Chapter 7
Cece
You’d think that after a week, the memory of what happened would begin to dull.
That it would soften, the way dreams do by morning.
How they distort, becoming fragmented and easily tucked away behind the day’s demands.
But no. This memory lingers, stubborn and vivid.
That night plays on repeat in my mind, like a film I didn’t ask to see, but also still can’t stop watching.
At work, I’ve become a master of zoning out, if that even counts as a skill. Meetings blur. Time feels as if it stands still. More than once, I’ve caught myself staring out the window, only to be yanked back into the room by the sound of my name.
“ . . . Cece, is everything alright?” Daniel’s voice filters in gently, concern breaking through the calm cadence of his words. Except it’s not background noise. It’s real. He’s looking at me, waiting, and I realize too late that the meeting is wrapping up and I’ve contributed nothing of substance.
Embarrassment rises like heat to my face. I have no idea what he just asked, which I clearly failed to respond to. And I must have been staring into space like a freaking idiot.
I pull myself together and offer a soft, practiced smile. “Sorry, Daniel. I’m fine. Just . . . a full week. I’m just organizing my notes. My thoughts, too, I suppose.”
He gives me an uneasy look and smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. We rise from the table in unison, gathering laptops and half-drunk coffees. Then the team disperses around us.
“If there’s anything that comes up,” he says, pausing at the doorway, “please don’t hesitate. I’m here to support you however I can.” His voice is composed and sincere. His eyes full of . . . care? Ugh. That almost makes it worse.
“Thank you,” I manage, and smile again. It’s automatic and polite. The version of me that still feels like it’s functional.
Back at my desk, I glance at the clock on my phone.
Almost time to leave. Relief washes over me, followed closely by desperation.
I need out. I need air. I need to not be in this building pretending to be fine when I’m not.
Every evening this week, I’ve fallen into rabbit holes online, combing through forums and obscure conspiracy theory threads, searching for—I don’t even know.
Answers? Validation? Something to help me comprehend what happened. What I saw. Him.
If I can make sense of even a fraction of it, maybe I’ll be able to move on.
Maybe I won’t feel like I’m coming apart beneath the surface.
What’s worse is that I’m finally in the role I worked so hard for.
Dedicated years of my life to. The project I used to daydream about is mine, and here I am, distracted and slipping at the most critical time.
I press my palm flat against the desk for a moment, collecting myself.
Get it together, Cece. But even as I say it, something inside me stirs.
A truth I’m just beginning to come to terms with.
Maybe, just maybe, I’m not meant to forget that night.
Maybe I’m meant to remember. And perhaps to follow where it leads.
Even if it scares me. Especially if it does.
The next evening, I make my way to meet Kate for dinner and wine, something casual and comforting.
I owe her. I promised we’d catch up after having to bail early on her birthday, and she’s been more than patient while I artfully dodged her texts and screened her calls like a seasoned escape artist. But I can’t avoid her forever.
Kate’s the kind of friend who doesn’t just notice when something’s off; she feels it.
And though I’ve rehearsed my lines on the train over, I’m still unsure how much I’m willing to share.
I’ll steer the conversation elsewhere. Skim over the night that’s been haunting me, and instead nudge her into recapping the events I missed, or dishing about Ethan. You know, the safe, familiar stuff.
When I step into the restaurant, the buzz of conversation and clinking silverware encircles me.
I spot her instantly, at our usual table by the window, the early evening light spilling over her like a soft spotlight.
Half a glass of wine sits in front of her, condensation sliding lazily down the stem as she scrolls through her phone, her expression distant.
Then she looks up, catches my eye, and her whole face softens.
“Hey,” I say brightly, slipping on the smile I’ve perfected this week. I lean in to hug her, hoping the gesture masks the nerves buzzing beneath my skin.
But as we sit, her expression shifts. Concern crosses her features, subtle but unmistakable. She tilts her head and narrows her eyes, the way she does when she’s about to call me out.
“Cece,” she says, her voice low and deliberate, “what’s going on with you? Something’s not right.”
Crap.
I look down, suddenly feigning interest in the menu, giving myself a second to regroup. “What do you mean?” I ask lightly, a poor attempt at deflection.
She doesn’t flinch. “Don’t bullshit me, babe. What happened last weekend? And where have you been all week? Are you okay?”
Her tone is still kind, but there’s concern beneath it.
The kind that comes from someone who knows you and won’t let you break down in silence.
I press my lips together and set the menu down.
The words form somewhere between my throat and my chest, thick and wary.
I’m not sure I’m ready. But then again, I’m not sure I’ll ever be.
“Okay,” I say, exhaling slowly. “But can I just—can I get a glass of wine going before I dive into this?” My eyes flick to the drink menu. “I really need it.”
I look up just as she gives me a look, equal parts concern and suspicion, but she nods without hesitation, raising a hand to flag our server. No words needed. She can see something in me fraying, and despite everything, she lets me take my time.
Once the wine is in front of me, I take a large gulp. Too fast. Too much. The warmth spreads through my chest, steadying me.
“Alright,” I begin quietly. “So . . . something happened that night.”
