Mysteries Visitor: Part 2.

On the oak table, where the figure had laid its slender, luminous hand, a single object now sat: a shard of glass no larger than a matchbox. It wasn't there when Elias had finally fallen asleep, clutching the iron poker like a prayer. Yet there it was — humming.

You were not supposed to follow.

And behind it, the sky was beginning to crack. mysteries visitor part 2.

The being stepped closer. Elias could smell ozone and rain and something older — the dust of ancient libraries, the silence between heartbeats.

No longer a silhouette. It had form now: a tall being of shifting geometries, its surface a slow kaleidoscope of deep blues and golds. Seven eyes — or what served as eyes — arranged in a ring around what might have been a head. No mouth. Yet it spoke. On the oak table, where the figure had

The first visit was an accident, it continued. A tear in the veil. A ripple from a dying star three thousand years ago. You saw me because the storm bent time. But you were never meant to remember.

Elias opened his mouth to argue. He hadn't followed. He had simply touched a piece of glass. But the being raised a hand — three fingers, too long — and the protest died in his throat. You were not supposed to follow

I cannot, said the visitor. Only the Anchor's keeper can. And now — it pointed one long finger at Elias's chest — that is you. Elias woke on his cabin floor, the iron poker digging into his ribs, the fire long dead. Dawn was still bleeding through the window. Only seconds had passed. But the shard was real — warm in his palm, its tiny galaxy spinning.