Phantom Reel
I step into a painting too perfect to trust.
It doesn't reveal itself at once. It opens
slowly, like the memory of a dream you’re not sure was ever real. Light slips
through the leaves—green and trembling—casting golden threads across the still
water. The lake is so clear it reflects the sky without flaw. Too flawless, in
fact. Too exact. A mirror that tells the truth too well. The kind of beauty
that poets try to capture but always ruin.
Nathon stands at the water’s edge. He looks like
he belongs here, like he either planned every glowing leaf or wants us to
believe he did. There’s an ease in his stance that could be real—or rehearsed.
Ask’Stof, my grandfather, watches him. The way he
always does. A calm mask, but beneath it, thought and worry twist like old
roots. He knows what humans can be. How easily they dazzle. How easily they
destroy.
Next to him stands his twin—Sylv’rious. My
great-uncle. Same face, sharper angles. He moves like moonlight across glass,
quiet and cold. His silver hair catches the light as he tilts his head,
studying the scene like a scholar choosing where to place his next ink stroke.
Both of them—ancient, patient—stand like statues
meant to last. I see the way their eyes move. Measuring. Marking this place as
something more than chance. As if preparing to write it into a book the world
won’t read for centuries.
And beside Nathon, a woman. Human. Still as
stone, but strong. Her hand rests lightly on his shoulder. A quiet weight. A
reminder of gravity. Her eyes speak what her voice does not: Stay grounded.
Don’t lose yourself in the wonder you’ve made.
In his arms, a child—Grant. Small. Quiet. Asleep.
His tiny hand curls near his cheek, soft and unaware. Peaceful. But only for
now. There is something in the air around him. Not danger—not yet. But weight.
Like the moment before a storm. Like the pause before a promise is made.
The moment holds its breath. Time tilts. Silence
stretches, waiting.
Ask’Stof breaks it first. His voice is calm but
edged, every word chosen like a blade. “Nathon… have you been cultivating this
oasis?”
Nathon’s smile tilts. It’s charming, but not
safe. “Perhaps,” he says, slow and sweet, like melting sugar. “One must savor
beauty when it comes.”
Sylv’rious hums low in his throat. It could be
agreement. Or warning. “Yes. But the scale… it is not small.” He says nothing
else, but the quiet that follows says what he won’t: And that should trouble
us all.
Amara—the woman—doesn’t speak of danger. Her eyes
rest on the child, soft and full of something deeper. “It’s beautiful,” she
says. “A haven, in a world that forgets how to rest.”
And for a moment, we believe her. We want to.
This feels like a moment worth keeping.
But magic doesn’t stay quiet for long.
Something shifts. A breath held too long.
Then we see it. Truly see it.
Not a garden. Not a glade.
A forest.
Trees stretch where none stood before.
Wildflowers bloom in bursts of color. Vines climb smooth stones like they’ve
always been there. Birds flicker through the branches—species that don’t belong
here. The earth hums. Alive. New. Thick with magic so strong it bends the air.
And Nathon… blinks. Just once.
The others fall silent. Even the baby stirs.
“Wait… what?”
The memory shatters.
No gentle fade. No slow unraveling into soft
light. It snaps—hard—yanking me forward like a curtain torn from its rail.
Sudden. Jarring. Like something wants me to see this.
Unnatural.
Most memories ease in—like warm ink spreading
through parchment. But this one? It’s spliced. Rough-edged. A reel stitched
from dreams and half-buried fear.
And then—
The world explodes into motion.
Chaos. Reverent, ridiculous, radiant chaos.
It unfolds before us—a scene torn from myth and
whimsy, stitched together with impossible precision. Chimpanzees in saffron
robes dig with silver shovels, their movements a dance of purpose and chant.
Each shovel slices earth in rhythm, every motion echoing like a ritual older
than time. Their humming rolls low, deep, resonant—as if they sing to something
buried far beneath.
Squirrels dart among them, fast and focused,
carrying tools and twigs like sacred relics. Their bushy tails flick in time
with the digging. They move as if fulfilling a prophecy only they remember.
I breathe in. Slowly. The air is sweet with
citrus and the deep musk of freshly turned soil. Old magic hums at the edges of
the wind, like a story whispered behind glass.
He couldn’t have remembered this.
Grant was too young.
And yet… it aches with familiarity. A child’s
wonder woven into memory. Not seen, but felt. Longing without understanding.
Could he miss something he never truly knew?
Or does some quiet part of him—older,
deeper—remember?
The colors blur at the corners of my vision. A
shimmer of green and gold trembles like breath on the cusp of becoming.
Then the tortoise arrives.
A mountain of moss and emerald scales, it lumbers
into view, dragging centuries behind it. Its shell is layered in lichens and
time. Upon its back ride raccoons—cloaked in patchwork, eyes sharp with
mischief and memory. They do not dig. They plant. Each movement is precise,
gentle. Holy. Seeds fall like blessings from their paws.
And then—
The minotaur.
Massive. Sacred. His body is stone and muscle and
myth. Horns spiral with gold rings and vines in bloom. He carries trees—whole
trees—on one shoulder, roots dangling like captured thunder. He plants them as
if each sapling holds the memory of a forest.
My throat tightens.
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Because of course it’s him. Who else could
command such quiet power?
Beside me, Ember leans forward, barely breathing.
Her voice is a whisper wrapped in disbelief.
“Is that… the crew? And… Sprocket and Twitch?”
She hopes. I hear it—too loud, too raw. A child
calling to ghosts she thinks might still answer.
Mr. Spuds stands steady, his silhouette calm
against the brilliance.