Kate blinks. “Okay,” she says slowly, brow furrowing. “You’re going to need to give me more than something. Were the thieves still around? Is that what this is about? Cece, please help me out before I spiral.” Her voice catches at the end, soft panic building, crystal-blue eyes pleading.
“No, no. It wasn’t at my place,” I blurt out. “It was at the train station, on my way home.” Her chair creaks as she moves closer.
“Oh God, Cece. Did someone hurt you? Why didn’t you call me?”
Guilt lands hard.
“Please,” I say quickly. “Just give me a few minutes. Let me explain. I need to say it all the way through.”
Kate pulls back, tension visible in her shoulders, worry etched across her face, but she nods. “Alright. Sorry. Go ahead.”
So I tell her. Well, most of it. I start with the shove. Falling. A flash of the tracks. The man. Lucien, leaping after me without hesitation. The blur of movement. And the impossible calm in the chaos.
Kate doesn’t say a word. Her eyes widen, her wine untouched now, hands wrapped tight around the stem of her glass as if it might anchor her. And then I reach the part I’ve been dreading. I hesitate, fingers tracing the rim of my glass.
“And since Lucien—the man who jumped down—um, couldn’t get me back to the platform in time, he . . . well, he transported us.”
She tilts her head, eyes squinting, clearly confused. “Transported you where?”
I meet her gaze.
“Not where—not like anything here,” I say. “More like somewhere. Somewhere that didn’t feel like part of this world at all. I don’t even know what to call it.”
Kate stares at me, silent, until she repeats it, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Transported you . . . somewhere?” Her words hang between us like smoke, curling with disbelief.
Jeez. This is not how I rehearsed it. Not even close.
I press my glass to my lips, more for something to do than anything else.
My heart pounds in my ears, my mind racing.
This is bad. When I say it aloud, it sounds ridiculous. But it’s the truth. Kate looks at me like she’s trying to decide whether I’ve lost my mind or if she somehow missed the moment this turned into a joke.
“Okay,” she says slowly, carefully. “You’re going to have to walk that back. Transported you? Like . . . metaphorically? Or are we talking sci-fi, beam-me-up kind of transported?”
I swallow hard, my heart rattling in my chest. I was hoping she’d laugh. Roll her eyes. Call me dramatic and move on. What was I thinking? But she’s leaning in now, trying to piece it together, and suddenly I wish I’d said nothing at all.
“Not metaphorically,” I whisper, my eyes darting around the restaurant to make sure no one’s listening.
“I mean, it felt real. It was real. One second we were on the tracks, and the next, we weren’t, and everything around us changed.
The light. The air. Even gravity felt different.
And then we were just . . . somewhere else.
Somewhere that looked different, smelled different.
It wasn’t here, Kate. That’s what I know. ”
Her expression freezes, caught between concern and disbelief.
“Cece,” she says slowly, “do you hear yourself? You’re describing something that couldn’t have happened.
Are you sure it wasn’t adrenaline? Or shock?
Maybe you passed out and dreamed it? I can see the scar on your forehead. Are you concussed?”
“I know how it sounds,” I say quickly, my voice cracking with frustration.
“Believe me, I’ve spent all week chasing rational explanations.
But I remember everything. The way the air shimmered.
The sound it made. It was like nothing I’ve ever heard or seen before.
And it had two suns, Kate. Two! And Lucien—he didn’t seem surprised.
Not even a little. He seemed more concerned that he’d brought me there. ”
She leans back in her chair, eyes flickering with something new. Something unsettled. “Who is this guy?” she asks. “You keep saying Lucien like I’m supposed to know who that is.”
I blink. “He told me his name. That was all I got from him. He wasn’t exactly offering up information in those moments. But, Kate, he feels familiar. And different. I don’t know how to explain it.”
Kate watches me, wine completely forgotten, her voice quieter now. “This sounds . . . dangerous. Or like something’s really wrong.”
I shake my head, my eyes burning from holding back tears. See, this is exactly why I avoided having this conversation.
“I know how insane it sounds,” I say, my voice barely stable.
“But it wasn’t a hallucination. I’ve felt crazy all week because no one else saw it.
No one else was there. I’ve looked everywhere—online, social media, anywhere I can think of.
I’ve been trying to find someone else who’s experienced something like this.
Or someone who saw something strange that night.
Some sign that I didn’t imagine it. That I didn’t make him up. ”
Kate is quiet for a moment, sadness settling in her eyes. Then she reaches across the table and places her hand gently over mine. Her thumb brushes once against my skin—settling, or maybe searching.
“Hey,” she says softly. “You don’t have to convince me all in one conversation. Or at all. But I need you to promise me something.”
I look up, startled by the shift in her tone.
She’s studying me closely now, brows pulled together, worry tightening the corners of her mouth.
I can tell she doesn’t believe me; the doubt flickers in her eyes even as she tries to hide it.
She must’ve noticed my fidgeting, the way my leg won’t stop bouncing, the way my fingers keep curling into my palm.
She’s trying not to push, but she’s scared for me.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she says. “If this guy shows up again—this Lucien, or whoever he is—I need to know. You need to tell someone. Don’t let him pull you into a world you don’t understand. You don’t have to go through this alone, okay?”
I nod slowly, exhausted and unsure whether I actually mean it. Because part of me already knows it’s too late.
I’m already pulled in.