Monique woke up after sixteen uninterrupted hours of unconsciousness that could legally qualify as a coma. She rolled out of bed, hair a chaos storm of tangles. She yawned, stepped up to the mirror, flinched, expecting something to happen. Nothing happened.

  Then she screamed into her pillow for a solid three minutes about having a boyfriend. Somehow this was the easiest issue to deal with.

  Then she texted Kellan about it. And looked at the time. It really had been 16 hours and 45 minutes since she came home.

  Then she screamed again.

  Then she showered and wearing a blanket like a war cape, she huddled down the stairs.

  Connor, wearing the most ‘Fed in civies ‘ outfit, was talking with her mother, who was of course also his mother. Quietly she was saying “...my little hero, you don't need to always try and protect me…” into Connor's shoulder.

  “Um… Hi?” Monique asked, hesitantly. The two turned towards her. “Well good morning Monique,” her mother said. Instinctively Monique flinched. Full name. Connor snorted quietly. “Where is Dad?” Monique asked. Her mother shrugged and gestured outside “I assume the yard, although he hasn't exactly signed out. Why are you asking?”

  Monique shrugged “Because he's my dad… and I want to know where he is and what he's doing…?”

  Her mother seemed to accept that. “And what's this about sleeping in a graveyard?”

  Monique frowned, “I don't see how that's relevant.” She crossed her arms. Her mother raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. Luckily before things could develop from there, Connor interrupted, laughing “You're such a teenager Momo”

  She huffed, grateful for this way out. “I mean yeah?” She responded. “You shouldn't be talking, you have a lot to answer for.” She poked him in the chest. Connor sighed tiredly and sat down. Her mother chuckled in a very motherly way, said “Well I guess I'll leave you to it” she started walking, in the exit she spun around and said “we will be talking about that whole Graveyard thing, Monique, don't think I forgot. “

  Monique looked to the floor. Connor sat down at the kitchen table, much smaller than the dinning table. She sat down across from Connor with all the gravitas of a girl who had literally fought the conceptual manifestations of her own soul. Which she had - kinda.

  Connor, to his credit, looked more prepared than usual - coffee in hand, stress lines in place, and a folder of extremely classified bullshit on the table between them. Monique frowned, where did the folder came from, she was pretty sure he hadn't had it before.

  He was back in Big Brother Mode. The dangerous, competent kind. Which meant he was terrified.

  Monique narrowed her eyes. Pulled the blanket tighter. Leaned forward.

  “Explain, like… everything,” she said.

  And then - weaponized her eyes.

  Big. Wide. Devastating.

  The Puppy dog Eyes. The little sister ult. “Please”

  Connor visibly recoiled.

  “You’re playing dirty,” he muttered.

  “I’ve been attacked by my own name, whatever the fuck that means Connor,” she said. “I deserve the lore drop.”

  He sighed, opened the folder, and muttered, “Okay. But when this ends with you breaking into a government blacksite and declaring war, or fighting the concept of taxonomy, I will say I told you so.”

  She gave him the blankest or maybe blankeds stare possible. “If it helps you,sure. ”

  He opened the folder. Connor flipped the first page.

  “Alright,” he said. “Lesson one: It's all real. Ghosts are real. But they’re not like horror movie ghosts, well most aren't. They’re residual, emotional constructs, bound to memory, unresolved things, death, or - if you're unlucky - true names.”

  Monique blinked. “So, like... ghosts are souls with regrets?”

  “Exactly.”

  He flipped the next page. Diagrams. Blood-red threads through soul (?) maps. Notations scrawled by people who should not have been able to see what they wrote.

  “Magic is real - but it’s not British stuff. It’s name, theory. Intent. Belief. Rituals to make the soul stick to ideas in reality. The more people believe in something, the harder it is to undo.”

  “So belief is a lock, and ritual is the key?”

  Connor nodded. “And names are the screws holding the entire door in place. That’s why you’re…” He hesitated.

  Monique raised an eyebrow. “Say it.”

