He woke without knowing he'd fallen asleep.
The room was dim. Not dark — dim like the air had forgotten how to carry light. Pipes hissed above him. Water dripped with no rhythm. Something somewhere ticked like a dying clock.
He sat up too fast. Didn't feel dizzy. Didn't feel anything.
Except the weight in his chest. The kind that made silence feel heavier than sound.
Kesh wasn't there.
She'd left a strip of dried food and a note scratched into a rust-plate:
Don't move. Back soon. Don't touch the wall.
He stared at the wall.
It stared back.
He didn't know how long he waited.
Time wasn't working right. Either the clock in the corner had broken or it was pretending to tick just to keep him calm.
He stood. Walked a slow circle. Tapped his knuckles against his ribs.
Still nothing.
The spiral on his wrist pulsed, soft and steady. Its lines were darker now. Not ink. Not scab. Something in between. Like the mark wasn't drawn — it had always been under the skin, waiting to rise.
He reached into his coat pocket.
Empty.
No anchor. No token. No thread to hold him steady.
That's when he realized something else.
He didn't remember what his voice sounded like.
The wall moved.
Only a little. Just enough to unnerve him.
It didn't breathe. It shifted — like someone behind it had leaned forward. The air got tighter. The drip in the ceiling paused, waiting.
Then Kesh came back.
She slammed the door shut and kicked a sack across the floor. "They're watching the next tier. Lower surveyors are stirring. Had to loop around a full level."
He looked at her.
She didn't meet his eyes right away. Just started unpacking things: small food pouches, a red-thread compass, a dull-gleam knife.
Then she paused.
"You touched the wall."
He nodded.
"Of course you did."
She made him sit.
Then she reached into her coat and pulled out a flat circle of bone.
It was smooth, pale, marked with a spiral just like his, except older. Worn down at the edges. It looked like it had passed through too many hands.
"This is yours now," she said.
He hesitated.
Kesh didn't offer things.
"This is how you keep from becoming nothing. When the numbness gets bad. When the dreams get close. You press this to your heart and you remember."
She held it up.
"No one else can anchor you."
He took it.
It was warm.
They ate without talking.
Something had shifted between them. Not trust. Not yet. But something like recognition.
She looked at him differently now.
Like she'd stopped expecting him to quit.
He slept again. This time he didn't dream.
Not until just before waking.
He saw the spiral again — but not on his wrist.
It was overhead, burned into the sky.
And below it, hundreds of children.
All staring upward. All silent.
One of them turned to him, mouth moving with no sound.
But he knew what it said.
"You're not the first."
Then the light split.
And he woke up holding the anchorbone tight against his chest.