1990'S META'S POV:
I bypassed the main hall and went straight to my private wing. The shower was a clinical necessity, washing away the physical residue of the day's work—the grime, the sweat, the dried flecks of another man's blood. Business concluded, but even as the water ran clear, my mind was already fixed on the next, more complex problem: an entity that could manipulate the environment, a ghost that could dissolve into vapor.
Clean, dressed in black silk trousers and a loose shirt, I entered the library. My mother, in her isolation, had amassed this collection—a half-floor of the estate transformed into a labyrinth of shelves groaning under the weight of the world's forgotten fears. It was not a place of wonder to me; it was an armory of information. I bypassed history and philosophy, heading straight for the alcove she had simply labeled 'Unnatural History.'
I didn't need ten books. I needed data points. I pulled volumes at random, their leather covers cracking, the pages releasing the scent of dust and forgotten theories. Spreading them across a massive oak table, I began my analysis, cross-referencing, hunting for a pattern, a rule, any rule that this anomaly might adhere to.
The literature presented several distinct classifications of spectral entities, none of which were a perfect fit.
First, there were the Territorial Haunts. Spirits bound to a single location by trauma or rage, their presence felt in cold spots and violent poltergeist activity. A useless category. Thyme was mobile, appearing by a river, in my bath, and in my car. He was not tied to a place, unless that place was me.
Then came the Vengeful Apparitions. Ghosts like the silent woman in black, whose appearance was an omen, a guaranteed precursor to tragedy. Thyme, however, evoked confusion and a pathetic sort of fear, not a sense of impending doom. He seemed more a victim of his condition than a purveyor of it.
More promising were the Interactive Manifestations—entities that could possess the living and physically manipulate the world, parasites feeding on psychic energy. This aligned with Thyme's ability to exert force and touch me, but he wasn't a parasite. If anything, his presence was draining him, not me.
Finally, there were the spirits of my own homeland—the Phi. Specifically, the tales spoke of the Phi Tai Hong, the powerful ghosts of those who suffered a violent or sudden death. This partially fit. The sorrow that clung to Thyme was as tangible as the chill in the air around him, suggesting a violent end. But the tales always speak of a Phi Tai Hong haunting the place of its demise or the objects of its rage. Thyme was an untethered enigma.
I pushed the books away, a cold frustration settling in my gut. Hours of research yielded one conclusion: the anomaly fit no established pattern. The spirits in these pages were bound by place, by vengeance, by unresolved emotion tethered to a physical spot. Thyme was bound by none of it. He appeared in different locations, seemingly at random, and was impervious to physical laws that governed even the dead.
He was a ghost who didn't play by the rules. A unique variable.
This changed the nature of my analysis. The question was no longer a simple "What is he?" The data now pointed to a far more critical query. Every account, every story, every myth spoke of a ghost's connection to its life or death. If Thyme was not connected to a place, he had to be connected to a person.
And the only person who could see him, touch him, and hear him… was me.
I leaned back in the leather chair, the silence of the library pressing in. This was no longer a matter of simple research. This was a matter of ownership. He was not just a ghost; he was my ghost. And I would dissect the mystery of our connection, piece by impossible piece.
My analysis was complete, yet I had no answers. I pushed back from the table, the scrape of the chair legs a harsh sound in the tomb-like silence of the library. It was then that the silence was violated.
"Thump."
It was a soft, definitive sound from the far aisle. A single book falling from a high shelf.
In an instant, my body was coiled, silent. The pistol was in my hand before I registered a conscious thought, its cold weight a familiar anchor in a world that was rapidly losing its logic. I moved between the towering shelves, a shadow gliding through a forest of paper and ink, my footsteps making no sound on the marble floor. I reached the end of the aisle.
There was no one. No open window, no hidden servant, no sign of entry. Just a single book lying face down on the floor. It was an anomaly. It was bound in plain, dark leather with no title on the spine, no markings on its cover. An object without a category in my mother's meticulously indexed collection.
