Lucien's POV
The mana trace didn't go away.
I thought maybe it would fade—like a dream or a fever or some spiritual static left over from brushing against another reality.
But it didn't.
It settled.
It anchored.
Like it had been waiting for me.
It started in the mornings.
I could feel my fingers tingle when I reached for the door to the stairwell. Not pain. Not even warmth. Just… response.
Like the building could feel me back.
It wasn't magic in the traditional sense. Not flashy. Not spellbooks and circles and Latin.
It was something quieter.
A presence.
A knowing.
The feeling that I had been marked—not by Kiss-shot or some outside force—but by existence itself.
And the scariest part?
It felt good.
I kept my mouth shut.
Kiss-shot watched me sometimes. Not with suspicion, not yet. Just with that dispassionate curiosity she used on insects she hadn't decided whether to flick away or pin under glass.
Araragi, too, had grown more aware. Not of me—just of everything.
He was waking up in his own way.
Becoming whatever version of himself came after death.
We weren't enemies.
But we weren't friends.
Not really.
We were two people orbiting the same star, waiting to see who burned first.
Then, one morning, Kiss-shot gave us a task.
No warning. No explanation.
She just stood up—still in her regressed form, barefoot and radiant in a way that was deeply wrong for someone so small—and said:
"You'll both go into town today."
We looked at her.
Araragi frowned. "For what?"
"For me."
She didn't elaborate.
So we went.
The walk into town was long, but not unpleasant. It was cloudy. The air smelled like yesterday's rain. Cars passed occasionally. Life moved like we weren't ghosts hiding in its seams.
Araragi walked a few paces ahead.
He hadn't spoken much to me since waking up.
I didn't blame him.
I wouldn't have trusted me either.
Eventually, he broke the silence.
"Do you know what we're looking for?"
"No," I said.
"You're calm for someone flying blind."
"I've been doing it since I got here."
He didn't laugh. But he didn't shut me out either.
That was progress.
We stopped by a corner store.
She hadn't given us a list, but I grabbed a few things anyway—snacks, water, some cheap notebooks. Araragi grabbed a box of bandages without saying anything.
At one point, I felt the edge of the world shiver.
Just for a moment.
Like something tried to reach through.
I closed my fist.
The feeling passed.
Araragi didn't notice.
But the clerk flinched as I walked past him—just slightly. As if my shadow had brushed his skin.
On the way back, Araragi finally asked:
"What's her deal with you?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You'll have to be more specific."
"She talks to you different."
"How so?"
"She doesn't look at you like you're disposable."
I shrugged.
"She probably just doesn't know where to put me yet."
He didn't respond.
But his silence said he agreed.
When we returned, she was waiting.
On the rooftop.
Sitting cross-legged on the ledge like a gargoyle in a sundress, staring out at the horizon as if daring the sun to rise a second time.
We climbed the stairs.
She didn't turn around.
"Did you bring anything good?" she asked.
"I brought strawberry milk," Araragi said.
"A classic," she murmured.
"And notebooks," I added. "In case you want to write your memoir."
She turned her head. Just slightly.
"Would you read it?" she asked.
"Of course," I said.
"Even the ending?"
"If you wrote it, yes."
That made her smile. Thin. Knife-sharp. But not cruel.
"You two are coming undone," she said after a moment.
Neither of us replied.
She continued, voice quieter now.
"Humans don't stretch well. They tear."
"Is that what you think we're doing?" I asked. "Tearing?"
She looked at me full now.
And for the first time, her expression wasn't amused or curious or cruel.
It was knowing.
"I think you've already torn," she said. "You just haven't noticed what fell out yet.