiting the office.

"On the top floor. The library occupies the entire loft; you can't miss it," Sylas deadpanned in response to Yoshio, his dark eyes betraying a hint of annoyance he tried to conceal. At least Katia seemed more open to him.

"I do wish to return," Katia remarked, momentarily catching Sylas off guard with her response.

Ah yes, he had inquired about her true desires regarding returning to her home world. "But you attempted to return last night, didn’t you? I can only assume you've made attempts since awakening in this alternate reality yesterday morning. Yet, here you are. Your soul has made the conscious decision to remain in this physical plane of existence," Sylas remarked, seeing it not as a lack of ability, but rather as a fate Katia had to accept.

"I did try, yes, but I couldn't even leave my body. It's much harder when I'm highly stressed. Even if I could, I have no idea how I arrived here, let alone how to return. That's why I'm here. I know Yoshio is incredibly rude. However we both traveled far seeking answers. All you're telling me is that I spent hundreds of dollars I don’t have on an expensive plane ticket, endured a five-hour train ride next to a child screaming for gummy worms, and then had to take a boat-ride across a lake to get here. And now all you're saying is that it's my soul's destiny to be here?"

Sylas rose from his seat, his movements deliberate yet unhurried. He approached the window, his gaze tracing the path of the moon. "The soul is a wise traveler, Katia, and yours is no exception," he reflected. He couldn't force her to acknowledge something she wasn’t ready to accept: that in this very moment, her soul retained the absolute freedom to depart or remain. Yet here she stood before him, her essence embodied in the form of a pale woman with long fiery tresses, and freckles adorning her cheeks formed their own constellations, each one a unique narrative, akin to a Rorschach inkblot test.

Sylas turned to face her, still positioned by the window where the moonlight delicately highlighted Katia’s features, revealing the hazel flecks within her green eyes. "Your frustration is understandable. You're searching for answers, longing for familiarity. But sometimes, the greatest discoveries are made in the unknown. The truth is, you can keep trying to return to your home world, but there's little I, or anyone else here, can do to physically transport you back, except perhaps offer additional training."

He couldn't shake off the mounting concern about Katia's astral projection, freely venturing into other realms without first establishing energetic protection. No wonder she ended up so far adrift – her skill was undeniable, but it was a wild, untamed force without proper direction.

"Katia," Sylas began, his gaze warm, "your journey has brought you here for a reason. Perhaps it's to refine your natural ability – your astral projection. With further training, you could hone your skills, learn to navigate the unseen realms with precision, and ultimately, return home if that's your true desire. Take the night to give it some thought.”

Katia gave a silent nod, finishing her tea, lingering in the thoughtful unrushed silence before slowly rising, like the sun ascending above the horizon at dawn.

"You can leave your cup as it is; I'll handle it," he motioned towards the cluttered desk, where several used tea mugs sat awaiting attention. "Oh, and Katia?" he called out, intercepting her as she moved to leave his office. "I recommend prioritizing rest over attempting astral projection. It demands considerable energy to enact such a profound shift in reality," Sylas advised, fighting off a yawn as the fatigue of the day hit him full force.

Whether Katia would heed his advice remained uncertain, beyond his control. However, what he could control was his own rest. Upon exiting his office, he traded his customary robes for a cozy ensemble: loose gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. Soon after settling into bed, the resonant tones of singing bowls echoed through the temple, lulling him into a deep slumber, their hypnotic melody soothing his fatigued mind.

Naloria North

Naloria, akin to a leaf swaying with the wind yet refusing to cling to the tree, stealthily departed in the late hours of the night following fervent passion shared with Amara. Rather than heading to the park as intended, they found themselves entwined in Amara's bed, their dinner interrupted by countless irresistible glances exchanged.

Dismay settled in Naloria's stomach as she realized her cherished flower crown was missing. It was likely nestled somewhere between the soft folds of Amara's gray cotton sheets.

"Ugh, that one was special," she grumbled, her hand instinctively reaching for the absent white roses that once adorned her hair.

Should she have at least written a note before leaving? Could she salvage this with a quick text? Unlike her brother, honesty was Naloria's compass. Fabricating an excuse felt tempting, but she dismissed the thought. Truth, even if uncomfortable, was the noble path.

Yet, a pesky dissonance hummed beneath the surface. Naloria, in all her free spirit, couldn't fully silence the truths that swirled within. She flitted from relationship to relationship, a bee drawn to vibrant flowers, but commitment remained foreign. The thought of opening herself fully, of letting love flood in, sent a tremor of discomfort through her.

Without dwelling on the past for too long, the skilled healer let out a contented sigh, basking in the familiar embrace of the temple. Her mahogany irises shifted upward to once again admire the mural, this time noticing a detail in the water elements section that she had never seen before. It was one of the things she loved most about the mural. Every time she looked at it, she noticed another fine detail. This time, she saw a koi fish struggling to swim upstream and against the current.

A smile touched Naloria's lips. Unlike the koi's struggle, the water itself embodied a different kind of strength – a wisdom of surrender. Its resilience lay not in resistance, but in its gentle adaptability. Water, an element connected to the divine feminine, didn't fight the obstacles in its path. It found a way around them, seeping through cracks, overflowing banks, or simply changing course. In its acceptance and fluidity, water served as a teacher. True strength, the water whispered, lies not in fighting the current, but in finding the path of least resistance, a challenge in today's modern, productive - based society.

Water, in its various forms, also whispered secrets of the subconscious. Each ripple on the surface hinted at the unseen depths below, where memories, dreams, and desires from all lifetimes intertwined. Lakes, like mirrors reflecting the night sky, offered a glimpse into the depths of one's being, urging introspection leading to self-discovery. Just as water reshaped landscapes over time, it also has the power to reshape the mind. Water acted as a gentle catalyst, surfacing the wounds within, guiding one towards the path of healing.

While absorbed in the artistry, the inexplicable scent of cedarwood wafted into the foyer immediately transporting Naloria back in time, evoking fond memories of the oversized cedar chest that once graced the living room of her childhood home. It served as ideal storage for blankets, ensuring their safety and dryness, the woody aroma infusing the fabric as an additional source of comfort.

What had become of that wooden chest that delicately cradled bundles of memories from a once-loving family? She yearned to reclaim it, and the sudden realization of its permanent absence caused her heart to ache. It felt as though the mere act of finding it would somehow bring back her departed parents, reuniting her, Sylas, and them as a family once again—an outcome Naloria understood was not within the realm of possibility.

