Emily Crea.

  The name repeated in his mind, taunting him about how long it had taken to remember her. Of course, his mind would never be satisfied with torturing him with that alone, so it also focused on Eve Emery, who they were currently on the way to see.

  The cart rolled down the street, tension enveloping everyone standing around him. With every shake, his mind alternated between his two main worries. Would she remember what he and Noah had been discussing over her bed? And what would she do with that knowledge if she did?

  For God’s sake, they’d discussed grimoires and the possibility of Oliver using one to transmigrate. He might as well be walking around with a large sign that read NOT FROM THIS WORLD. I AM A TRANSMIGRATION VICTIM.

  John stood beside him, worry etched onto his face. Peter had tried engaging him in conversation multiple times, but he looked as though he were still debating whether or not this was real. After all, he’d just gotten his son back, and now his wife? Zach knew life rarely blessed someone like that.

  For the hundredth time, Zach considered jumping out of the wagon right then and there, considered running as far and as fast as he could, just to get away from this mess.

  Does Noah already know?

  He’d left before he could tell Lucas about the possibility that she’d overheard them, but who knew? Those two were strange enough; they might as well have had some way to communicate with one another.

  A strong hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up and found Peter looking down on him, a smile on his face. He nodded his head encouragingly, saying, “Creation itself is looking out for you, yeah? It couldn’t take you, and it couldn’t take your mother, either.”

  “It took Leo, though,” John said roughly from the other side.

  “I know, John,” Peter said softly. “But at least you got Eve, yeah?”

  “Creation created the sorrow we all lived with—live with—for years. It’s about damn time we get some sort of break, if you ask me.”

  Zach glanced at John, the subtle hint of bitterness in his voice catching his attention.

  “That’s John for you,” Peter said, patting Zach’s arm. “With a will strong enough to come for Creation itself.”

  “As long as it keeps its claws off of my family, it can Create whatever it wants.”

  Zach was vaguely aware that what John was saying was considered blasphemy. Or would’ve been had society still been practicing religion.

  Still, by the looks on the others’ faces—Peter and the man who’d brought the message, Zach had never gotten his name—they still had a hard time hearing John’s cynicism.

  Thankfully, the medical ward appeared up ahead, and they were all spared from more of John’s remarks.

  To his surprise, there was already a small group waiting outside the ward, all of them eager to see Eve Emery. As they dismounted the wagon, Zach heard talk from some of them, and he just realized how long she’d been in the coma.

  Three and a half weeks! And she just happened to wake up the exact moment Noah and I were in the room? That’s a heck of a coincidence.

  Like before, on the execution platform, the crowd parted itself at his arrival, none of them willing to get too close to the Dreamer who should’ve never been allowed out of the Dreamhold. Those were the exact words one of them used. But he was too worried to pay it any mind.

  This was the moment of truth.

  The woman he’d found sitting at the table in the hallway earlier in the day now stood outside, explaining that none of them could see Eve yet. Of course, such cautions did not apply to her family, so John and Zach went right in.

  The minute Zach walked through the front doors, something came over him. A wave of anticipation that he couldn’t explain. It felt like a part of him was actually excited to see his mother, all his fond memories of her strengthening the connection between them, making the need to see her that much greater.

  The oily wall seemed to shake, unable to hold the emotion that threatened to break loose. But what emotion was it? What exactly was trying to get to him so badly?

  “Oliver?” John asked, his voice full of worry. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine,” he said on reflex.

  Just then, a particular memory came to him. A memory of Oliver and his mother.

  He remembered how she’d walked in on him one day as he sat by the window, watching people walk by on the street outside their old house, on the outskirts of the old city. He’d seen couples, he’d seen friends, he’d seen family, but most of all, he’d seen connection.

  Inexplicably, he’d wondered if he’d ever achieve that level of connection with anyone. A thought Oliver had clearly clung to, expressing it even in the pages of his journal they’d found on the door.. His mother had looked at him, an odd look on her face, and had answered, “Of course, you will, Ol.”

  But even as she’d said that, Oliver had known that wasn’t true, that it would never be true. He simply wasn’t destined to form a connection with anyone or anything. The closest he would ever come was through trying to please as many people as he could.

  Being in Oliver’s body, experiencing his thoughts and emotions, he knew that had been the one thing Oliver craved more than anything. To forge a simple connection with something, with someone, with friends, with family—that’s what he’d spent his entire life chasing, short as it was.

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  Why am I remembering this now?

  Then it came to him with startling clarity.

  It was his own emotional link to his real mother beyond the wall that had brought this on. As for the question of why that memory in particular, well, that had been a pivotal moment for Oliver, that’s why the memory stood out the way it did.

  “Oliver,” John said, searching his face for any obvious sign of trouble. “If you want me to go in before you, I’ll explain that it was too much, alright? Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it.”

  This is wrong.

  The thought screamed at him, breaking through the wall. This support was wrong. He held his head at the confusion that threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to scream, to run, to tune this whole experience out.

  “I’m fine,” he said hoarsely.

