The church scar isn’t quiet.

It’s anticipating.

White eyes flicker in the rafters — not blinking, not moving — just watching. Showing.

Simon grips your hand as the vision starts to bleed through the walls.

You’re not alone. Wally, Charley, Rhonda — they’re above, anchoring the rope. Waiting.

Then the flood starts.

Not gradual. Violent.

Water explodes through stained glass. Screams echo — young, terrified, familiar.

“Simon—” you start—

But the black water beneath you erupts.

Hands. Cold, grasping, relentless.

You try to pull back but the current is stronger than gravity itself. Simon’s grip tightens painfully around your wrist.

The hands drag both of you under. The world goes dark.

You gasp.

Air. Real air.

You’re soaked — but not drowning.

The church is intact.

Sunlight streams through whole stained glass windows. Dry pews. No flood.

For a split second, neither of you moves.

Then you hear it.

Laughter. Children’s voices.

You and Simon turn slowly.

And there they are.

Two kids — maybe thirteen.

You. Him. Past versions. Alive. Unaware.

Your younger self is helping organize the smaller kids, trying to act older than you are. Past Simon hovers close, protective even then.

Present Simon goes still beside you.

“…We’re before it,” he breathes.

You step back instinctively — but you’re not invisible. The world doesn’t ripple around you like a memory. You’re standing in it.

Past Simon notices something first.

His head snaps toward you. He sees you. Really sees you.

His expression shifts instantly from confusion to threat assessment. He moves subtly in front of Past You.

Protective. Even across time. Present Simon stiffens beside you.

“Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “I don’t like that.”

Past You steps around him slightly, squinting at the two soaked strangers standing in the aisle.

Past You tilts your head.

“You look like us,” she says carefully.

The room goes silent.

Past Simon’s jaw tightens. “Who are you?”

Present Simon answers before you can.

“Long story.”

Both younger versions exchange a look — the kind that only two kids who rely on each other can communicate with.

Present Simon steps slightly closer to you, instinctive.

Past Simon mirrors the movement with Past You.

It’s almost surreal. Two timelines. Same instinct.

You look at your younger self and it hits you all at once — she has no idea what’s about to happen.

Simon sees the shift in your expression. He squeezes your hand gently.

“You can’t change it,” he whispers. “Whatever this is, we’re here to see it. Not fix it.”

Past You studies Present You’s face.

“Why do you look sad?” she asks.

Present Simon answers carefully.

“Because we know something you don’t.”

Past Simon narrows his eyes. “About what?”

The church creaks ominously.

A distant rumble of thunder.

Time is aligning.

Present Simon looks between his younger self and you.

There’s something fierce in his expression now.

“We don’t let it separate us,” he says quietly — to you, but loud enough that both younger versions hear.

Past Simon immediately responds, confused but firm:

“Separate us from what?”

Present You kneel slowly to meet your younger self’s eye level.

“You’re strong,” you tell her softly. “Stronger than you think.”

Past You frowns. “I know.”

Of course she does.

Present Simon almost smiles at that.

Thunder cracks louder.

The windows rattle.

The flood is coming.

Present Simon grabs your hand again.

“If this pulls us back,” he says urgently, “don’t let go.”

Past Simon, hearing that tone, grabs Past You’s hand too.

Two couples.

Same promise.

The first drop of water splashes against the glass.

The church lights flicker.

Reality begins to fracture.

And as the world starts to tilt—

Present Simon pulls you close, forehead pressing briefly to yours.

“No matter what timeline we’re in,” he murmurs, protective and certain, “I’m choosing you.”

Across the aisle, Past Simon mirrors the stance — shielding Past You instinctively as the storm begins to break through.

Four heartbeats.

One moment repeating.

And then— The water comes.