Ryker hasn’t spoken in a while.

He’s sitting cross-legged on your floor, camera discarded beside him, staring at his hands like they’ve betrayed him.

“I took this photo today,” he says finally, turning his screen toward you. It’s a patch of woods you both know well—but threaded through the image is a faint constellation of light, forming the unmistakable shape of wings.

“I didn’t see them when I took it.” His voice is steady, but thin. “But I’ve been seeing other things. Doors. Threads. Souls that don’t know where to go.”

He swallows.

“I think I was someone else before I was me.”