  “You’re the worst-case scenario,” he said gently. “The name no one could file. Well they tried. Put it in a box and everything. A soul that fractured. ”

  She leaned back, breath shallow. “Yes, i got that part with Shuyet, Sekhem, Sah…”

  “They’re not just parts of you,” he said, nodding. “They’re real. Old. Ancient. Not Egyptian, not exactly - but aligned. The Egyptians didn’t create the soul map. Just a soul map. Earlier than anyone else. At least as far as we know. Not like that matters all that much.”

  “And Ren?”

  Connor hesitated.

  “She’s not just your name,” he said. “She’s everything anyone has ever called you. Your file names. Your slurs. Your pet names. Every way you’ve been shaped, even by people who didn’t deserve to shape you. ”

  Monique went still.

  “Are there more?” she asked quietly. He didn't answer. Which was an answer of course.

  Monique leaned forward, hoodie sleeves swallowing her hands, blanket still draped over her shoulders like the world's most skeptical demigod.

  “If magic is real,” she began, “then why has no pseudoscientific experiment ever proven it? If telepathy is real, why hasn’t ESP been verified by, like, actual peer-reviewed studies? And if ghosts are real, then doesn’t that confirm the afterlife?”

  She wasn’t being snarky - well, not only snarky. Her eyes were sharp. Demanding truth. Not mythology. Not government-mandated vagueness.

  Connor sighed. Not the “I’m tired” sigh. The “oh no, she’s asking the real questions” sigh.

  “You’re assuming proof is allowed, or, more importantly relevant. ” he said.

  Monique blinked. “Come again?”

  “Do you know how many experiments have shown statistical anomalies for ESP, telepathy, soul retention?” he asked, flipping a page in the file and revealing a redacted study with massive black boxes and the title: Cognitive Drift Under Observed Pressure: 1974–1989.

  “They get buried,” he said. “Suppressed. Dismissed. Or worse, absorbed into systems that control knowledge. You think the people funding that kind of science don’t know what they’re looking for?”

  Monique narrowed her eyes. “That sounds like conspiracy theory BS.”

  “It is, and unfortunately, it’s also true, Get used to that. Everything anyone has ever believed about anything is true, just in different amounts. ” Connor said grimly. “The reason no one proves magic exists is because by the time you’re close to proving it, someone else owns the data and your career. And also it doesn't matter because by its very nature magic only exists within one context. ”

  She sat back. “So it’s real, just… illegal?”

  “Or sacred. Or classified. Or forbidden. Or powerless. Or irrelevant. Or once-but-no-longer.” He counted on his fingers. He tapped a finger to the side of his head. “And telepathy? Doesn’t work the way movies say. No clean words. Just impressions. Pressure. If it were clean, we’d all be broken.”

  “And ghosts?”

  Connor hesitated.

  Then said: “Ghosts aren’t proof of the afterlife. Actually the opposite. They’re proof of unfinished life.”

  That hit her harder than she expected.

  He added, quieter: “Whatever’s after death? It’s beyond names. Ghosts are just… leftovers. Echoes in need of closure. Or power. Or vengeance.”

  Monique exhaled slowly.

  “God,” she muttered. “That’s terrifying.”

  Connor gave a tired smile. “In case you're asking, we haven't found that either. Mostly because here in America whenever we go poking around in that particular part of the spheres, there's a lot of angry spirits really displeased about the whole… Indian situation, and the Europeans are unwilling to look. They won't tell us why of course.” Once again, Monique was understanding only a third of what he was saying, but it was clear enough. Also she wasn't going to point out the several non-western countries that may also exist. She let him continue talking.

  “That’s why they sent me to watch over you.”

  Monique stared.

  “That was your solution to ghosts and magic and metaphysical rage constructs? Yourself?”

  He shrugged. “I was the one who loved you most. That still counts for something.”

  Monique frowned, brows pulling together as she leaned further over the table, blanket slipping slightly off her shoulders, eyes burning with the sharp, hungry logic of someone who wanted the world to make sense - even if she’d just become a godling.