The injustice of it all tore at Naloria as she drifted down the rabbit hole of past traumas. Sylas's comforting belief in a " Souls divine plan" felt like a flimsy shield at times against the harsh reality. How could her parents, or their living souls, have agreed before incarnating to die in such a horrific unjustifiable way?

They'd done everything right, complied with the demands, hearts pounding as they surrendered valuables, all while pleading for mercy. The slurred threats, the sickening crack of a gun against her mother's skull were forever etched in memory. Her mother went instantly unconscious and when her father screamed in rage, attempting to attack the intruder, he was shot in the head, a second shot soon echoing as Naloria hid at the top of the stairs, 977 far too slow to respond to her call for help.

Five hundred miles separated Sylas from Naloria when the news reached him the following morning. That night, Sylas wasn't alone – he was spending it with a new flavor of the month. Back then, before cell phones became ubiquitous, Sylas returned the next day to find his answering machine blinking red with a backlog of messages. The flashing light revealed Naloria's pleading attempts to reach him; the seven voicemails hinting at the mass number of calls she'd placed, likely well over a hundred.

Frequently, Naloria pondered whether that evening played a role in Sylas' decision to abandon casual encounters and dating all together. Did a hint of guilt persist beneath the surface of the murky depths of his internal vast subconscious ocean?

The water waves depicted in the intricately designed ceiling mural created an optical illusion. They seemed serene to the beholder with a tranquil mind, yet tumultuous to those feeling uneasy. Suddenly, a storm began to brew on the ocean's surface. If sailing ships had been included in the artwork, the waves might have easily capsized them, plunging them into the relentless currents below.

A profound, resonant ding reverberated, piercing through Naloria's heart center, instantly anchoring her to the present moment. Her gaze shifted from the painting, a slight smile swiftly replacing the muted expression, revealing teeth as white as glistening snow behind her lips, flavored by strawberry balm. For a moment, she stood perfectly still, mindfully waiting for the next vibration: a soft, constant hum that resonated with a low, hypnotic drone.

Caught in a daze, Naloria instinctively walked the familiar path to the sound temple. The captivating symphony of singing bowls grew louder with each step down the cool stone staircase, drawing her deeper into the sanctuary. The air itself vibrated with a tangible energy, electrical almost, resonating with a conscious pulse beating in harmony with her entire being, healing, and restoring her energy centers by merely being in the space itself. Every strike of the singing bowls only amplified this sensation.

In the heart of the chamber stood Ying, encircled in a plethora of Tibetan and crystal quartz singing bowls, a towering 50-inch Chao gong serving as his backdrop. His eyes shut, expression a blank canvas, he struck the violet singing bowl's rim with the mallet. The resulting sound, a profound B note, reverberated through the temple's foundation, resonating with Naloria's Crown chakra at the pinnacle of her head – the conduit to the universe beyond. It was a sound that offered clarity, a celestial resonance that murmured of infinite possibilities and boundless connections.

A content sigh escaped Naloria's lips as she sank down onto a floor cushion, settling about five feet away from Ying. Draping an arm over her eyes to shut out the remaining slivers of light, she surrendered to the sound bath. A different note now drifted into her awareness, a departure from the initial empyrean hum.

When she first arrived, Naloria would always attempt to guess which bowl Ying was playing or which instrument he would go for next. It took her a while to suspend any thoughts or expectations and, instead, simply follow the sound without judgment; to listen to it without the need to translate, much like the sound of ocean waves hurtling toward the shoreline.

Time lost all value, melting away like sugar in water, as each low tone drew her deeper into a tranquil state conducive to deep meditation. It slowed her overactive brainwaves and soothed her nervous system, eliciting a growl from her stomach in response as the rest-and-digest state took over.

She must have drifted into a light slumber, for Ying transitioned from playing the singing bowls to placing the gong mallets aside, signaling the end. Her long, thick lashes gently parted like flower petals unfurling in the morning sunlight, as her eyes conjured the image of the copper-plated ceiling into existence. A recessed, dim light gradually sharpened into focus. Slowly, Naloria sat up from her resting position, complementing Ying with a loud content yawn. “Incredible Ying, as always,” she assured the monk with a smile.

But Ying didn’t need validation over a job well done. The compliment hung in the air, a transient note amidst the symphony of the sound bath as he methodically and thoughtfully reassembled the mallets. Exerting tender care, he interchanged two criss-crossed singing bowls, swapping a black obsidian gemstone fused bowl with a much smaller pink rose quartz one, their positions seemingly rearranged with a deeper purpose. Unwavering from his position in the center circle, he remained seated after rearranging the display, hands clasped, breathing deeply and mindfully, his stomach expanding with every intentional inhale of life. Peace emanated from the monk like a beacon, his presence a serene lake with the calmest of waters, undisturbed by the ripples of external validation or discredit.

"I'm surprised to see you still awake at this hour, Ying," Naloria remarked, stretching satisfyingly. Her manicured fingers reached for her extended feet, her lumbar arching to relieve the tightness from lying on the floor. "You're always up with the sun, yet every time I return late, you're still here." Though the room lacked a clock, Naloria presumed it must have been close to two o'clock in the morning. "Quite the mystery," she concluded, met only with silence in response to her question. Maybe he found an evolutionary way to transcend the need for sleep.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Naloria said, with a soft sigh. “You’re wondering why I once again sneaked out the window without saying goodbye–okay, well I didn’t really sneak out the window, I walked out the door, but-” voice trailed off, knowing such details held little value.

Naloria held a deep admiration for Amara, seeing the beautiful native woman as brimming with potential. Balancing a full-time job at Moonbucks with culinary school and harboring dreams of opening her own bakeshop, Amara impressed Naloria with her determination and talent. Naloria could almost picture a future alongside the gifted culinary artist: surprising her at the bakeshop, where the sweet aroma of vanilla sugar would greet her as she entered, and tenderly presenting a fresh bouquet of flowers picked with the Earth’s blessing. Naloria imagined gifting flowers as often as she'd enjoy Amara’s tasty creations, as often as she would tenderly brush flour off Amara's face, a prelude to a quick, loving kiss before Amara dove back into her work.

“Ying," Naloria contended, running a hand through her hair for self-soothing, "about exploring my past lives through regression.” Naloria found herself initially resistant to the idea when Ying first proposed it. Back then, she'd concluded that her past lives mattered little, preferring to focus on her current incarnation. But now, a disquiet stirred within her. Why did she block her own happiness like a koi fish attempting to swim upstream? What if the reason extended beyond that of her life as Naloria? If everything truly unfolds simultaneously across countless realities, like channels on television, then perhaps Sylas was onto something with the influence of past lives.

