Al laughed. Starting small, his laughter soon exploded, echoing throughout the night, descending upon Vell. He couldn’t stop. Dread lingered, joining hands with confusion, but neither deterred him. Al laughed, muscles tense, chest convulsing, drowning himself in bliss. His sides ached. His throat grew hoarse, coughing once, twice, three times, before resuming his laughter. The emotion denied reason. Al couldn’t contain it, couldn’t understand it. He laughed.

“Mister Al!” shouted Humpty, turning around. “Steady yourself, Mister Al, else we’ll both tumble over!”

Laughter faltered. Awareness returning, Al found himself face-to-face with Humpty, the ghost leaning forward, Al’s outstretched arm acting as lifeline. Humpty’s expression showed concern. Laughter stopped. Al’s own expression twisted, lips curling from smile to snarl, recognition fueling his anger. Concern. Disbelief. Humpty’s emotions were unmistakable; regrettably, they reminded him of Bram.

Al loosened his grip.

Humpty wobbled, maintaining fragile balance. Al released him. Raising his hand overhead, Al clenched his fist and struck, crack felt upon impact, fracturing Humpty’s shell, launching the ghost beyond the skyscraper, sending him tumbling towards dirty pavement. Briefly, their eyes connected. Al detected zero malice. Instead, betrayal met betrayal, Humpty sobbing once before gravity took effect. The ghost fell from sight.

He flexed his fist. Breathing deeply, once, twice, Al steadied himself, then looked towards the horizon. Vell’s skyline welcomed him home.

Why am I alive? All thoughts revolved around that question. Alone, Al assessed his situation. Actions. Choices. Mistake after mistake had guided him, luring him into false confidence. Fate. Fortune. Those delusions had distracted him, leading him headfirst into disaster. Humpty, despite appearing innocent, had preemptively contacted that Magician, Mother Goose, passing along intel pertaining to Al’s arrival. Had Humpty known what would happen? Looking below, Al frowned. Calm now, Al wondered: had he misjudged the ghost’s guilt?

Guilt. Judgment. Skin crawling, Al knew his own guilt remained unjudged, the consequences of his recklessness extending beyond himself. Encountering Mother Goose should have killed him. Instead, Al survived, spared from brutality, somehow unscathed despite countless rash decisions. Al had survived, survived because Bram…

Gripping railing, his knuckles went white. Al rejected the obvious. Deluding himself was pointless; still, one possibility existed, not without evidence, that pointed towards Bram’s survival. When Al escaped that swirling darkness, he found himself, holding Humpty, upon the skyscraper, and halfway through familiar conversation. The situation mirrored earlier events perfectly, reenacting them like his recorded memories. Unlike his memories, however, he wasn’t forced along a predetermined path. Dream? Premonition? An exact explanation escaped him, but one answer trumped all others. Al reached for his phone—

Voices snickered behind him.

Spinning, Al turned, finding himself surrounded. Countless eyes gleamed, half hidden, shining from their perch. They lined fans and ventilation ports. Huddled together, the creatures stretched their wings, shuffling and fluttering, black feathers swaying within the shadows. Birds. Magpies. Roosting upon metal, they looked identical with those that had appeared within Mother Goose’s domain. They blocked his exit.

“…he struck the watcher…good riddance, always dead weight…eye for eye, skull for skull…clearly an enemy…”

Al realized the flock was debating, having seen him strike down Humpty. Both answered to Mother Goose. Again, Al found himself cornered. Wind gathered speed, stirring the flock, tempting Al towards action. Retreat was impossible. Brute forcing himself through the flock screamed suicide. Whispers continued, growing in intensity. His trial continued. Was negotiating possible? Maybe—

Verdict reached, they struck. Feathers stormed around him, blurring his sight, confusion becoming pain when talons reached him, scraping away clothes and flesh alike. Combined might pushed him backwards towards the abyss. Arms up, face covered, Al hunched lower, withstanding cuts over cuts that tore deeper into him, shredding every speck of exposed skin. Another step found himself pressed against railing. A certain room beckoned, promising respite. Synchronizing their assault, the flock launched themselves again, Al’s stomach lurching as he stumbled backwards into emptiness.

He fell. Magpies clung on, still striking, talons and beaks aiming for his face, retreating only when his acceleration peaked. An image appeared within his mind. Al fell, faster and faster, until the world went dark.

***

Apparently, Al actually died this time. Absent were the darkness and mist, those elements that previously reconstructed his reality. Instead, upon hitting pavement, Al awoke somewhere frustratingly familiar.

Neither entrance nor exit existed. The room was a perfect cube. Glancing around, up and down, he groaned, recognizing the grand mirror that gilded every surface. Attempting to leave proved useless, suggesting his body—his real body—was currently incapacitated. Al was stuck, stuck and surrounded by reflections of reflections, repeating endlessly towards infinity.

