The Part That Already Happened

The Part That Already Happened**

Aren did not remember leaving the market. That was the first problem. The second problem—he was already somewhere else.

The noise of Brass Market—the layered shouting, the metallic clatter, the constant low hiss of steam—was gone. Not faded. Not distant. Gone. Replaced by something quieter. Thinner.

He stood in a narrow alley between two leaning brick buildings, their walls close enough that if he stretched his arms, he could almost touch both sides. Almost. He didn’t try.

The ground here was different. Less worn. Less alive. The stones were flatter, darker, with thin cracks running between them like veins that had stopped carrying anything important a long time ago. Water dripped somewhere nearby. Slow. Irregular.

#

Aren looked down at his hands. Right hand—the coin. Still warm. Left hand—the blade. Unwrapped.

He stared at it for a long moment. “…Okay,” he said quietly. “I feel like there should’ve been a transition.”

Nothing answered. He glanced back the way he’d come. Or where he assumed he’d come from. The alley stretched out behind him, bending slightly before disappearing into shadow. No market. No crowd. No Marlo.

“…Right,” Aren muttered. “So either I walked here and forgot, or—” He paused. Looked down at the blade. “…or that thing is already doing things.”

The blade didn’t react. Which somehow made it worse.

#

A sign hung above him, attached to a rusted bracket bolted into the wall. It creaked slightly, swaying even though there was no wind.

*LOW DISTRICT – EAST VEIN*

Aren squinted at it. Something about it felt off. He looked away. Then back.

*LOW DISTRICT – LAST VEIN*

He blinked. “Okay,” he said flatly. “No. That changed.”

He stepped closer. The metal sign scraped softly against its hook.

*EAST VEIN*

“…You’re kidding,” he muttered. He stepped back. Looked at it again. Normal.

Aren rubbed his face with one hand, dragging his fingers down slowly. “This is the part,” he said under his breath, “where a normal person starts panicking.” He paused. “…I’ll get to that.”

#

A faint sound echoed behind him. Footsteps. Not loud. Not rushed. Just—present. Aren turned sharply. Empty alley. He waited. Listened. Nothing.

“…Yeah, that’s not helping,” he said. He turned back—and stopped.

The blade was gone.

Aren froze. His left hand was empty. There was no sensation of dropping it. No sound. No memory. Just—absence.

“…No,” he said quietly. His eyes moved quickly, scanning the ground, the walls, the corners of the alley. Nothing.

“Okay,” he said, a little louder now. “No, that’s not how this works.”

His voice sounded… off. Not wrong. Just slightly delayed.

“…Great,” he added. “Now I sound weird too.”

#

“Not you.”

The voice came from his right. Aren turned. A child sat against the wall, knees pulled up, one hand dragging through a thin layer of soot on the ground. Drawing circles. Overlapping them. Crossing them out. Drawing them again.

Aren stared. He hadn’t seen the kid before. He was sure of that. “…How long have you been there?”

The child didn’t look up. “You dropped it already,” they said.

Aren’s stomach tightened. “Dropped what?”

The child paused. Slowly looked up. Their eyes didn’t match. One was younger. Clear. Sharp. The other—older. Tired. Like it had seen something it didn’t want to remember.

“…You don’t remember?” the child asked.

#

Aren took a small step back. “No,” he said.

The child tilted their head. “That’s early,” they murmured.

“Early for what?”

The child didn’t answer. Instead, they wiped their hand across the soot, erasing the circles completely. “You always forget this part,” they said.

Aren frowned. “Always?”

The child looked at him properly now. “Yeah.” A pause. “Then it loops.”

Aren let out a short, dry laugh. “…I’m sorry, what?”

The child pointed behind him. Aren turned. The blade was leaning against the wall. Exactly where it hadn’t been a second ago.

#

Aren stared at it. “…No,” he said quietly. He stepped closer. Slowly. Like approaching something that might disappear if he moved too fast. It didn’t.

He reached out—stopped just before touching it. “…Did I drop it?” he asked, without turning.

“Yes.”

“Do I remember that?”

“No.”

“…Good,” Aren muttered. “That would’ve been too convenient.”

He picked up the blade. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt—something shifted. Not outside. Inside. A flicker. A sensation of having already done this.

He let go immediately. The feeling vanished.

#

“…Yeah, no,” he said. “We’re not doing that yet.”

Behind him—the child laughed. It wasn’t loud. But it echoed. “That’s what you said last time,” they said.

Aren turned sharply. “There wasn’t a last time.”

The child shrugged. “There was for me.”

Aren stared at them. “…That’s not how time works.”

The child smiled. “Not anymore.”

#

A silence settled between them. Not empty. Heavy. Aren looked back at the blade. Then at the alley. Then at the sign. Everything felt slightly out of place.

“…Okay,” he said slowly. “Let’s assume—hypothetically—that I believe you.”

The child brightened slightly. “Bad idea,” they said.

“Yeah, I figured,” Aren replied. “But let’s pretend.” He gestured vaguely. “This—loop. What does that actually mean?”

The child tapped the ground. “You leave.” Another tap. “You come back.” Another. “But you don’t remember leaving.”

#

Aren frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

The child shrugged again. “You keep removing the reason you left.”

Aren went still. “…I don’t like that explanation.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the child said. “It’s still happening.”

Aren looked down at the blade. “…So this thing—”

“Yes.”

“…is causing that?”

The child tilted their head. “No.”

#

Aren blinked. “Then what is?”

The child smiled. “You are.”

Aren stared at them. “…Right,” he said after a moment. “That’s worse.”

A sound echoed from the far end of the alley. Footsteps. This time—real. Measured. Approaching. Aren turned.

A figure stepped into view. Tall. Still. Familiar. The mirrored face.

“You’re progressing,” the figure said.

#

Aren exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s one word for it.”

The figure’s reflection lagged behind its movement. Just slightly. “You’ve already been here,” it said.

Aren shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”

The figure tilted its head. “You have.” A pause. “You just removed the part where you arrived.”

Aren let out a quiet breath. “…I’m starting to see a pattern,” he said.

“Good.”

“…I don’t like the pattern.”

“You won’t.”

#

The child snorted softly. “Told you,” they muttered.

Aren ran a hand through his hair, gripping it briefly before letting go. “…Okay,” he said. “New plan.”

He looked at the blade. “I don’t touch this.” He looked at the child. “I don’t listen to you.” He looked at the figure. “I definitely don’t trust you.” A beat. “…And I walk out of this alley like a normal person.”

Silence. The child smiled. The figure didn’t move.

Aren nodded once. “Great,” he said. “We’re all in agreement.”

#

He turned. Walked forward. Left. Right. Straight. The alley bent. Shifted. Stretched—and ended.

Exactly where he started. Same wall. Same sign. Same child. Same blade. Same figure.

Aren stood still. “…Okay,” he said slowly. A pause. “…That’s new.”

The child shook their head. “No,” they said.

Aren looked at them. “It isn’t.”

A longer pause. “…You’ve just reached the part,” the child added, “where you finally notice.”

Aren stared at the blade. Then at his own hands. Then at the ground beneath him. “…Right,” he said quietly.

And this time—he didn’t sound like he was joking.

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