In addition to navigating her ever-changing dating life, Naloria was determined to enhance her abilities as a healer—a role she had fulfilled in countless past lives. She believed that by tapping into the wisdom of her previous incarnations, she could elevate her skills. Particularly, she longed to vividly recall her experiences on foreign planets, where she had wielded a myriad of abilities surpassing what many deemed possible on Earth. Naloria had lived numerous full lives among the stars, each on distant planets.

But would remembering these lives bring with it a deep sense of longing? A cascade of melancholy for a home she could never return to while alive on Earth? What if it caused a gaping sense of disconnect that threatened to uproot her?

“I would like you to help me if you are willing. I’d rather have you guide me through this than Sylas.” He already knew enough about her, and Naloria resonated far more with Ying’s approach than Syla’s abrasive drumming. Besides, her brother already knew far too many details about her. She wanted to keep some things private from him. “I would also appreciate it if you didn’t tell Sylas about this. I don’t need him making a big deal out of things, or turning this into something long and drawn-out.”

While Sylas advocated for reaching the mountaintop through intensive training and dedicated meditation, Naloria questioned if an easier approach existed through past life regression. If she could simply remember all the forbidden knowledge of the cosmos, she could bring it into this world, channeling it to improve the world and elevate the collective consciousness. Healing a bird's wing without nearly collapsing after years of training felt like a meager reward. Naloria craved the ability to truly tap into the universe's energy, to not just channel existing currents, but to amplify them, to birth something entirely new. She envisioned herself a conduit, a force for positive change for the entire collective, not just a healer of minor wounds.

"I appreciate you hearing me out, Ying," Naloria expressed gratefully. The monk always knew exactly what to say. "We should both get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. Do you still want to pick herbs for medicine tomorrow? We can take the boat to the woods after lunch if you want."

Anticipating she would not awaken until close to noon after the long night she had, Naloria gave Ying a pat on the back to bid her friend goodnight before ascending the spiral staircase back to her bedroom. After changing out of her white tea-length dress into a pair of blue cotton shorts and a tiger-print shirt reading ‘Free Spirit’, Naloria snuggled herself into bed, easily drifting off to sleep.

Katiannah Esmae

Astral Travler

Of course Katia didn’t heed Sylas’s suggestion. After showering, she lay in bed and instantly attempted astral projection, resulting in a failed attempt that left her ‘stuck.’ It wasn't terribly uncommon for her to get stuck – like a frustrating glitch. This time, the culprit seemed to be her legs. They were like stubborn anchors, tethering her firmly to the physical world. The rest of her, her ethereal head, torso, and arms, resembled a determined turtle struggling to extricate itself from its shell. No matter how her spectral hands grasped at the bedsheets, desperately trying to pull her astral form free, she remained frustratingly earthbound.

Eventually, while suspended in the twilight state and lured by sleep's siren song, Katiannah fell into a deep state of unconsciousness. Letting go of the ego's grasp, the incessant chatter of the mind finally ceased, embracing her in the quieting nothingness. In this calming abyss, she found refuge from the disorienting foreign waking world.

But serenity was fleeting. She stirred awake just before dawn, the dream of an entire village walking across her back, using it as a bridge, a fading memory. A dull ache settled in her lumbar, a consequence of a restless sleep and an unforgiving mattress. The discomfort was enough. Rising, she pulled on a gray sweater and baggy black pants directly over her nightgown. With her acoustic guitar slung across her back, she left the temple seeking solace outside in the courtyard underneath a weeping willow, its signature downward-curving branches reflecting the underlying melancholy of her present mindset.

Guitar resting lovingly on her lap, Katia put a calloused finger on the string before plucking a single chord. It hummed through the cool air, its vibrational waves mingling with the cicadas' nightly song.

Jade eyes closing, she focused on her other senses—the delicate aroma of lemon balm and dill. There had to have been several herb and flower gardens on this island. Mouth-watering, the rosemary sparked fond memories of the rosemary and garlic white bean soup served at The Knead to Go Bakery, a frequent common ground for her and Yoshio. Did this place have a Knead to Go Bakery in nearly every town? Based on yesterday's adventures through Asheville and their travel to and from the airport, Katia had high doubts. She didn’t see a single one while staring out of the window of the cab as they drove to the train station. And what the hell was McFellas!? With their golden M arches, contrasting obnoxiously on a red background, likely serving food just as preservative-filled as the infamously somehow popular chain back home. However, Katia did have to smirk seeing Burger Queen, with no indication of the King’s presence.

At least there didn't appear to be any significant, looming threats in this world. It could have been much worse; she could have awakened in the radioactive, flesh-eating monster dimension. Then, she really would have been screwed. A shudder ran down her spine at the thought. What if she woke up there next?

A soft sigh, emanating from her chapped lips, permeated the silence. The exhalation brought Katia’s awareness back to the present, where a frog croaked in the distance, and the coldness of the air caressed her exposed skin. What if what Sylas said held true? That she ended up here, in this alternative timeline, because her soul willingly chose this world? That would mean she wasn’t merely a helpless rat chucked down into a hole who arrived by fluke, but that a greater plan had to be unfolding. It brought her to the next pressing, uncomfortable question: did free will truly exist, or was it merely an illusion to fool the audience like a magician sawing a woman in half? Sylas claimed a degree of agency, of free will, existed, but Katia felt utterly powerless, her conscious mind at utter odds with her soul's apparent desires to remain here.

She strummed the guitar intuitively, the random chords eventually transitioning into the song "7 Years" by Lukas Graham. The song, highlighting the passage of time and all that faded with it, added a somber sentiment to the aural atmosphere, wildlife seeming to quiet as if listening along to the music. It only added to the sense of loneliness bubbling to the surface, the music intensifying as a crescendo of the unfelt and repressed surfaced. Never had she felt so alone in such a big world—as insignificant as the twisted, sagging pine at Seaside Park. Suddenly, Katia’s heart ached thinking about that tree, about how it must have felt to be deemed pathetically insignificant.

It was an odd thought. Rough bark scraped against her back as she considered how a tree might feel, if it felt anything at all. With a final note hanging in the air, Katia set the guitar down against the willow's trunk. She closed her eyes, a single tear tracing a path down her freckled cheek. What if, deep within its ancient heartwood, the tree felt just as out of place, just as precariously rooted as she? Did it also have the constant looming of being blown away by life's inescapable storms?

There was something else. Something Katia couldn't shake—a deep intuitive itch of forewarning. She wanted to believe she could return home at any moment. Or that she ended up in this dimension to hone her abilities, learning from the gifted scholars and monks of the temple. Sylas appeared nice and knowledgeable enough – although it seemed as if he spoke constantly in circles and philosophical ponderings. But something clawed at her inner mind, whispering that there existed far more of a reason for her being here, and the sensation caused a wave of uneasiness to spread within her stomach.