  “That doesn’t sound right,” she said, voice low but certain. “If magic - and thus, belief influencing outcomes - is real, then people would be proving it constantly by accident. You can make an idea illegal, sure, but not random chance.”

  Connor’s face tensed, but she wasn’t done.

  “If belief can change reality, then delusional people should be the most powerful humans alive. Schizophrenics. Children. People in cults. People believing in the absurd should be rewriting the world by existing. And they’re not.”

  Silence. The kind of silence where truth gets heavier.

  Connor took a deep breath.

  “Well they are. And they aren't. It's not belief,” he said. He frowned before continuing. “Not just belief. That’s the misunderstanding. It’s not what you believe. Or for that manner, how strong you believe it. It’s how many people believe it.”

  He tapped the table twice, slow.

  “It’s consensus.”

  Monique blinked. “What?”

  He flipped another page. Diagrams. Collective consciousness mapping. Sociocognitive fields intersecting with metaphysical reinforcement zones. Fucking Government technobabble.

  “Magic doesn’t respond to your individual mind,” Connor said. “Not unless you’re extraordinarily attuned. You’re a tuning fork - most people are just static.”

  He tapped her chest, just over her sternum.

  “You? You were born resonant. Sekhem is like a reverse fire triangle. That time when you were struck by lightning - or rather lightning struck the house while you were drying your hair - everything … stopped ? Died? And Sekhem was sort of alone then..” He sighed again. “Well Ren was there because of the whole second death when your name is last spoken. But regardless, back to the triangle” another pause

  “ Taking away the Oxygen, heat and fuel made the inherent power ,that spark, that fire, burn incredibly bright. That’s why your thoughts have power. Your soul echoes. And well you know the rest. Hospital. They took a part of you. They took Ren, which was the wrong part, but they didn't know. And living without Ren is much less impactful than the alternative. ”

  Another beat.

  “Made you a bit confused about names sometimes, but it let you keep being a vibrant little gremlin.”

  He smiled.

  She smiled, a little.

  He continued.

  “But for the average person? Belief only bends reality when it’s shared. That’s how rituals work. That’s how traditions hold power. When a thousand people believe the same thing, they start reinforcing it in the pattern. It’s not insanity that changes the world - it’s agreement.”

  Monique leaned back, frowning deeper.

  “That’s horrifying.”

  “Yes. It’s how myths become real,” he said. “And how empires stay alive.”

  She sat there in silence, letting the weight of it settle.

  The world didn’t care if one person was sure of something.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  The world listened to the choir.

  “Wait, so why are you looking for God anyway?” She asked, with growing concern.

  “National security.” Connor stated flatly.

  Monique sighed. Of course. No need to ask anymore questions then. Her concern grew, as she realized something else.

  Her voice dropped to a whisper - not because she feared being heard, but because the weight of the realization pressed on her chest like a hand, a hand made of lead.

  “Connor…”She didn’t blink, didn’t breathe.

  “That means that sexism and racism and all the other stuff… was, is factually correct.”

  Not morally.

  Factually.

  Connor didn’t respond immediately.He didn’t argue.Didn’t flinch.

  Because he knew exactly what she meant.

  When enough people believe in something…It becomes a law of the pattern.It shapes the world.Not because it’s true.But because it's agreed upon.

  “That’s why it’s so hard to kill,” he said softly.

  “Because it’s written into the consensus.”

  She stared down at her hands.

  She had to live in a world that once and in the future named her lesser.

  Not by accident.

  But by design.

  “But it’s not immutable,” Connor said, leaning forward now. “It feels like fact because it’s been repeated enough to root into reality. But the pattern isn’t a god, Monique.”

  He tapped her hand.

  She looked up, eyes wide and tired and burning.

  He smiled, quiet and proud.

  “You can overwrite it. Not just defy it. Change it. Because you’re not just resonant - you’re composite. You carry the whole choir inside you.”

  Monique blinked, tears threatening.

  “You’re saying I can fix the world.”

  Connor shook his head.

  “I’m saying you can’t.”

  Then he pointed at her chest again - soft, firm.

  Monique’s breath caught - not like a gasp, but like her body refused to let the air in.