Now what? Assuming he was dead, would Al persist here forever, trapped within his mind and memories?

That sounded like Hell. Dreading the answer, Al ignored that line of thought. He prioritized other matters, returned to other questions. One advantage existed within this cursed room: solitude. Nothing would interrupt him here. Sitting down, legs crossed, Al once again reviewed his situation. A single mystery underpinned all others; when that axe struck, should have struck, Al blinked and found himself elsewhere, back upon the skyscraper. Illusions were ruled out. Skipping ahead, Al returned to his previous suspicion: somehow, time had jumped backwards.

Assuming he was correct, the how and why remained unknown. “Magic” was an unsatisfying answer.

Looking at his scattered reflections, Al sighed. Leaving seemed impossible, unsurprising given his physical body was currently smeared against concrete. Just one more chance, he had begged, expecting nothing. A second chance was granted. Al had wasted it. Nothing indicated he would be allowed a third.

Huffing, Al fell backwards onto the floor. Infinite copies of himself moved in tandem. Al avoided this place for weeks, annoyed and exhausted, resenting what, in practice, had devolved into a stupid gimmick.

Time passed. Boredom grew. Exhausting all thought, Al rolled over and glanced at the room’s center. According to the mirrors, nothing existed here except himself. They were wrong. Resting upon the floor, hidden from the mirrors, was the access mechanism. It taunted him. Grumbling, Al crawled there and paused.

Replaying the night seemed prudent. His mind, however, wandered elsewhere.

The mechanism was formed from concentric dials, circles within circles, and marked using moving symbols. Those symbols would shift and scramble themselves, reading as nonsense. Years ago, the mechanism had been small, fitting within Al’s palm. Time and memories spurred its growth. Outer rings had formed, expanding it, and the mechanism currently equaled a large plate. Al placed his hands upon it. The symbols stopped moving. Guided by instinct, Al rotated the dials into place.

(Memory, START.)

Mirrors fogged over, becoming impenetrable before snapping into focus. Senses tingled, loading phantom impressions from his past. Al closed his eyes. His grandfather’s mansion spawned around him.

Forced along a predetermined path, Al walked through the hall. Statues flanked him; chiseled stone cemented directly into brick. He stumbled once, leg caught against a loose floorboard, and reached out, regaining balance by placing his hand against a wall. Grazing against it, Al reexperienced a tingling sensation, his skin scraped by rough stone. Same gestures. Same motions. Flexing his hand, inspecting it for cuts, Al rubbed his palm against his jacket and continued forward. Within the main hall, he joined his father.

Light filtered from far above. Clouds of dust hovered there, swimming within the space between the floor and the glass ceiling. Al noticed how the ceiling curved, roughly shaped into a dome. Familiar thoughts returned, another component of the memory. Al remembered how he had compared this mansion to another building: the church that conducted his grandfather’s funeral.

“Alright, Al?” asked his father. “This place is dangerous. Your grandfather was always stingy, even decades ago, and this place needs dozens of repairs. I’m surprised it’s still standing. Watch your step around here, okay?”

Al nodded, knowing his father was lying. Danger here stemmed from less mundane sources.

His father stood beside a table covered with papers. Approaching, Al looked over the notes, gaze lingering on every sheet. He flipped them over, scanning both sides, secretly ensuring his memories would record every scribble. His father also glanced through them. Together, they shifted through their inheritance, examining every word his grandfather left behind.

(PAUSE.)

He opened his eyes. Around him, the memory lingered. Images plastered the walls, frozen in place, displaying snapshots of his grandfather’s notes. Al read through them. Arguably, his actions were pointless. After reexperiencing this memory dozens of times, Al had memorized every word through brute repetition. Still, he returned here occasionally, skimming through them, mesmerized by his grandfather’s handwriting. Information mattered less than history. Al likened himself to an archeologist, uncovering manuscripts thought long destroyed. An issue persisted, however: his copies were copies. The originals remained forever gone.

In death, his grandfather continued Al’s education, moving past observation and perception. His notes had described Anchors, objects connected with ghosts and spirits, and how those objects affected the beings they linked with. He also mentioned Relics, like Al’s amulet, describing them as magical shortcuts. They were artifacts imbued with specific abilities. Certain Relics were stingy, only operating under the right conditions. The notes also explained Sigils, albeit poorly. They were symbols, connecting people with…something. Al assumed they relied on perception, meaning their effects would vary depending on who was looking. Anchors, Relics, and Sigils, those concepts, alongside observation and perception, were the extent of Al’s magical education. That knowledge had assisted him during investigations. Even now, possibly dead, he valued what his grandfather once wrote.