When Katia reopened her eyes, she wasn’t sitting underneath the weeping willow. Instead, she found herself standing in the center of the backyard. Confusion hammered at her as she looked down at her ordinary hands. Pinching her nostrils, she tried to breathe, but only met resistance. Panic flickered – this wasn't a dream. Yet, Katia couldn't recall standing, let alone slinging the guitar strap over her shoulder. Where was the willow, anyway? She spun slowly, a circle widening with each step, her green eyes straining to pierce the unnatural darkness. The first brushstrokes of dawn should have been coloring the sky, but it was eerily black, even deeper than the early morning hours when she'd stumbled outside.

Panic surged through Katia. The comforting backyard vanished, replaced by a suffocating panorama of stalking, haunting woodlands that blurred with each frantic spin. Choking on a gasp, she halted, the reality of the situation slamming into her. This couldn't be real. But as Katia rooted herself to the spot, the forest itself seemed to move. Treelines shifted forward, encircling the small patch of grassland remaining, the menacing darkness within promising to swallow her whole. And it wasn't just the malignant woods – the very creatures that lurked within stirred. A guttural growl ripped from the brush, a monstrous jaguar emerging with amber eyes that cut through the gloom. To her left, a shadowy black bear lumbered closer, while behind, a flash of tawny-colored fur revealed another jaguar crouching low, a predator prepared to strike.

The woods, to the right, the once foreboding, became her only hope. With a burst of adrenaline, she sprinted towards the treeline, the growls of the predators a terrifying symphony behind her. Then, a sickening twist. A hidden log, shrouded in shadow, snagged her foot. Agony lanced through her ankle as she crumpled. Her head slammed against a jagged rock, a scream ripping from her lips before dissolving into a choked whimper. Blurry vision swam with red as blood trickled down her temple.

Frozen and trapped, Katia felt like a fallen bird before a hungry predator. The two jaguars, sleek and silent hunters, circled her, driven by primal instinct. Nearby, a bear lumbered closer, content to lie on the ground and watch, knowing the kill was inevitable. Without haste, one jaguar pounced, its dagger-sharp claws ripping open her stomach.

Then, a bellow of her name, sharp as a car horn, jolted Katia, ripping through and crumbling the dreamscape. Her scream tore through the room, a wild sound that ended abruptly as her fist shot up, narrowly missing Yoshio's surprised face.

"Katia, are you crazy? Wake up!" Yoshio barked, his reflexes thankfully outpacing her panicked attack. He managed to snag her fist before it could connect with his reading glasses, or worse, his nose.

Gasping for breath, disoriented and shaken, Katia blinked rapidly as her vision swam back into focus. The unfamiliar surroundings of a room within the temple settled in, replacing the terrifying forest. No broken ankle, no head injury, and fortunately, no jaguars ready to rip her limb from limb. “Yo-Yoshio, I-” out of breath, Katia feared her heart might burst in her chest, like an overinflated balloon. Her entire body trembled underneath the paisley nightgown, bare feet replacing the shoes she distinctly remembered putting on. Did she even wander outside? Had the entire thing been a dream?

“What happened? Where are we?” she questioned, her breath slowly steadying to a more coherent rhythm. The cool air of the temple was a welcome contrast against her hot, sweaty skin.

“You tell me,” Yoshio said, releasing Katia’s arm after determining she no longer saw him as a threat. “I was heading back from the library and saw you walk out of your room. I called your name a few times, but you ignored me. I assumed you were experiencing an instance of somnambulism. I followed you down here to the basem*nt. You stopped in front of the vault,” Yoshio claimed, gesturing to the heavy metal safe in the corner, “then you started screaming.”

Sighing, Yoshio took a step back, creating distance between them, dark eyes scanning her for any signs of physical injury, emotional distress aside.

“I did?” Katia questioned in disbelief, her gaze flickering to the metal vault. “I don’t remember any of that. I—” her voice trailed off, wondering if she should share what had happened with Yoshio. A sense of discomfort plagued her. This man wasn’t her friend, and she wouldn’t put it past him to scoff or laugh at her vivid encounter. “You said we are in the basem*nt?” Katia asked, receiving a nod of confirmation from Yoshio.

“One of them, anyway,” Yoshio said, picking up three books stacked on the lone wobbly wooden table next to him, gold lettering on a thick spine reading “The Observer Effect Enigma: How Our Consciousness Shapes Reality.”

“I had such a vivid dream. Everything felt so intense, so real,” she softly admitted, perhaps hoping Yoshio would offer some solace like in their unshared past. Did she have to lose him to realize what he meant? Katia wasn’t sure. Even though these thoughts and constant ‘what-ifs’ popped up now, it didn’t change what had already happened—Yoshio kissed her, and she felt nothing. And with that, their friendship might crumble like ancient parchment paper. But who knew what was happening in her rightful reality now.

“Would you like to tell me about it? I’ll brew some tea,” Yoshio offered, his inquisitive eyes narrowing in focus—a look Katia knew well. “I have a blank journal in my briefcase. I’ll grab it when I brew the tea, so we can take notes,” he said, his face devoid of any comfort.

Katia forced a smile. "Don't worry about it, Yoshio," she said after a long pause. His concern wasn't out of kindness, but a hunger for knowledge, knowledge apparently worthy enough for him to dedicate a fresh journal towards. He saw her as a puzzle box, eager to pick through the pieces and discard most, taking only what interested him, likely offering snide remarks along the way.

Suddenly, Sylas's voice echoed through the hallway, reaching them before he did. He appeared in the doorway, his face hardening when he saw Katia by the vault. Naloria, half-asleep and wrapped in a luxurious silk robe, stood beside him with concern etched on her welcoming face. Bunny slippers adorned her feet—their ears bobbling with every step.

"We heard screaming," Naloria added, stifling a yawn.

"I apologize if I woke you both," Katia admitted, her cheeks burning hot with embarrassment. "I must have been sleepwalking. I don't know how I ended up here, but I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. It's probably just the stress of being in a new place." At this point, Katia wasn't even sure what was real anymore—the entire universe seemed to be concaving, ready to collapse her barely functioning mind. Her gaze landed on the unfamiliar woman, who offered a gentle, sincere smile. Before Katia could inquire about a name, the woman extended a hand forward, a seed-nut bracelet rattling as they shook.