  Because she got it.Really got it.

  Well hopefully. Probably. Maybe.

  The connection clicked in her head with all the violence of a final puzzle piece forced into place, not because it fit, but because it had to.

  Connor hadn’t said it outright.He didn’t have to.

  Because the truth was this:

  Magic is real.And it doesn't change a damn thing.

  She stared at the table, through it, past it, like she was watching history loop around itself again and again in quiet horror.

  The world still sucked.

  Still hurt.Still cracked under the weight of what was not.Still decided who was human and who was noise.

  Even now - after everything - she still lived in a world where being any kind of other, any kind of person that the arbitrary metrics of the consensus have declared to be other, meant someone else’s belief could pin you to the ground as hard as the laws of physics.

  Because facts didn’t matter.

  Because truth wasn’t real.

  It was what was agreed upon.

  The world didn’t run on reality.

  It ran on consensus.

  And consensus was built by people. People who could afford to name things.

  Monique pressed her hands flat to the table like she was bracing against gravity.

  Her mind reeled. Maybe it was like this:

  There exists Reality - The stuff of atoms and pressure and cause and effect.

  And then there is the World - The shared hallucination.The collective dream.The framework built from repetition, power, fear, and story.

  Most of the time, they aligned.Sometimes, they didn’t.And when they didn’t?

  But probably that was also just consensus.

  “You’re saying...” she said slowly, her voice like glass ground underfoot, “...it never mattered what was true.”

  Connor didn’t answer.

  Then he said: "Obviously. Do you think that the crime statistics being biased matters? Do you think that the likelihood for paying back a loan matters for Redlining? Do you think facts matter when it comes to these things?”

  Monique closed her eyes.

  And when she opened them again, they were quiet. Clear.

  Monique slumped back in her chair, the blanket drooping off one shoulder like a sad superhero cape, her pout deep enough to qualify as structural damage.

  “That’s really depressing,” she muttered.

  Connor gave a tired, sympathetic shrug. “I know, I know and I’m sorry, little sister.”

  She didn’t even respond to that. Just dragged the blanket up over her nose, glaring over it.

  “So is there anything cool about magic?” she mumbled through the fabric. “Or is it just grief and bureaucracy with extra steps?”

  Connor chuckled. Actually chuckled. A soft one, the kind that still carried a little warmth.

  “Well,” he said, “you can talk to the dead.”

  “I’ve done that,” she grumbled. “They were rude. I ate one of them. Or well my shadow did. ”

  “Not getting into that. You can also curse people.”

  That made her pause.

  Her head slowly lifted.

  “…Wait. Actually?”

  “Not easily,” he admitted. “But yeah. If you’ve got their birth name, or Ren vector, or access to a soul-thread, you can send them, say… a plague of insight. Or rats.”

  Monique’s eyes lit up. “Connor.”

  Wait Ren vector was just a social security number. So… at that point she could also just do identity theft.

  She sat up straighter, already plotting in several morally gray directions.

  Connor smiled faintly.

  “So I am cool?”

  “You’re horrifying,” he said with deep affection. “But yes. You are, technically, very cool.”

  Monique allowed herself a small, smug grin. Just a little one.

  Then she crossed her arms and added, “Still depressing, though.”

  “Deeply,” Connor agreed.

  She rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue.

  Monique, now wrapped in her blanket like a cryptid scholar at a cursed slumber party, narrowed her eyes with renewed purpose.

  “Okay,” she said, one hand emerging from the fleece to gesture dramatically. “So what myths are real? Which ones did you lie to me about? What monsters are hanging out in the woods? Do I need salt? ”

  Connor blinked. Then sighed. “It’s… complicated.”

  “Connor.”

  He gave in, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Fine. Short version? Yes. “ She gave him a look.

  He rolled his eyes and continued. “Most myths are real. Most monsters are real. A lot of them are half-real. They existed once, and or still do, but not the way people think.”

  “Like?”