An inexplicable impulse, a cold whisper in my gut, urged me to retrieve it. I holstered my weapon and picked up the book. The leather was smooth, old. I opened it.
The pages were blank. Thick, cream-colored paper, completely untouched. A trick? A message left for me? I ran a thumb over the surface, feeling for indentations, for any sign of what this was meant to be. Nothing.
Dismissing it as an oddity, I turned to place it back on the nearest shelf. But as my hand moved, the book trembled, a low, resonant vibration that shot up my arm. I froze. Slowly, I opened it again.
On the first page, words were bleeding into existence, the ink appearing as if from a phantom pen.
"Who is Thyme?"
The question was a direct echo of my own investigation. My grip tightened. This was no trick. This was something else. Before my eyes, new text began to form below the first, written in a hand that sent a jolt of ice through my veins. A familiar, elegant script.
My handwriting.
"He appeared as a ghost, but he is becoming more… solid. Less an apparition and more a man. Yesterday, for the first time, Sakda saw him. A flicker in the rearview mirror. The anomaly is changing. I must understand why."
Impossible. I stared at the words, my logical mind rebelling, searching for an explanation that didn't exist. This wasn't my journal. I didn't keep one. Yet, the proof was in my hands. A new entry materialized, the ink still seeming wet.
"I do not understand the emotion he evokes. A feeling of… lightness. The urge that drove me to pull him from the river, the possessive fury I felt on the beach—I am beginning to categorize it. It is a data point for which I have no prior reference. I believe the common term is… happiness."
The words were clinical, analytical, a desperate attempt by the writer—by me—to dissect a feeling. Then the tone shifted. The script became more frantic, less controlled.
"He was shot. He was shot in the shoulder and he BLED. The warmth of it soaked my hands. He is not a ghost. But he is not human. He looked at me with such terror before he vanished, and in that moment, I understood. The illogical, maddening variable has a name. I have fallen for him."
The book trembled again.
"He never returned. Weeks have become months. The silence is absolute. How does one forget the only variable that gave the equation meaning? He taught me happiness, and his absence has taught me a sorrow so profound it has hollowed me out. A world without him is a world without color, without sound, without purpose. This is my final entry. My final variable. Goodbye, Thyme. I do not believe in an afterlife, but after you, I hope one exists. I hope to find you there. To hold you. To be by your side forever."
A single, hot tear fell from my eye and hit the page, smudging the final word. My own body was betraying me. A crushing weight descended on my chest, a physical ache so intense it stole my breath. This raw, devastating grief wasn't mine, but it was inside me, an alien parasite feasting on my soul. It was the first time I had ever felt anything like it. I was losing control.
The final three words appeared at the bottom of the page, a quiet, devastating confession.
"I love you."
The moment the sentence was complete, the letters began to weep. A deep, viscous crimson oozed from the words, welling up and spilling over the page. It wasn't ink. It was blood. Warm and thick, it dripped from the book onto my hands.
My training, my entire existence, screamed at me to remain calm. I am not afraid of blood. But this… this was different. This was impossible. My mind raced, trying to force the events into a logical framework. One of the books I'd just read. A footnote I'd dismissed as fanciful folklore. Haunted objects, imbued with the violent, lingering emotion of their owners, are not always bound by the linear flow of time.
Could it be? Was this book… mine? Sent back from a future where I… where I took my own life over a ghost I just met?
"This is… more complicated than I expected." The words were a low growl, a desperate attempt to cage the chaos with analysis.
I strode from the library, the bleeding book held tight in my hand. One of the maids waiting in the hall gasped, her eyes wide with alarm.
"Khun Meta! Your hands! What happened?"
I didn't break my stride. I looked right through her, my voice cold as ice. "It is nothing. Clean the floor in the library."
I left her there, a statue of terrified obedience. I needed to wash this blood away. But as I stared down at the impossible artifact in my hands, I knew. This wasn't something that could be simply washed clean. It was the blood of a future I now had to prevent, a future tied to a ghost I was becoming terrifyingly obsessed with.