"Hi Katia. I am Naloria. My brother Sylas told me about your arrival," she said. "It's wonderful to have you both here. I wish I could have been here when you both arrived, but another engagement called me away. Forewarning: you get a handshake as a welcome, but I'm a huge hugger! We're sisters here," Naloria welcomed.

"Then hello there, sister," Katia mused, smiling for perhaps the first time since her arrival. Whether she or Naloria made the first move, Katia wasn't sure, but they exchanged a brief hug, a contagious energetic warmth radiating off Naloria.

She then spun to face Yoshio. "Hug? Handshake?" Naloria offered, playfully moving her arms between the two gestures. When Yoshio extended his hand, Naloria settled for the latter. "You must be Yoshio. Welcome to your temporary home," Naloria said. "I hope Sylas went over everything with you." But an exchanged look proved Sylas hadn't done much except show them to their rooms.

"We're a collective here. We take care of each other. It's like a commune in a way," Naloria continued. "We share just about everything except our clothes and whatever personal belongings we have in our rooms. So anything in any of the other rooms is there for others to use. You know, before you leave anything lying around. Anything in the fridge is fair game, unless you write your name on it, then one of the scholars might leave it alone. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday are our cleaning and communal dinner days. Ying generates a random list of chores and—well, I am just blabbing on, and on, aren't I?” She let out a small laugh, which caused a flickering of a smile to rapidly flash across Yoshio’s face, much to Katia’s surprise. “Are you sure you are okay, Katia?” Naloria inquired once more.

“Yes, I am fine.” Maybe if Katia said it enough, she’d believe it.

But Sylas remained silent, his eyes unable to conceal a flicker of concern that shone as brightly as a stage light. "Katia," he finally spoke, "we need to talk about this. Take the morning to yourself, but in the afternoon, please meet me in the treatment room on the third floor, third door down the South Corridor."

The siblings soon left, with Yoshio following suit. Eventually, Katia left the basem*nt, still pondering how she had managed to navigate multiple sets of stairs in an unfamiliar environment. And what was in the vault? She would have to ask Sylas.

Leaving the room, Katia walked back to the main foyer and once more found herself standing frozen beneath its gaze captivated by an undeniable pull towards the artwork. It emanated a magnetic force, threatening to suck her in like a portal, or perhaps offering a gateway, just like the paintings in that old Mario 64 game she used to play.

Time seemed to freeze as she absorbed the intricate details in the eastern section, an inferno crafted from a mesmerizing blend of orange and red sand. Despite the inanimate flames, Katia swore she could feel the heat radiating off them. Thick smoke from the raging fires billowed skyward like a silent prayer reaching for the heavens. It swirled and mingled with the constellations above, a bridge connecting the earthly inferno to the celestial flames. The symbolism wasn't lost on Katia, at least not entirely; the fire embodied the essence of transformation and resilience.

But what did the small, obscure salamander, unscathed by the flames, represent? Her eyes narrowed in concentration, as if staring at the drawing of the creature would give her the answers. After a moment longer, she walked back to her room to freshen up before meeting Sylas.

Yoshio Sasaki

The Hanged Man

Coming here instead of attending the conference in New York City had been a monumental mistake, a severe lapse in judgment. He had let Katia get into his head. Everything had to have a logical explanation, and if the loons in the temple had discovered anything significant, science would have proven it by now. Eight years of studying lanthanide contractions and superconducting qubits hadn't prepared him to be disproven by some hack shaman who, despite poor efforts, reeked of weed last night.

The library offered little of value. There was nothing here that he couldn't find elsewhere, except for a few poorly legible, handwritten, error-riddled self-publications by Sylas, making wild claims about faerie realms, lower, middle, upper worlds, and animism, which absurdly claimed all living things possessed spirits—even insisting his drum had a spirit. Utter lunacy! He half-expected to find a pamphlet detailing how to communicate with your vacuum cleaner.

Everyone here had to be a phony deceiver, or delusional. Money clearly wasn’t the objective; otherwise, he wouldn’t have been stuck in this temple with freezing cold showers due to an insufficient hot water tank. He would have gladly paid for better accommodations. He wasn't cut out for this "commune" life, surrounded by tree-huggers who probably bartered with squirrels for their breakfast nuts. Deciding to leave the following day, he planned to have breakfast and then find Ying. He would calmly explain to the monk why things weren’t working out and ask to be rowed back to the main island tomorrow in time to catch the morning train. After that, he anticipated being able to catch a plane and return to North Carolina shortly thereafter.

Katia had briefly intrigued him, but after the freezing shower jolted him awake, Yoshio realized how easily the fragile, tired mind could be deceived. Katia’s fabrications of truth might not have been intentionally deceitful, but a glaring sign of mental illness. Somehow, in a way still unknown to Yoshio, Katia managed to discover the chink in his armor—the crack in the glass—his weakest spot. She used that against him.

The derangement at this temple spread like wildfire, the thick, cloudy gray smoke of delusion suffocating everyone fractured enough. But Yoshio wasn’t just anyone. He didn’t have a fractured mind. It wasn’t weak to the preposterous brainwashing of whatever cult he had stumbled upon. And to think he nearly wasted a new notebook on her, merely because she was sleepwalking. Either way, Katia wasn’t his responsibility, nor did he care much about the stranger he met only a few days ago. The stranger who filled his head with false hope, holding a line of bait in front of him, knowing the information that would get him to bite. Aside from knowing Ayumi’s name, she had not said or done anything remarkable. Nothing at all had happened here at this temple, which promised answers and ‘forbidden knowledge’ that he found the least bit intriguing.

Donning a pair of gray slacks and a contemporary-fit black dress shirt, Yoshio made his way to the kitchen. On top of the counter was a bakery box with a tag labeled 'Élodie.' The transparent film provided a tantalizing glimpse of raspberry strudels dusted with powdered sugar, their aroma rich with the sweet scent of vanilla bean, reminiscent of the birthday cakes his nanny would bake.

Until he turned ten, Yoshio's birthday wish had been the same: for the eternal winter in his parents' hearts to thaw, for the sun to rise once more in their household. But as he grew older, he realized the futility of wishing upon candles, of believing mere thoughts could alter the course of events. Now, Yoshio felt just as foolish as that little dreamer of a child.

He pulled open the double French doors of the fridge and surveyed the options. Unfortunately, being on this island meant there were no restaurant or grocery store options available. Not unless he wanted to row a boat across three miles of lake to the small port harbor town or pay a ferry to chauffeur him around.