  “Wendigos or those types of beasties? Real. But they’re not just cannibals cursed by taboo - they’re psychic hunger constructs. Thought-forms that attach to famine and desperation. You think about them too long in the right place, they hatch in your head.”

  Monique stared. “Cool. No wilderness therapy for me, thanks.”

  “Werewolves?” he continued. “Sort of. I know one. It's a park ranger.”

  “Hot,” she said automatically.

  Connor pretended not to hear that.

  “Banshees? Real. Mostly barn owls, but also Harbingers. You hear one, someone close is going to die.”

  “Love that for me,” Monique muttered.

  “Fae? Let's not talk about it. They exist. Not just the pretty ones. Or tinkerbell and whatever. But there are entities that inspired the fae myths. They're... weirder. Less sparkle, more unsettling geometry and rules.”

  “Like my Ren? Or what?”

  Connor hesitated. “Different. Ren’s honest. Or at least comprehendible. The fae-things are conceptual tricksters. They play with perception. Reality becomes whimsical horror. Blue and Orange Morality. Very Alice in Wonderland on bad acid.”

  “…God.”

  “And yes,” Connor added, deadpan. “Salt helps. So does iron. And counting things.”

  Monique scribbled mental notes. “Okay but, yes we already discussed this but, what about, like… demons? Angels? Gods?”

  Connor’s expression darkened, just slightly.

  “They’re real,” he said. “But not like religion says. Or not just like that? Not as sides. Not as divine morality plays. Because humans made morality in that way. Like we made linear time. “

  We are just going to brush past that alright. “They're just... big. Ancient. Names no one speaks anymore because if you speak them wrong.”

  “Cool cool cool,” she said, wide-eyed. “So, the woods are full of monsters, the sky is full of eldritch Facebook notifications, and garlic is maybe effective.”

  “That’s the summary, yeah.”

  Monique leaned back, blanket once again enveloping her like a protective cocoon.

  Connor sighed.

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  Then she huffed.

  “Okay but what about Kellan? He called himself a key. A door. “

  Connor signed, leaning back against the small kitchen chair. She wondered if it felt nostalgic to him. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer to that particular question. “This is going to take a bit of an explanation.”

  Monique folded her arms over her chest and gave him another expectant look, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor. Blanket ruffling.

  He reached out and ruffled her hair, a familiar, annoying gesture. “You look like mom,” he grinned.

  She flushed, swatting his hand away. “Connor. The explanation.”

  He pouted, dramatically slumping in his seat. “Fine.”

  He reached down and got another folder from… somewhere. Monique was quite upset that she hadn't asked him where he got it from the first time. The sleek, black folder appeared to have materialized from thin air. But now she couldn't bring herself to ask, since that would be like admitting defeat. So much for self-actualization.

  “Right, yes… Kellan Bishop. Grandson of the honorable and valued member of our government Senator [Redacted]” Connor began, snapping the folder open and scanning the page.

  Monique interrupted him, leaning forward to try and read the document upside down. She noted “Wait they black inked the name of his grandpa? Why? Didn't he get eaten? Is that why?”

  Connor closed the folder with a sharp thwack. He looked directly at Monique, a faint shadow of annoyance crossing his features. He opened the folder again and said, meticulously straightening a corner of the paper. “I don't know. I was not the one responsible for this file. Also, no, it was the other grandpa that got eaten. Will you let me continue now or should I call whomever is responsible for the file first?”

  “Wow, sorry… drama queen! Please do continue if you have the time.” She responded, rolling her eyes and sinking back into her own chair.

  Connor glared, a little. He smoothed the front of his shirt.

  “I do in fact have the time.”

  Monique wisely said nothing and just waited for him to continue, picking at a loose thread.

  “So, unsurprisingly his family is from Ireland.” Connor began, again, tapping a finger on the paper.

  Wow, big brother, you sure are very business-like right now.

  “In his case it actually matters, since the connection is far more recent than you would usually expect from someone who claims that heritage.”

  Monique raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning his grandfather, this time I am talking about the one that was eaten, came here in the late eighties with his daughter.” Connor said.

  “Kellans mom?” She asked. Connor nodded.

