Alone again in his room. It had only been a week or so since he had been in the same situation, only with a pulse. Though he didn't miss it when it was gone. After standing there a moment, he took himself over to look in the mirror and check for scars on his face.

Nothing.

Not to say, there were no scars. There was no reflection. He twisted his face into a scowl and left the bathroom. He flopped back onto his bed, wondering if he could open the door in his current state. Hell, can't ghosts walk through doors? Was it worth trying?

What would be the consequence? Surely he'd just hit a solid object, as if nothing had changed. He sat upright and, feeling rediculus, tried to reach his hand through his headboard.

Tap.

Of course it was solid. It was foolish to think otherwise. He laid back down and reconsidered sleeping. By now he was accustomed to waking up confused, and the feeling of a good night's sleep was tempting. For that matter, he had nothing to do in the meantime. At least until Lucy got back, he was trapped in this room again.

But remembering when he thought he was alive earlier made him think it over. It was cruel to think people would react to him, that he would be seen and that he could breathe. He knit his brow and rubbed at his face, trying to decide. Maybe it wouldn't happen again. If only he could leave a note or something to remind himself when he woke up... Lucy had left her pen and clipboard, and it suddenly occured to him that he could leave a note- not for himself- but for her.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood upright. If he had any, the blood would have rushed from his head at the suddenness. The pen was right there, on his nightstand. Paper with useless markings and little doodles, paper Lucy hadn't let out of her hand all day. Surely she would see anything he left, any sort of mark.

With resolve written on his face, he reached to it, holding the breath he didn't have.

And he held it. The smile on his face was wider than he could ever remember. In a second he had the cap off and was ready to write.

But what to say? Clay wasn't one to be lost for words by any means, but this was different. How do you tell someone you're dead, but okay? Regardless of what he wrote, she would have an even harder time letting go if she knew he was still here. Is that what he wanted?

Of course it was. Being alone like this was intolerable. Able to see and hear people he knew, but unable to be heard or seen. Anything was better than nothing. Still holding the pen just above the page, he racked his brain for words. Not a single one came to mind. Maybe a simple, "I'm here"? No, too ambiguous. She wouldn't know who. It had to be something she knew he had written, and wasn't a prank by a particularily nasty coworker. Something too simple could be mistaken for one of her own doodles.

For the longest time he stood there, unsure of what to say. Something like this wouldn't be easy for her to read. The sound of the pen tapping the clipboard was unreasonably loud in the quiet of his room. But in a good way. Knowing he had made a sound that others could hear- if they were around- was a great feeling. Through the pen he'd gotten his voice back.

The words came to him. He scratched them out before the idea was fully formed in his head.

"BEHIND THE MIRROR IS A CRACK. -C"

The effort of writing was surprisingly tiring. By the time he'd signed with a "C", his arm was heavy and weak. Again, he supposed it made sense. Being able to hold the pen at all is what didn't.

He fell back to his bed, the sheets not reacting to the weight. The tiredness came without warning, and he felt completely spent. It was as if he had just had a fourteen-hour session with no breaks.

No, sixteen hours.

Sudden fatigue made sleep seem like a better idea, and the promised confusion would be worth it. The pillows had never felt softer.

Clay slept.

When he awoke, he had no idea what time it was. Yet, he was sure it was August 2012 and he was positive his name was Clay. Knowing those things usually meant a good day was ahead. He stretched out and lay there for a while, content in his bed. It was nice to wake up and not see Lucy or Vidic, more than eager to put him in the Animus for another session. Though the bed was comfortable, he was not one for idle time. He sat upright and stretched his arms out, wondering what he could do until his door was unlocked.

Without knowing why, he glaned over to his nightstand. As always it was empty, but that seemed wrong somehow. Something was supposed to be there...

He checked behind him, noticing the door was open. Unusual. Peering through the door he saw nothing else abnormal- the other doors were all shut and the red light over the control pads told him they were locked. But someone must have opened his door. He looked around, not sure what he expected to find.

Nothing. Confused, he headed to his washroom to have some water. The mirror had been lifted and Lucy stood there, back to him, staring at something in her hand. Clay instinctively checked the small crack under the mirror. It had been pulled back, and it's contents were gone.

Lucy just stood there, seeming unaware of his presence. Her clipboard lay on the floor, covered in doodles and chicken scratch. One particular message stood out, written in capital letters overtop of a particularily happy seahorse. It wasn't her hand. Clay looked at it closer and tried to read it without letting Lucy know what he was doing.

He immedietely realized what it was. Memory came back to him, unpleasantly familiar memory of his suicide and of following Lucy to his funeral. Memory of the pathetic gathering and distasteful choice of songs. And a pleasant memory, too. The hillside where Lucy had finally validated that he was missed. He smiled ruefully and turned his attention back to Lucy. She was still lost in the recovered item, as if she hadn't seen it in years. Clay moved in front of her and tried to read her face, confident she wouldn't see him.

Even with no one around she still kept her mask on. She was expressionless as she stared unbroken into her hand, but the faint redness and glassiness of her eyes gave her away. Her lip was strong and she kept the tears back, but to Clay she may as well have been sobbing. He wished he could comfort her. Tell her she would be okay. She needed someone to tell her she would be okay. She wouldn't believe it, but she needed to hear it. Seeing her like this was torture.

"You'll be okay. I'm alright, I want you to be too."

She looked up with a start, scanning the room. Surprise and confusion was written on her face. Her fist closed and her posture straightened, as though she had been caught doing something she shouldn't. Slowly her expression faded into doubt and uncertainty.

"Is someone there?" She asked hesitantly, as if she was afraid of the answer.