“No, Mi’lady,” he says, gentle as dusk. “Those
are not them. I believe… those are their ancestors.”
His words settle on us like dust from an opened
tomb.
Of course. A lineage of raccoon magi. Why stop at
one generation of chaos-born brilliance?
I squint through the shimmer. My voice barely
rises above breath.
“Sir Knight… is that who I think it is?”
He nods once. Solemn. Like he’s naming stars.
“Aye. Tun’Kus and Emerald Willow.”
The names hum through the air. Root-deep.
Myth-heavy.
The original guardians of the enchanted forest.
And then—I see it. The symmetry. The design
beneath the wonder.
This isn’t just memory.
It’s origin.
Then the vegetables begin to dance.
Yes. Truly.
A cucumber spins in elegant pirouette. A carrot
bounces in samba rhythm, leaves shaking like feathers in a carnival. A tomato
glides forward, smug as a prince, light glinting off its glossy skin as if it
invented joy.
They scatter seeds with each step. Seeds that
glitter like stardust.
Promise blooms behind them. Life, balance,
absurdity—all moving in time.
Ember chokes—a sound between laughter and
weeping. Her hand lifts to her mouth, trembling.
“Spuds… is that…?”
He doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his
voice breaks on the edges.
“Aye, Princess,” he murmurs. “That is the Great
Harvest.”
And something in me splinters. Not pain. Not joy.
Something older. A feeling that doesn’t fit inside a name.
For a heartbeat, I want to laugh.
Or cry.
Or fall to my knees and let the earth swallow me
whole.
Because this is a memory.
His memory.
And in it, magic and madness dance as equals.
I do not control it. I do not bend it to my will.
I simply witness wonder.
Ah. Here we go again.
The memory stirs—restless and sharp, like a play
that refuses to take its final bow. If it had curtains, they'd whip open with
flair, then snap shut just as fast, eager to change scenes.
This time, there's no warning. No soft fade. It
hits like a drop from a great height.
We land in front of a much younger Grant.
He’s not the man who binds souls or commands
beasts—not yet. But the shape of him is already there. The way he stands—tense,
stubborn. The way his gaze cuts forward—sharp, searching. He doesn’t know the
weight he’ll carry. Not yet. But some part of him already braces for it.
Twelve? Maybe thirteen. Just old enough to
pretend he's fearless. Still young enough to whisper to himself when no one’s
watching.
But… that doesn’t make sense.
Does it?
I’ve read the lore. The Soul-Bound are chosen.
Summoned from other realms. They don’t in our world—they appear.
Called by the tether.
And yet here he stands. In our world. As a child.
His clothes are odd—too clean, too neat. They
look like a uniform, maybe military, just... smaller. But I push the thought
aside. It’s not the fabric that matters.
It’s his eyes.
He’s staring. Not us—but .
His brow draws tight. Head tilts. He wears the expression of someone catching
the scent of smoke and unsure where it’s coming from.
“There’s a disturbance in the Force,” he says.
Dry. Flat. Like quoting something old and worn
from memory.
The words mean little. Yet they cling. Familiar
in the way dreams echo after waking.
He reaches forward. Fingers stretching into the
space between us.
And for one breathless beat—I think he sees me.
Not the memory.
His hand hovers. So close I feel the air shift.
Then he stops. Pulls back. Like he’s afraid of what he might touch.
“Survival instincts, Calloway,” he mutters.
No comfort in the tone. Just rhythm. Like a
phrase worn down from use. Something he repeats to stay grounded.
Then—whack.
A sharp jab drives into my ribs. I double over,
breath knocked loose from my lungs.
A fishing pole.
He jabs me. jabs me.
I clutch my side. “What!”
The word escapes before I can hold it in. So much
for being an invisible observer.
Grant's eyes go wide. His mouth parts. He stares
like I’ve stepped out of one of his dreams.
“Son. Of. A. Bitch.”
It’s not a curse—it’s a confession. A breach. A
truth spoken in disbelief.
And then—just as the moment sharpens, just as
connection feels possible—someone whistles. The sound is sharp, slicing the
stillness like a blade.
“Grant! Time to fish!” a voice calls. Older.
Worn. Familiar.
The boy turns at once, pole in hand, jogging
toward the figure I now recognize as his grandfather. As if nothing happened.
As if he didn’t just reach across the veil.
But he did.
And just like that, the memory folds.
Its edges ripple, like reflections caught in
moving water.
Now Grant is older. Ember—much younger. She moves
like a spark unsure of its burn, still learning when to glow and when to blaze.
Their roles reversed. A mirror turned inward.
I shiver.
These aren’t raw memories. They’ve been edited.
Arranged like exhibits in a museum—framed, polished, controlled.
I turn to Ember. To Mr. Spuds. Ready to speak. To
call it what it is.
But they’re frozen.
Locked mid-expression. Mid-breath. Like clockwork
dolls caught between ticks.
“Of course,” I murmur. “Classic trick.”
The scene vanishes.
No slow unraveling. No farewell.
Just a blink—and it’s gone.
The lake returns. Still and gray, the color of
forgotten dreams.
But we are not alone.
A man stands there now.
Barefoot. Plain clothes. Fishing pole in hand,
held like a relic—more than wood and string, more than memory. His presence
warps the air around him. Not loud, but , like a secret too heavy
for the world.
“You don’t belong here,” he says.
His voice is low. Rough. Like thunder dragged
across gravel.
And he looks at me.
“This isn’t your memory.”
Then—he snaps his fingers.
No flourish. No power display.
Just a sound.
And the world .