  “Weird,” She said, tapping her chin with her index finger, considering. “I have never really heard him talk about her.”

  Soberly, Connor reached out and placed his hand flat on the desk, the gesture unusually heavy. "That's because she died. In… unfortunate circumstances.”

  Monique looked at him, studying his expression. “Saying it like that makes it sound like your people had something to do with it.”

  Connor shook his head, looking away. “Not to my knowledge.”

  Well, that was… reassuring. Maybe. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  Connor gave another sigh, running a hand through his hair, and returned his attention to the file. “His mothers maiden-name is Cross,” he frowned, leaning closer to the text and reading again. “Or maybe it's Ainsel?” he paused, tapping the file with a finger. "Apparently that's not quite clear.” He told her, distracted. “How is it not clear? It was the nineteen eighties, not the eighteen eighties… Should have asked when I visted… Or did I ask? ” he muttered under his breath.

  Monique fake coughed.

  Her big brother shook his head. “Right sorry.”

  Trying to get him back on track she leaned in and said, “What's Ainsel? That doesn't sound very… Well, I don't know what it sounds like but not Irish. Doesn't have 'mac' for example.”

  “I mean Mac has a specific meaning but regardless, Ainsel is a name from folklore.” Connor said, sounding scholarly.

  He looked at her like she was supposed to accept and understand that.

  Obviously she didn't.

  “Okay… Could you like elaborate? Perhaps?”

  Connor, taken somewhat aback by her directness, nodded. “Since you are not supposed to tell the Fae your name, you might instead say ‘I am myself.’ Me aan sel.”

  Monique gave a theatrical Oh, pressing a hand to her chest to let him know that she appreciated the explanation.

  “The fact that that is Their last name, might mean that their original last name was stolen and they picked this one, since it was all that was left. Obviously, this is guesswork, since we don't know for certain.”

  “And what does this mean for him?” Monique asked, getting to the core of the matter and gripping the edge of the desk.

  “It means that someone screwed around somewhere in his family's history.” Connor said, his voice flat.

  “Incredibly helpful.” She said, rolling her eyes and letting go of the desk. “What does that mean?”

  “Okay, he's not quite all there.” He said, holding up a hand. Monique met his eyes, daring him to elaborate. “Metaphysically speaking.” Connor continued, with pretend innocence, adjusting his collar. “I make no judgement otherwise.”

  “For fucks sake, Connor, start making sense.” She exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Please.”

  “Fine.” He sighed heavily, dropping his chin to his chest before looking up. “If you're a Reality Bender, and the opposite of that is a Reality Anchor, then he is… a Reality Boat.” Connor said, like that was a sensible statement in any way. She snorted.

  “You are deeply unserious.” Monique frowned, crossing her arms again.

  He rolled his eyes. “Okay, he has one foot in and one out. He's not very effective and not very affected.” Connor paused, frowning at his own wording. “Or is it effected?”

  “That makes a bit of sense… I guess?” Monique frowned, considering the bizarre analogy.

  “Well I can't really do any better so you'll need to accept that.” Connor closed the folder.

  “Great. Thanks for the explanation I guess.”

  “His grandmother… Granny, is really scary though. Kind of a bitch as well. “ Connor said.

  Monique froze. “Connor! Language! “

  He gave her a look. Well unlike him, she was allowed to swear. Regardless of his abject lack of manners she began to question him “Why. Did you meet her? If you did, why? And when? And how?”

  Connor raised a hand placatingly. “She wanted to meet me, and apparently you don't say no, when Granny Cross “ He frowned “Now its Cross i thought it was Ainsel “ he shook his head continuing his earlier statement “wants to meet you.” Before answering the last of her statements he stared longingly at one of the cups close to the dishwasher. “I think it was a year or so? After his kidney - liver? Organ, regrew. When I semi recruited him to keep an eye on you. Which he obviously did, considering the whole boyfriend thing. “

  Monique huffed “That was my idea, he had no say in the matter.”

