Chapter XXIX: The Return to Silence
Morning comes with the lie of normalcy.
Nathaniel Cross wakes to the sound of his alarm clock rattling on the nightstand, shrill and relentless, as though it doesn't care what he has survived. He slaps it quiet, hand heavy, eyes crusted from too little rest. For a long time, he lies still, watching the pale bands of light cut across the ceiling. No cracks. No silver veins. Just plaster, bland and ordinary.
It should comfort him. It doesn't.
The ember in his chest still smolders faintly, a pulse beneath skin, a ghost of what happened in the inverted cathedral. He touches the scar through his shirt, fingers curling, as if holding back a flood. For the first time, it does not burn. It waits.
He swings his legs off the bed. The floor is cold, grounding, but every step feels like it carries the echo of another world. His flat is quiet—too quiet. No ticking. No knocking. Just the hum of pipes. But he knows silence now has weight, and that weight follows him into the kitchen.
He eats toast. He makes tea. He stares at the steam rising from the cup, and it looks almost silver in the light before it fades into nothing. He shakes his head, forces the bread down his throat, forces the tea past the knot there.
Today is a day like any other. That is what he tells himself.
Because today, he must go back.
The city greets him as though nothing has changed.
Cars roll down wet streets, splashing rainwater into gutters. People crowd bus stops, clutching phones and coffee cups. Office workers in grey coats hurry across crossings with the rhythm of bees leaving a hive.
And yet—he cannot unsee.
The glass windows of shopfronts glint strangely, their reflections just a second too slow. The pigeons on rooftops move in jerks, as though their wings are tied to invisible strings. And above, the clouds stretch flat across the sky, like a painted ceiling waiting to peel.
Every ordinary moment looks rehearsed.
Every sound feels half a beat late.
But Nathaniel walks. Past Ludgate. Past Blackfriars. Past corners where shadows whisper memory. His scarf is tight around his throat, his satchel heavy with books and notes. He holds them like anchors. Because today, he must be Nathaniel Cross, second-year engineering student.
Not Nathaniel Cross, fractured hourglass.
Not Nathaniel Cross, haunted door.
King's College looms with its glass and stone façade, modern stitched against history, too clean against the grey of the Thames. Students push through its doors in chattering streams, voices carrying the weather, the football scores, deadlines looming next week.
Nathaniel breathes once before stepping inside. The familiar smell of coffee from the café kiosk. The scrape of shoes against polished floors. The muffled laughter from stairwells.
It feels real.
It feels human.
And yet, it feels like he's trespassing.
The lecture theatre hums with the sound of students settling. Laptops flick open, pens click, notebooks rustle. A projector warms with a mechanical sigh.
Nathaniel slides into a seat at the edge, his satchel dropping with a dull thud. He spreads his notebook before him, its cover worn, its spine creased. His fingers hover over the pen. Write. Take notes. Be normal.
But his eyes drift upward.
The lights above flicker once.
Just once.
No one else notices.
Professor Aldridge enters, his tweed jacket smelling faintly of rain. He adjusts his spectacles, shuffles notes, clears his throat.
"Today," he begins, voice steady as chalk lines, "we move into the thing we called moment, and it might ring a bell if you tidy a bit into momentum. In Statics, it's a cherry of a pie or a different kettle of fish this topic is. We are now ready to consider a force F acting on a rigid body. As we know, the force F is represented by a vector that defines its magnitude and direction. However, the effect-"
Normal words. Normal lecture. Equations bloom across the whiteboard, steady lines of force, tension, and resistance. Students type, heads bowed.
Nathaniel tries to follow. He really does. His pen scratches, copying numbers, variables. But halfway through a formula, the pen jerks in his hand.
Not him. The pen itself.
It writes a curve against the page, smooth, deliberate, not his own.
And when he stares at it—
An hourglass takes shape.
He snaps the notebook shut. His pulse races. He forces himself to glance around.
No one saw.
No one cared.
The lecture drones on.
He presses a hand to his chest, to the ember. The scar warms faintly, not burning, not demanding. Just watching.
And for the first time in weeks—Nathaniel makes a choice.
He opens the notebook again.
And he doesn't erase the hourglass.
The day drags, but it drags like gravity: inevitable, grounding. Nathaniel forces himself through it. Problem sets. Group discussions. Equations spilling across his mind. Each moment anchors him further, reminding him what it is to live as a student, not a vessel.
At lunch, he sits with classmates he barely spoke to before. He nods when they talk about assignments, even manages a smile when one of them cracks a joke about the cafeteria's "mystery meat." It feels thin, but it feels real.
The ember in his chest quiets. Not gone, but listening.
He realizes then—normalcy is not an escape. It is resistance.
By the time classes end, London's sky is bleeding red into black. The Thames reflects it, dark and alive. Nathaniel walks home with his satchel heavier, but his steps steadier.
The city feels quieter tonight. No watching windows. No whispering statues. Just the low hum of traffic, the smell of wet stone, the neon glow of shopfronts flickering awake.
He stops on the bridge, hands gripping the railing. For a long time, he just looks. The river moves this time. Real current. Real tide.
For the first time, he lets himself breathe.
The ember in his chest pulses once. Warm. Agreeing.
And Nathaniel Cross, fractured and stitched, whispers to the water:
"I'm not done yet."
The river carries it away.
Nathaniel walks home, the weight of his books dragging his shoulder, the warmth of the ember steady in his chest. The world has not returned to normal. It never will.
But he has.
And that is enough.