"Which iteration of me stands before you now?" Deculein inquired.0

As Deculein’s voice spread through the air, the island fell under a stillness so profound it seemed the world forgot to turn. The breeze stopped where it blew, waves hardened like stone, clouds lost their softness, the sun dimmed, and birds hung motionless in the sky.0

"What do you mean by that," Sylvia asked, her eyes dimming like frost settling over still water.0

“I’m thinking through the possibilities,” Deculein said, stepping forward with purpose.0

“… Thinking through what possibility.”0

"That you have grown more than I remembered, and now I question whether the one standing before you is the man I used to be or just the semblance of myself."0

Sylvia held her silence, her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes never left Deculein.0

"Time doesn’t behave here like it does beyond these shores. The Voice, from the start, was that sort of demon," Deculein continued, clenching a handful of sand.0

Deculein glanced down at the heels beneath her. Sylvia—once a girl who slipped through life in flats—now walked with the poise of someone who had chosen to be seen.0

“Sylvia, you’ve been on this island a long time already—three years, four, perhaps even more.”0

Sylvia watched him speak, but it wasn’t the real Deculein her eyes held—it was the portrait she had painted of him, brought to life by memory and distance.0

“Five years,” Sylvia said, correcting him.0

Deculein opened his hand, and the sand slipped through his fingers.0

Tsssssssshh…0

The sand dropped in a straight line, undisturbed by breeze or breath, settling as if the world had paused to watch it fall.0

“You are right. Inside the Voice, time doesn’t follow the same rules. For five years, I never stopped drawing you over and over again....0