Maybe

Somehow, when we broke the loop, I was expecting.. more.

Fireworks. Explosions. The earth shaking.

Something.

Instead.. the loop broke apart like glass suspended in too old concrete glue. Dusty, slow, pieces falling in slow motion through that which had held it.

The participants left confused, slowly, hesitantly taking new steps forward. Unsure where the new life began and the old one ended.

We have taken to describing it as "waking up."

To a world still operating in the year of 2018.


You see, for those of us caught in the snare, it's been..


Well. It varies. For some, a year. Others, five.

For the unlucky.. let's just say it's been a very long time.


Pet theories abound as to the WHY of our situation.


One camp holds firm that it was a punishment for daring to oppose what was 'meant to be.' That is, the death of the humans involved. They believe we were never meant to survive the Great Game.

Others believe it was an accident. Too much exposure to the best and worst of the Eldritch forces we dealt with. An unhappy occurrence we just so happened to escape.

My personal belief, and that of many of the most hardened survivors, is that it was in some way a test.

A way of seeing who would survive. And for those that did.. a training ground of sorts. So we could 'go back' and make the changes we so desired.

Reunions at Sanctuary have been.. tense, to put it mildly. Like a Thanksgiving celebration from your nightmares. But.. still worthwhile. Because, for all the yelling, nasty words, and survivors storming off in different directions..

We still survived to fight another day.

It's hard to be ungrateful when most of my allies still have a pulse.

Still, it is strange to actually see Sanctuary still standing instead of a burnt, destroyed mess of rubble and broken dreams. Here, now, today, it is as it was (for me) so many years ago.

I wander its halls sometimes, at night, rediscovering old secrets that survived with us.

A chipped black vase, bamboo trees painted along its side, holding flowers instead of a remnant of azoth.

A surprisingly heavy glass jar, filled with sand, still sitting innoxuously on my bedside as if it never left.

A twisted, gnarled staff of white oak. Its sharpened end still charred by soot. Innocently leaning by the entryway as if waiting for my daily walk.

Silly things, like artwork I thought stolen long ago.

A series of photo albums, filled to the brim with pictures of lives that happened and shouldn't have, current events from around the world. Even a few images of.. futures that technically have never come to pass now. And never will.

These photo albums were quickly relocated to my attic room, stacked carefully on my desk to be carefully, cautiously opened when I can bear the weight of the memories. For me to write their stories.

Things from over a dozen lost timelines just.. here.

Heck, y'all should have seen my face the first time a 'dead' friend came strolling through my front door, asking for help with supplies. Insisting it had only been a few months since I last saw them, quite perturbed by the immense pressure I put to their ribs from delightedly hugging them to me. You see, for me.. I was seeing a ghost.

This has happened many times since, and has sparked a curiosity in me. To chronicle what I could remember, to collect the memories of those that haven't banished them, before they began to fade.

This 'story' may not make sense for a while.

That's okay.

I, and others like me, will know the truth of things.


Maybe, one day, our story will make sense to the rest of the world too.