Despite his frustration, Yoshio had to admit the temple kitchen was immaculate. He half-expected the shared fridge to be filled with moldy fruit forgotten at the bottom of a crisper, or a thick coating of spilled condiments covering the shelves. But instead, vibrantly whole red strawberries in airtight mason jars lined the racks, plump juicy nectarines and zesty lemons as bright as sunshine overfilled the crisper along with a variety of leafy vegetables, the entire display reminiscent of a rainbow.

He envisioned that the floating island offered the perfect climate for growing many different types of fruits, vegetables, and herbs. If he had time before leaving tomorrow morning, Yoshio wanted to explore these gardens. His townhouse in the heart of Asheville presented little opportunity for him to invest energy into a garden. However, he did have a little corner on his patio in the spring and summer months dedicated to growing sprigs of thyme, oregano, and basil.

In middle school, against his parents' knowledge, Yoshio attended a harvesting club after school and won multiple ‘Green-Thumb’ awards. He admired the resilience of nature, especially the dahlias, sensitive to both frost and excessive heat, and the wildflowers that sprouted out of dry, barren soil, thriving despite the unfavorable conditions. The intricate chemical interactions that sustained and enhanced plant life, such as the soil chemistry—the foundation of growth—sparked his passion for basic science. As for the two trophies, both carved out of the thick branch of a mahogany tree, they sat collecting dust in an old decaying box in the closet of the spare bedroom, his parents never knowing of their existence after being sold lies for years about attending STEM club, where competition in mathletes proved rudimental.

A growl of impatience rumbled from his stomach, the lack of food muffling the loud sound of borborygmi. It had been almost twenty-four hours since his last meal, not having much of an appetite all day yesterday, dog food appearing to be a better alternative than the overpriced airport food options. On the second shelf rested a bright red bottle labeled ‘Plant Based Waffle Mix’. Should he take the chance? Berries would do little to curb a day's worth of hunger. As long as the mix wasn’t expired, waffles appeared an easy, filling, and tasty option. It also didn’t require a stove, since as luck had it, a perfectly clean waffle maker sat on the countertop, plugged in, and ready to use. This would be simple enough, right? With a simple flick of a green button on the left side, the waffle iron turned on to preheat.

Strawberries would make the waffles better. With the batter premade, Yoshio assumed it would be a simple process to add them to the mix. While waiting for the iron to heat up, Yoshio searched the cabinets and drawers, finding a wooden cutting board and a sharp butcher knife. Grabbing strawberries from the fridge and a basket of blueberries, Yoshio popped a tangy, refreshing treat into his mouth before he started chopping the strawberries. Briefly, his mind drifted. How was the New York conference going without him? Were there consequences for missing such crucial presentations?

A sharp sting rapidly brought Yoshio back to full awareness. Blood welled around a deep cut, the knife clattering to the cutting board with a alerting thud. How careless could he be? Groaning in self-inflicted annoyance, Yoshio blasted the cold water, both cleansing the wound and making it sting sharply. A quick inspection revealed no need for stitches, but a good wrapping with a paper towel was necessary. Food first, then a proper bandage.

However, the rest of the simple culinary experiment took a turn for the worse. He must have overfilled the waffle iron because the moment he clamped it shut, batter oozed out everywhere, spreading across the pristine marble counters. Perfect.

By the time he found towels in the kitchen, globs of batter dripped dramatically off the counter, creating multiple small sticky puddles on the taupe Umbrian limestone floor. Simply wonderful! he thought, sarcasm dripping thicker than the batter itself.

With a tired sigh, he snatched a cloth from the sink, but one swipe later, the towel looked like it had been dipped in a puddle of wet concrete. Useless. Muttering under his breath, he flung the soggy mess into the sink and grabbed another, which he found in the drawer beneath the double-basin sink. But the relentless volcanic batter defied all attempts to contain it. The iron itself, looking brand-new, was now a grotesque version of its former self, encased in a thick, sticky shell. To make matters worse, the two halves seemed to have welded themselves shut. Yoshio yanked on the handle, but the iron remained stubbornly closed, yet somehow, more batter managed to exude in every direction.

“Making breakfast, are we?" Naloria chirped as she walked into the kitchen, oblivious to the disaster zone Yoshio had created. She froze mid-step, taking in the scene with a raised eyebrow. "Oh dear," she said, an amused smirk tugging at her rosy lips. "Looks like you need a sous-chef. Are you taking applications?” Without missing a beat, she grabbed a spatula from a nearby holder and expertly wedged it between the iron's stubborn halves. With a satisfying pop, the iron sprang open, releasing a plume of steam fragrant of burnt sugar. “Can’t say these are salvageable, chef, but we can at least contain the mess,” she stated, turning off the waffle iron and moving it into the sink where it continued to bleed out the remnants of a failed breakfast.

While Naloria dealt with the waffle machine, Yoshio continued to blow through towels, washing up the mess he made the entire time, unable to resist the enigmatic temptation to glance over his shoulder at Naloria. The floral pattern on her pants, vibrant and alive, seemed to billow with every purposeful stride she took. The soft rustle, like a phantom breeze gently blowing through an autumn forest, carried with it pollen and spores from distant lands, sparking an unfamiliar sense of wanderlust.

“Thank you for your help, Naloria. My apologies for the mess, and the possible permanent damage to the appliance.” He eyed the now-aluminum-encased waffle iron with a hint of apprehension. Replacing the whole thing might be the most tempting option. “I have cash in my wallet.” Reaching back into his pocket to grab his wallet to replace the iron, Yoshio winced. The forgotten gash on his fingertip throbbed in protest.

“No need, it can be saved with a good scrub. Otherwise, it will just be one more thing clogging up space in a landfill. Put your wallet away, and let me see your hand,” Naloria demanded with stubborn determination.

Yoshio's mouth opened in protest, but Naloria snagged his hand, removing the bloody makeshift bandage wrapped layers thick around his finger. “You're really not much of a chef, are you?” she asked, a faint whispering laugh sounding oddly pleasant, melodic even, to Yoshio's ears. “For the record, I'm doing this because you need to be brought down a few pegs.”

Brows knitting together, Yoshio narrowed his eyes quizzically in confusion. “What are you talking about? Do what?” Why didn't he draw his hand away from Naloria? It would have been simple based on her listless grip. But he didn't. Instead, he stood, still as a statue, motionless as if observing wildlife. "I am fine. It's just a scratch. You don't need to—”

A faint bioluminescent glow, shimmering like fireflies at solar midnight, emanated from Naloria’s hands. Was it a trick of the light? An optical illusion? The light intensified, bringing with it a sudden warmth and a tingling sensation, like an electrical impulse. Full lips pursed, eyes closed in concentration, Naloria's hands remained steady, bathed in the ethereal luminescence.