However, more information existed. Certain notes were scribbled hastily, fragments of larger ideas.

…Hunter territory found, visit islands soon. Lens broken, moon gate possible? Remember coordinates…

That seemed important. Its full meaning escaped him.

Again, Al closed his eyes.

(START.)

Events resumed. Soon, his father gathered the notes, nonchalantly stacked them, then crammed them into a box. Al looked, heaviness settling in his stomach as the memory continued. What could he have done?

“Your grandfather was always crazy. Obsessed with superstition, even claimed he knew magic. Believed in wizards, or whatever. Dressed like them too. Remember that staff he had?”

Al nodded. “Remember when he healed my forehead?”

His father laughed. “Whatever trick he pulled really fooled you, you were convinced his powers were real. Remember begging for weeks afterwards, wanting another visit? He really left an impression.”

“He did. Remember when he would use his clairvoyance during card games? You always seemed to lose.”

“He had his talents,” his father admitted, shrugging. “Years of practice probably helped. Stacking the deck helped too. Never could bluff when he was playing…”

Al’s father was frustratingly mellow. Their conversations, whether past or present, followed a similar pattern. Even blunt accusations were waved away, often with laughter. Anger seemed beyond him. Wasting his breath, Al continued poking the subject. Both understood the underlying lie: Al’s father was faking disbelief.

Nearing the record’s conclusion, Al asked about the notes. His father promised they would be stored somewhere safe. Powerless, Al conceded, deluding himself into believing that promise. Trust was short lived. Later, his father shrugged, waving away Al’s curiosity—Strange, I can’t seem to find them. Must have misplaced them. They’ll pop up eventually. Sorry.

Knowing better, Al assumed his father had them burnt.

(Memory, END.)

Opening his eyes, Al sighed. The room sighed with him, his reflections having returned within the walls. His life amounted to nothing. This room proved it, recording every moment since his mind’s fortification. Back then, upon first discovering this room and how it operated, Al felt genuine excitement for the future. His options were boundless. Having every moment stored and accessible seemed infinitely useful, and, more importantly, secured his place among the magical. This room had saved his grandfather’s legacy. This room also, however, recorded countless failures. Its final record was his final blunder. Al still valued this place, but frustration was reasonable. Even when alive, its utility was limited: searching memories took time, as did reexperiencing them. Time here was equivalent to time outside. Reliving an entire day, for example, would require sacrificing an entire day in exchange.

Lingering on the topic, Al returned to his current dilemma. How much time passed since he fell? Several hours? An itching began, crawling over his skin. Dread returned, reminding him of eternity. This room had become his coffin. Al waited, and waited, and waited…

Hours passed before his stomach lurched and reality flipped, once, twice, and Al found himself somewhere else.

***

“Alright, I’ll tell you,” said Humpty. “Just promise not to laugh.”

Al blinked. “What?”

“I said I’ll tell you. Just please, please, Mister Al, don’t laugh, don’t giggle, don’t tease, don’t taunt. I doubt she’ll hear you from here, unless someone passes along the message, but still. Promise not to laugh, and I’ll tell you. Deal?”

“No,” said Al, glancing around.

“Since you insist. Just please… No?”

“No,” Al repeated. “Forget all about it. I changed my mind. Call me crazy, but I have a hunch me and your maker won’t get along.”

Humpty turned, then stared. “No? You won’t meet her? That’s wonder—wrong, that’s wrong, what’s wrong with you!? You’re looking for a Magician, aren’t you!?”

Al shrugged. “Other Mages exist. Guess I need to keep searching.” Carefully, he pulled the ghost back, helping him down.

Humpty squinted, face scrunched with bewilderment. Words failed him.

“Thanks, Humpty. Mage or no Mage, you’ve been a huge help. I’ll spot you when I’m around, maybe visit again, so try keeping your balance. Alright?” Al extended his hand. “It’s getting late. I need to head home.”

“Okay… Goodbye, Mister Al…” said Humpty, swaying slightly.

They shook.

Leaving the ghost behind, Al retreated towards the door. Something fluttered overhead. Flinching once, Al became alert but otherwise feigned ignorance, walking evenly until he entered the building. Closing the door, his shoulders slumped. Minutes later, within the elevator, Al finally withdrew his phone.

The screen indicated the time, reading half-past midnight. Checking his messages, Al confirmed what he suspected: his message about Mother Goose and her location no longer existed. He considered contacting Bram but decided against it. Recalling the night—through normal means, no records required—Al figured Bram was still gambling, knee-deep in losses, at the Mystery Babylon. That was fine. Everything was fine. Al would sneak home, sleep best he could, and think things over tomorrow. Until then, everything was fine.