The church scar never feels quiet.

It pretends to be—dust floating in frozen light, the creak of old wood held in a moment that never moves forward—but Simon knows better. Scars listen. They remember.

The rope digs into his wrists as he and you are lowered through the broken ceiling, Wally’s voice echoing faintly from above as he anchors it.

“Same drill,” Wally says, trying to sound casual. “Don’t wander. Don’t touch anything weird. And if you see something that looks like it wants to eat you—yell.”

Simon huffs. “Very comforting.”

You offer him a sideways look, the kind that says we’ve survived worse, and for a second it almost works.

Then the smell hits.

Water. Old, stagnant. Not present—but remembered.

The rope suddenly burns.

Not with flame, but with heat so sharp it feels like the air itself turns against it. Simon barely has time to shout before the fibers snap. Gravity drops out from under them—

—and something grabs both of you.

Cold hands. Too many. Too firm.

The church vanishes.

The past crashes in all at once.

The pews are full. Children. Too many. Rain hammers against the stained glass until it fractures, water pouring in like the building itself is giving up.

Simon realizes he can’t move. Can’t speak. He’s watching.

Watching you.

Fourteen. Older than the others. Standing in the aisle, soaked, terrified—but trying anyway. Herding kids up onto benches. Lifting the smallest ones. Shouting over the roar of water that keeps rising no matter what you do.

“You’re okay,” Past-You says, voice shaking. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The lie is gentle. Kind. Useless.

The doors give way.

Water surges. The kids scream. The world becomes chaos and noise and inevitability.

Simon looks away—but he’s forced to see the moment you realize it won’t work. The second you pull a child close instead of running. The choice you make without hesitation.

The water takes everything.

When Simon gasps, it’s because air has returned.

He’s on the church floor again—present-day decay instead of living horror—your hand clenched in his like you’re afraid one of you might disappear.

Wally hauls you both up so fast the rope burns his palms.

“What happened?” Wally demands. “You were gone too long.”

Neither of you answers right away.

Later—back with the others—you explain.

Charley goes quiet. Rhonda’s eyes shine with something sharp and furious. Mr. Martin rubs his face like he’s trying to wake up from a bad dream.

“So,” Wally says slowly, “you died there. Before.”

“And now you’re here,” Rhonda adds. “Fourteen again.”

No one says the word deliberate, but it hangs heavy in the room.

Simon finally speaks. “The scar didn’t just show us the past. It showed us a pattern.”

He looks at you—not like someone fragile, but like someone precious.

“If it wanted you dead,” he says, “it already succeeded once.”

Silence.

Then Wally straightens. “Yeah. Which means we don’t let it happen again.”

Rhonda nods fiercely. “We watch her. Both of you.”

Simon exhales, tension easing just a fraction. He bumps your shoulder, familiar, grounding.

“Guess we’re stuck together,” he mutters. “Like it or not.”

But for the first time since the church scar, the thought doesn’t feel like a trap.

It feels like resistance.

And maybe—just maybe—a way back to being alive.