Completely bewildered, Yoshio swiftly withdrew his hand, the effulgent gleam vanishing in an instant, present one moment and gone the next, like a fleeting meteor briefly entering Earth's atmosphere. But what left him utterly perplexed, his mind spinning from the sudden shock, his eyes widening in astonishment, and rendering him momentarily mute in bewilderment, was the fact that the cut—originating from a careless slip of the knife—had inexplicably vanished, leaving no trace of the minor injury, as if the wound itself had been erased.

Words, thoughts, even the passage of time all ceased—had thirty seconds passed? Two minutes? Yoshio had no idea. He stood there, stiff and pale, a man who had just witnessed the impossible. He studied his finger, seeing no sign of the laceration. It had vanished. “Naloria, how—” His voice trailed off into the abyss of nothingness. Yoshio regained his composure only when an enervated Naloria swayed and lowered herself into a dining chair. “Are you okay?” Yoshio asked, concern rising as she rested her forehead on her folded arms on the tabletop.

“I am fine. Channeling universal energy is exhausting, especially to heal physical injury. But energy work, the type Sylas does, isn’t my specialty,” Naloria explained, slowly lifting her face from her arms to display a faint smile, her teeth as white as blossoming sugar moon flowers. “I won’t lie though, a coffee sounds good right about now. Are you a better barista than chef?”

Taking the hint, Yoshio nodded, still unable to formulate a single sentence. Thoughts returned chaotically, like multiple video tabs open on I Tube. “I can make coffee,” he mumbled, slowly creeping around the kitchen. Despite his distaste for the bitterly acidic concoction, brewing it was a simple task—one he had often performed in his few past romantic relationships, which were primarily two longer-term ones. His first true love, Sofia, whom he had met in undergraduate school, had betrayed him throughout most of their relationship. Yoshio couldn't shake the feeling of foolishness when he caught her with the man who claimed to be his best friend after arranging a surprise visit during a week-long break in his graduate program. As for him and Tara, their paths simply diverged, gradually becoming two distinct forces, akin to opposite poles repelling each other.

Brewing the coffee would at least give him time to collect his thoughts. Between each step—filling the water reservoir and putting in fresh grounds—Yoshio kept staring at his finger, half expecting the injury to magically reappear. How could this be possible? If people possessed such abilities, why didn’t the mainstream world know about this? Was this phenomenal ability distinct to Naloria? As intricately unique as fingerprints, iris patterns, and zebra stripes?

This was actually happening, right? Could it have been a trick of some kind? He pressed the brew button, once again raising his hand, eyeing it with unsettled curiosity.

“Yoshio, the coffee!” Naloria’s panicked voice brought him back to reality. He realized that, lost in thought, he had forgotten to put a coffee cup under the brewing spout. Reacting quickly, he snatched a bright yellow mug off the drying rack and slipped it underneath to catch the cascading stream of coffee, filling the kitchen with the aroma of cinnamon and maple.

"Naloria, how did you do that?" Yoshio finally managed to ask, turning to face the woman. His head spun in confusion, feeling utterly out of place, like a penguin caught in the Sahara desert under the relentless sun.

"I didn't do anything. Not really, anyway. And that is the first lesson for you, learning that this 'I' you speak of doesn't really exist." Yoshio placed the coffee in front of her, wisps of steam curling upward from its caramel-hued surface to caress her face. She grinned, apparently finding amusem*nt in his utter perplexity.

Yoshio had little idea what Naloria meant. Why couldn’t anyone at this temple give him direct answers? Lowering himself into the chair across from her, he blankly stared out of the grandiose arched window, offering a picturesque glimpse of the cloud-clad courtyards. "Naloria, is it only you that can do this? Respectfully, if you have this ability, why are you here?"

She took a slow, mindful sip of coffee, offering a content sigh in response. "I am absolutely not the only one. There are others, I am certain, who have learned how to play with the healing energies of the universe. Do you know how many times Sylas and I tried to get this information out there? No one listens to us. Even when it is proven, which it has been, they are quick to cover it up."

Instantly, Yoshio wanted to barrage Naloria with endless questions, but restraining himself proved challenging. “Who are they? The government?” A wave of claustrophobia washed over him, as if the entire world were crushingly folding in on him. His body went numb from head to toe as the realization hit hard—what he knew was merely a drop in the ocean, obscured by lies that clouded the surface, making it impossible to see beneath. Everything Yoshio thought he knew about the world had been nothing but that, a lie. A suffocating paranoia filled him, as he reflected back upon the down-the-rabbit-hole stories he cringed over: Area 44 conspiracies of alien space crafts, and Project Gateway, which had preposterous claims about remote-viewing. Suddenly, those conspiracies didn’t appear so absurd anymore.

"The government, the world order, it's all embedded into the matrix for a reason," Naloria quipped, shrugging her shoulders as if it was no big deal that she possessed abilities akin to Jesus Christ. Yoshio, who had once thought of such figures as mere myths, now found himself wondering if they, along with flipping Yamawaro, actually existed. Could he mentally take this? His entire world inverting? Flipping upside down, and inside out?

“Why are your hands always clenched?” Soft fingers gently pried open the tightly closed fists like a clam shell, Naloria's thumbs gently massaging the now-exposed palms.

Heart lurching in his chest, Yoshio’s paranoias rapidly dissolved. “I—” He pulled his hands away, resting them by his side, the unsolicited touch bothering him far less than it should. “I never realized that,” he admitted in a moment of vulnerability before letting out a deep, long exhale he had been denying release.

“I have an idea. Come outside with me, then we will come back here, salvage the waffle iron, and find us both something to eat.” After taking another long, final sip of coffee, Naloria stood up, set the cup in the dishwasher, and beckoned with her hand for the disoriented chemist to follow. “Well, come on now. You want answers, don’t you?”

With a bit of reluctance, he followed her out of the kitchen, outside, and into the courtyard, chirping birds welcoming their arrival. They didn’t walk far before Naloria suddenly plopped down on the grass. “Lie down next to me. Let’s cloud-gaze.” She patted the sparse-cushioned spot next to her.

He stood there for a moment, pondering the absurdity of such a juvenile endeavor. “Cloud gazing? That seems a bit childish. I fail to see what benefit that can bring.”

A pointer hitched in the direction of a shapeless white blob. “Dragon!” Naloria declared, her awe-struck coppery eyes illuminating with wonder. “Come on, lie down, don’t make a lady ask twice,” she demanded, once again patting the empty spot, which Yoshio hesitantly took.

