You close the door behind you.

You throw your keys on the counter.

You are home.

You sit.

You sit for a long time.

You wait for it to come. For... the reality of it to crash down upon you.

But it doesn't. It stands at the end of the hall, watching you with curiosity.

Because you could just REGRESS. Turn it back. Be back in Arcadia Bay. Tell Damien that you'll figure it out. Tell Damien to come back. Tell Damien you'll work through this.

Tell Damien lie after lie.

In three days, this will become real.

In three days, you will realize what you have done.

In three days, there will be no going back.

And only then will you know who you truly are.

You sit.

It grows dark, but you do not turn on the lights.

You sit, and stare at your alarm clock. Stare at those blue digital numbers, bright and fuzzy in the darkness.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You open the door of the cafe.

The bell chimes.

You sit in your usual booth.

Sarah spots you, comes over with your usual. But she's not smiling. She looks stern as hell.

"You've been doing it," she says quietly.

You nod. You look down at your coffee. It's iced. You frown.

She sighs. "Did you look at your phone at all, yesterday? There was something I needed to tell you."

"Sarah," you whisper. You reach out and touch her wrist. Her skin feels cold. "Three days. In three days, I promise—I'll explain everything. Everything. But I'm never... I'm never doing that again."

She catches your hand and squeezes it challengingly. There's a graveness in her eyes, though. "And how can I believe you, chronographer?"

You manage a weak smile. "That's what friends do, right?"

"We aren't ordinary friends."

You swallow at that. "True. But I'm willing to give it a try."

She drops your hand and tousles your hair. "That's the last thing either of us want," she says wryly.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You look up.

The city is burning.

Steel. Concrete. Glass. Cement. All is aflame, all is afire, all is bright. You walk upon the skin of a star.

Color was born and color died and long time ago. All is grey. All is black. Red is within, red is without.

The sky is black, roiling. Sparks come down like rain. Embers flutter like swarms of smoking fireflies.

You see them—the withered husks of people, once-people, charred to blackness, reaching out to you with skeletal hands. Their weeping, their cursing—it is lost in the roaring music of the flames.

You brush past them. As they touch you, they collapse away into the dust and join the ash on the wind.

But not all.

One hand grips your shoulder, and holds fast. You turn—and there stands Kurt, all but cremated, his nose and ears and lips and eyes burnt away. But he sees you, and you see him. It's been such a long time.

And another hand—you turn, and see Damien, mostly whole. The flames lap at his flesh, slowly eroding him like an old photograph. But his eyes shine. No hate, no wrath—just anguish in those eyes.

And then you see it.

The dog.

It sits there on angular, smooth haunches, waiting. Eyes like red searchlights. Still as stone.

It opens its mouth, opens so wide as to swallow all things that ever were and ever will be, and its beautiful-terrible song deafens the unborn and the living and the dead: "COME AND SEE," it whispers.

Your best friends release you, and fade away into the smoke.

You walk towards dog. It stands, inclining its head to you, and turns, trotting slowly into the flames.

And this time, you follow.