  “Right, maybe don’t say that without explaining the situation further. “ He gave her a short glare before switching back to the previous topic

  “No questions about calling her a bitch?” Connor said, a smirk playing on his lips. He stood up and began to make coffee.

  She bent down and picked the blanket back up. Monique folded her arms, the blanket shifting like a second skin made of passive-aggression and eldritch suspicion. A second skin that had evidently fallen to the floor, during the conversation.

  “People disappear, Connor. Like really disappear. Sometimes for years. Sometimes forever. And sometimes they come back wrong.” she began. “And before Thursday, Holy Shit this all started on fucking Thursday because of fucking Shane…” She swore.

  She shook her head. Because he was her older brother, he nicely ignored her hypocrisy. “Anyway, before Thursday, I wouldn't even have questioned that. People get lost, so what. But now. “

  She gave him a poignant look and asked “ Are there Other Realms? Dimensions, Worlds whatever”

  Connor said nothing.

  She leaned over, eyes narrowing.

  “Connor is that because they accidentally venture into another dimension?”

  She tapped her chin, theatrically “ Some more - or less -stable than this one.”

  He opened his mouth.

  She raised a hand. “Don’t.”

  A beat.

  “I don’t know how I know that,” she admitted, expression twisting. “And on second thought, that’s probably more concerning than you not getting into the nitty gritty.”

  Connor slowly closed his mouth. Rubbed a hand over his face.

  “Goddammit,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s already bleeding through.”

  “What is?” she demanded, voice sharp.

  He looked at her, tired. Honest.

  “Other Realms. Insert Appropriate terminology here, I am sure you get it. " He paused "They all exist. And the more aware you are - the more resonant - the more the lines blur.”

  She blinked.

  “They bleed into your thoughts,” he said. “Memories from parallel timelines. Places you've never been.” He said, then he noted something “Oh yeah parallel timelines … basically everything that could happen in two ways creates a fork in the timeline. Not just decisions, but on a sub-atomic scale. Realities similar to each other, they get randomly merged together. “ he babbled.

  Monique stared blankly. He continued despite her incredulity. “Words you never heard spoken but somehow remember. It’s not insanity, well it kinda is, but at some point you have to accept that sanity is contextual and-.”

  “You’re saying its proximity. “ She interrupted.

  Connor blinked “…Yes actually”

  “So im accessing a multiversal Wifi and accidentally downloading?!” She asked, almost accusatory.

  “Yes, that's not just a you thing though. ” he said grimly. “ You're also the router. Which is also not just a you thing, every person is a decision matrix. But you are… a higher dimensional matrix?”

  Monique looked down at her hands.

  “That explains shower thoughts.”

  He nodded. “Kinda. It also explains why your dreams might start talking back.”

  She groaned, collapsing back into the chair. “So I’m haunted, hot, no longer metaphysically unstable, spiritually loud, and now dimensionally porous?”

  Connor gave her a look.

  “You always were.”

  She stared at the ceiling. No choice in the matter anyways.

  “Okay. Fine. I accept this.”

  Then, from her phone:

  Kellan:

  so u divine or what lolbc if u r i have some ?confessions? to make

  She made a noise. It might have been a laugh. Or a shriek. Connor gave her a look.

  Okay…” Monique muttered, rubbing her temples as though that might massage her back into alignment. “I need to process this.”

  Connor wisely didn’t say a word. He just handed her one of the cups of coffee like an offering.

  She took it. Sipped. Grimaced.

  She turned to go, then paused.

  Connor began to say something.

  Monique ignored him, scrolling her phone. Kellan’s text still hovered there, a flashing neon sign of boyfriend energy.

  “I’m going to grab Kellan now,” she said, smiling just a little. “Since he apparently wants to talk and possibly sin.”

  Connor visibly flinched. “Monique -”

  “Thank you for the explanation,” she interrupted sweetly, turning and walking backward toward the door. “I really appreciate it.”

  She let the blanket slide off her shoulders as she left, heading upstairs to get dressed for meeting Kellan, not just talking to her brother.

  She was still tired.

  Still annoyed.

  Still cosmically confused. And hungry.