6. False Security #3
The morning went off without a hitch. He and Grey were out in the pasture closest to the main house, clearing the brush from a recent storm.
They were tossing heavy, overflowing bags of yard clippings onto a designated burn pile, talking quietly about anything and everything—and nothing at all—as brothers are known to do.
It was mundane, rhythmic, grounding work, and Garrett enjoyed every minute of it.
Grey reached down into the bed of the utility vehicle, pulling out a thick coil of coarse hemp rope. "Here. Tie off that last bundle so it doesn’t spill over."
"Got it," Garrett said, stepping forward.
Reaching out, he took the rope. The rough, abrasive texture of the fibers hit the center of his palm– and BAM! Everything changed.
The blinding daylight instantly vanished, swallowed by a cold, silver expanse of moonlight.
He was looking down at his own hands. He wasn’t holding hemp rope.
His fingers moved with intense, practiced dexterity, pulling a thin, vibrant strand of blue silk taut.
He looped it. Tucked it. His fingers worked with practiced familiarity as he pulled a complicated, heavy knot tight against something solid.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the image slammed shut.
Garrett stumbled back a full foot, the hemp rope dropping from his hand into the dry grass. Panting, his chest heaving as the blazing Texas sun rushed back into his vision, his eyes burned, and he couldn’t catch his breath.
He couldn’t dismiss it this time. He couldn’t blame it on vertigo or a foggy mind. He remembered the oak tree. The moonlight was the exact same hue. The angle of his hand was identical. The striking blue fabric was the exact same color.
These fragments didn’t just feel similar– they belonged together. He knew that now with terrifying certainty.
Grey’s sharp eyes tracked the movement instantly. Dropping his side of the brush, his posture turned rigid as he stepped toward Garrett. "What happened? What did you see, Bro?"
Garrett opened his mouth to say nothing. The instinct to protect his family, to lock his weaknesses away in a dark room, flared up instantly. But then Sydney’s voice echoed in the back of his mind, fierce and unyielding: "Then trust me."
He had made a promise. He was done hiding.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Garrett looked up into his brother's intense gaze.
"I had a flash," he admitted, his voice raw.
"The same moonlight as the tree. My hands...
I was tying a knot. With something blue.
" Running his hands through his hair, he blew out an exasperated breath.
“It happened. It had to have happened. I remember it.”
By evening, the quiet of the cottage felt entirely different.
Garrett stood by the living room window, staring out into the twilight while he told Sydney everything.
He didn't leave out a single detail. He told her about the silver light, the texture of the silk, the calculated, fluid movement of his own fingers as he tied the knot.
Sydney went entirely still on the sofa. He wondered if she was even breathing. Thankfully, she spoke.
"Do you think it's an old memory?" she asked softly, her voice laced with a deep, aching concern. "Something from... before? From your time with…?"
Garrett turned away from the glass, looking down at his hands. "I think..." He paused, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I think I'm remembering what I do when I'm asleep."
Sydney rose from the sofa. Her expression was soft and loving but also full of worry. She walked over to him, reaching out to bridge the distance. Her fingers sliding gently into his palm were the anchor he so desperately needed.
The moment her skin brushed his, Garrett froze.
It wasn't a visual flash. It wasn't a violent burst of memory.
It was a sudden, overwhelming physical sensation– a heavy, dizzying wave of familiarity that flooded his entire nervous system.
The specific texture of her skin against his knuckles, the exact, delicate scent of her hair, a faint, ghostly mental association sparked in the dark corners of his mind– a puzzle piece hovering just millimeters away from locking into place.
He looked down at her blond curls. His eyes flicked to the smattering of freckles across the apples of her cheeks. Something almost connected. Something hovered just beyond reach– a connection his mind seemed determined to make and equally determined to deny him.
Almost. And then it was gone.
Sydney looked up, her brow furrowing as his grip tightened around her fingers. "What? Garrett, what is it?"
Slowly shaking his head, the Guardsman’s jaw tightened into a grim line. "Nothing."
Turning, he walked deliberately across the room and into the kitchen toward the small writing desk in the corner. He pulled open the top drawer—the wood scraping loudly in the quiet house– and dragged the leather-bound notebook back onto the counter. He uncapped the pen.
With a steady, hard hand, he pressed the tip into the fresh white page: 10:51 PM — Recording resumed.
Sydney walked up behind him, her arms wrapping around his waist as she leaned her cheek against his shoulder, staring down at the neat letters. "I thought you said you were done."
Garrett looked down at his own handwriting, the silver moonlight already beginning to peek through the curtains covering the window over the kitchen sink.
"So did I," he whispered.