  John studied him a while longer, then eventually relented, continuing on down the hallway. Why had that seemed wrong? John’s words, indeed, his very manner seemed to touch his mind as if he’d heard the sky was green. Everything just felt wrong.

  They finally reached the end of the long hallway, turning into the door to the left of the hall. And there she sat in the hospital bed, Eve Emery, Oliver’s mother. The idea of connection now coupled with the feeling of comfort, a sensation he cringed away from.

  She sat in conversation with Ava, the two of them chatting like old friends catching up over coffee, or in this case, boiled potato and some brown stew. Ava noticed their arrival first, getting up off the side of the bed where she sat.

  Eve followed her gaze and froze with the spoon halfway to her mouth. No one dared move. No one dared say a single word. Ava alone threw her glance between the three of them, and even she took a minute before announcing that she would wait outside to give them some privacy.

  “I thought I was dreaming when I saw you,” Eve said at last, a warm and loving smile forming on her face. “You’re really back.”

  Zach felt himself shy away from that face, from the open affection coloring her voice.

  “Evie,” John finally said, walking across the room and hugging her.

  They stayed in that embrace for what seemed like an eternity before they pulled apart. Her eyes were hesitant to leave his face, but when they did, they latched right on Zach’s, that same affectionate expression from before, there once more.

  Zach felt his stomach hollow out at its sight. The image of Eve Emery blurred for a moment into an outline filled with gray static like a television screen in between channels.

  Where there should’ve been defining features, there were only endless black swirls dripping with an oily substance. That substance leaked down her static face from eyes swirling like an endless spiral as the woman looked straight at him.

  She was Oliver’s mom, he knew, but his brain could only view this as his mother. And with her ghostly, half-remembered image came a lot of other emotions. Emotions that left him feeling weak and unsteady.

  “Ol,” Eve said, the gray thing once more having her features. “We’re alright now. You came back, and I woke up. We’re alright.” She finished the sentence with her arms opening for an embrace.

  But Zach felt the emotions from his previous life washing over him.

  That was wrong. His parents hadn’t shown him this much care, this much affection. No one had. He’d learned to live that way his entire life. Why were they showing this much care for him now?

  “This isn’t right,” he muttered, unable to stop himself. “I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Eve pushed aside the covers and got out of bed. On somewhat steady feet, she made her way over to him, kneeling in front of him and cupping his cheeks. “Oliver, there is nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. None of this is your fault.”

  Suddenly, the emotion coming from Oliver’s memories brought tears to his eyes at seeing this woman again. His own from beyond that wall quickly flooded in alongside it.

  “I won’t cry,” he said sternly, tears already falling from his eyes.

  “Ol,” Eve said with a shaky breath, “it’s okay if you cry. You’re allowed to cry.”

  She pulled him into a hug, her scent and warmth enveloping him completely.

  As comforting as that embrace was, it didn’t change the fact that he remembered crying was wrong. He shouldn’t ever cry. Shame twisted his gut when he remembered he’d already cried more than once since awakening in this body.

  “I won’t cry,” he repeated, feeling the urgency to hold back his tears.

  This was all him; none of this was Oliver.

  Eve pulled back, glancing back at John, who stood just behind her in case she needed support.

  “I promise I won’t cry,” he said to himself, struggling to hold back the tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. They just started falling. I promise I’m okay, I’m not crying. I’m not weak, I promise you I’m not weak. I won’t cry again, you’ll see. I’ll be strong. I am strong.”

  “Oliver, what’s gotten into you?” Eve asked, the concern on her face hitting him harder.

  “I’m fine,” he answered, his throat on fire from what felt like years of unshed tears. “You know me, I’ll be okay. I’m always okay.”

  Zach caught himself, looked between them, then turned and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

  What was wrong with him?

  “Stop crying,” he hissed to himself, slapping his right cheek hard enough that he felt the pain on the other side of his face. “Stop it!”

  He slapped the other side just as hard, the pain complementing the other cheek.

  “You don’t cry! You know you don’t cry. Stop it!”

  Every smack he gave himself seemed to push back the tears, his face already going numb from the abuse. His mind was settling, that oily wall stabilizing again. He stood there in the hall, taking deep breaths, allowing the pain in his face to spread as far as it could.

  Finally, his mind calmed enough so that he could ask himself, “What the hell is sitting behind that wall?”

  He’d wanted nothing more than to shout at Eve to stop smiling at him, to stop looking at him like that, like every worry she’d ever had in life had melted away the second she’d seen his face. Her son’s face, he told himself. It wasn’t for you. Don’t forget that.

  “Are you alright?” a voice asked.

  Ava and Lucas stood to the right, watching him with concerned expressions. He was at a loss for words, but Lucas quickly came to his rescue.

  “I know how you feel,” he said, putting his hand on his shoulder. “ I felt the same way when my dad came back from the hospital before the war. It’s almost hard to believe you could be that lucky, isn’t it? Not everyone leaves a medical bed once they’re brought in. But enjoy it. You have your mom back.”

  He looked up at Lucas, offering him a weak and forced smile.

  So they hadn’t seen his entire outbreak. Surely one of them would’ve brought up his hitting himself.

  A small mercy.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I just can’t believe she’s back.”