“These are expensive pants,” he muttered, fearing the grass would stain them. But the concern went ignored. After his arms grew tired from propping him up, Yoshio gave in and lowered himself to lie on the grass, his arm beneath his head serving as a makeshift pillow. “They are just clouds, Naloria.” His attention focused upward revealed no sight out of an ordinary cloudy sky filled with overcast, promising rain.

“You need to attune yourself to your inner child. Children easily see their friends in the clouds, but then they are forced to grow up, and as belief becomes replaced by doubt, they stop seeing these things. The world gets a bit colder, more gray, and eventually, we stop believing in any magic. We forget that we are the magicians of it all.” Heads turning simultaneously, Naloria caught his eye. “Your childhood wasn’t very kind to you, was it, Yoshio? You had to grow up very fast, abandoning any ounce of creativity for logic.” Lips wilting into a frown, Naloria stared silently at him, her eyes filled with a degree of empathy Yoshio wasn’t accustomed to receiving.

No, he most certainly did not have a childhood filled with cloud gazing, jumping through sprinklers, and finger-painting. But he didn’t come here for a therapy session with someone he knew for only a few hours. Yet, in that short passage of time, she had completely altered his existence, transforming ice into water, miraculously reverting rust into iron.

“That inner child who came to this earth to laugh, play, and create still exists within you.” Her finger pointed at another cloud, which wasn't something Yoshio could decipher.

“Clear your mind. Focus on your breath and simply say to yourself, I want to see my friends. Then they will show themselves to you in the clouds,” Naloria claimed as if it was a simple matter of fact. Her eyes widened in wonder as she gazed skyward, watching the white lackadaisical cumulonimbus clouds drift across the expeditiously darkening expanse. What shapes did she see now?

Despite his intense concentration, all he could discern were shapeless blobs, stubbornly withholding their secrets. Clouds, with their ever-shifting formations, often evoke the human tendency to perceive patterns where none exist, a phenomenon known as pareidolia. Could he easily attribute her experience to this?

I want to see my friends.

He mentally declared, setting the intention, just as directed by Naloria.

In mirroring real life, he found no companionship in the clouds. Friendly colleagues? Perhaps. But friends? He saw little value in forming such connections.

This felt exceedingly ridiculous.

I want to see my friends.

He felt like he was failing a rorschach inkblot test. One in which they promise no right or wrong answers. But Yoshio wasn't getting any answers at all. It was as if the clouds had a secret language that only Naloria could understand. The clouds drifted, forming and reforming, but they seemed to carry no meaning, no stories, no messages.

“Naloria, we’re in for rain,” Yoshio remarked, observing the clouds closely, his sensitivity attuned to the atmospheric pressure changes. “There’s an influx of nimbostratus clouds converging,” he added, his observation corroborated by a distant rumble of thunder. “We should go back inside before it starts pouring.”

The first fat raindrops began to fall, splattering against the earth around them. Yoshio’s voice was nearly drowned out by the increasing intensity of the thunderstorm. Naloria stayed motionless, rooted to the spot. While the flowers around her closed their petals in anticipation of the rainstorm, she extended her hands with palms facing up, as if striving to collect rainwater.

“I’m heading inside,” Yoshio declared, feeling his dress clothes cling uncomfortably to his skin, soaked through by the rain.

“You should stay. What’s the worst that could happen?” Naloria countered, sitting up herself, perhaps to avoid complete immersion asphyxia. “It’s not like it’s acidic. It won’t harm you. Growth often happens outside of our comfort zones. Stay with me. Mother Gaia will protect us.”

Yoshio hesitated, weighing the risk of potential hypothermia. “I’m not particularly fond of the rain,” he confessed, but his voice was drowned out by a deafening crash of thunder.

While Yoshio contemplated fleeing the storm, Naloria rolled onto her stomach, pressing her cheek against the damp grass and raising her palms once more skyward. She attempted to speak over the roar of the storm, but all Yoshio could discern were the words “heart to the Earth.” Was temporary discomfort worth the potentially monumental stride? Yoshio pondered, drawing parallels to the rigors of finals week in doctoral school. However, unlike the invigorating challenge of unraveling scientific abnormalities, he found himself loathing feeling the cool droplets saturate his clothing while dampening and chilling his skin. Despite his attempts to shake it off, the water stubbornly clung to his black hair, causing it to stick to his face.

Gradually, the rhythmic patter of raindrops against the earth captured Yoshio’s focus, offering a welcomed distraction. A fleeting glance towards Naloria revealed only the back of her head, curls becoming a labyrinth for the raindrops, disappearing into the intricate twists and natural coils.

Thunder crackled, each rumble a result of atmospheric instability, electrical energy transformed into reverberating sound waves. It must have been a remarkable revelation for ancient civilizations to uncover the scientific mysteries behind something as seemingly primal as thunder. Once perceived as the battleground of warring gods or the divine weapon of Zeus himself, thunder was steeped in mythological significance. As much as Yoshio yearned to believe in the advancement of knowledge and technology since those ancient times, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of humility in admitting science and civilization itself remained in infancy.

Once more, the government’s glaring cover-ups, and the actions of those higher in collective world power, haunted Yoshio’s thoughts, threatening to unleash a tidal wave of unanswered questions. Yet, amidst the turmoil of his mind, the relentless rain persisted, anchoring him to the uncomfortable reality of the present moment.

Yoshio had spent a lifetime grappling with incessant rumination, yearning for moments of respite amidst the ceaseless onslaught of thoughts. Officially diagnosed with anxiety, he had reluctantly turned to medication, only to find the side effects unbearable—a thick fog clouding his brain, dulling his senses. Preferring the clarity of an anxious mind to the numbness induced by antidepressants, Yoshio had chosen to navigate the turbulent waters of his thoughts unaided, finding fleeting peace only in the fractional space between the constant barrage of thoughts.

But the occasional shiver, goosebumps covering his skin, the uncomfortable sensation of water trickling down the back of his neck, and the cascading rhythmic tapping of the rain had a different effect on Yoshio. It made him feel alive with vitality, no longer weary. It was as if the sky, a scientist in its own right, presented Yoshio with a profound option: brave the storm to find yourself, your resilience and capabilities, or go back inside to your old way of life, your obsolescent beliefs, your outdated mindset.

I want to see my friends.

As the rain gradually subsided, yielding to a newfound dryness, the juxtaposition of elements intensified, inviting the enthralling contemplation of duality. The clouds shifted, parted, and somewhere within the sky's depths, Yoshio saw it: the image of a man suspended upside down, forced into seeing the world from a much different perspective, forced to see beyond his conventional viewpoints.