The crows cried at the same moment.
Veil opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
He did not sit up. He did not reach for the blanket. He only lay there, listening as the sound faded into the same cold silence he remembered from before.
Remembered.
The thought disturbed him enough that he rose at once.
The crack in the beam was unchanged. The room smelled the same—damp straw, wet timber, that faint bitterness in the air. Even the chill against his bare feet felt familiar in a way cold should not.
He dressed more slowly than the morning before, watching each movement of his hands.
Shirt.
Belt.
Boots.
Nothing faltered. Nothing changed. It was as though his body knew the sequence better than he did.
Before leaving, he noticed a small shard of polished metal leaning beside the wall. He frowned at it. He did not recall placing it there. Yet the moment he saw it, he felt as if he had already known it would be there.
He picked it up.
The metal was scratched and uneven, but it reflected enough.
A young face stared back at him. Pale skin. Dark hair falling untidily over his brow. Features leaner than they should have been at seventeen, sharper for the lack of softness. Not striking, exactly. Quiet. Hard to hold in the eye for long.
His eyes were the most arresting thing about him.
Dark, steady, and carrying a fatigue that did not belong to someone his age.
Veil lowered the shard.
Outside, the village began to wake.
A door opened to his left.
Then another.
Then another.
Each sound arrived at the same interval, as though measured.
He stood still and listened until unease turned heavy in his stomach.
Old Maren was at her door.
Same posture. Same cane. Same patient face.
"Good morning," she said.
Veil said nothing.
Her expression did not alter.
"Good morning," she repeated.
Same tone. Same breath. The words had no irritation in them, no confusion at being ignored. They returned polished and complete, untouched by his silence.
"…Morning," he said at last.
Then he walked on.
Behind him, her door closed.
Exactly the same.
The square opened ahead.
"Fresh fish! A fine catch today!"
Too early.
Veil stopped dead.
His eyes fixed on the stall. The old man was there already, cutting fish in measured motions. The knife rose and fell with the same angle, the same pace, the same pause before each turn of the wrist.
Veil crossed the square.
The old man looked up.
"Would you like to try the bitter root drink?"
No hesitation. No greeting. As though the question had been waiting for him.
Veil stared.
The cup was already there.
Offered.
Waiting.
"No," he said.
The old man did not blink.
"Would you like to try the bitter root drink?"
Same tone. Same cadence. Same placement of the hand.
The back of Veil's neck went cold.
He stepped away from the stall and looked toward the western wall.
Empty.
The man was not there.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, though it did little to steady him, and let his gaze drift toward the edge of the square.
The flower cart stood there.
Same place.
Same flowers.
Red and gold. Fresh enough to seem unreal.
He approached it more cautiously this time, waiting for the hush, the strange thinning of sound.
Nothing happened.
The square continued around him. Buyers argued. A child cried. Someone laughed. Farther off, gulls wheeled over the shore.
Then the fishmonger's cry came again.
Once.
Only once.
Normal.
Or close enough to normal that Veil could almost have convinced himself he had imagined the difference.
Almost.
He stood before the flowers for several long breaths before turning away.
He did not know what was happening.
But it had happened twice.
That was enough to make denial difficult.