He stands at the edge of the dream.
A silent observer.
A boundary walker.
His fingers twitch against the veil—the Fold's mirror-skin—watching the world Cecilion built twist and shudder beneath its own perfection. The dream pulses, fragile and deceptive, each heartbeat shaped by Cecilion's desperate yearning.
Zixuan had seen this sort of dream before.
He had lived it, once. Not his own.
Another.
Casper's voice echoes faintly behind his ribs: "Let him sleep if he must. Sometimes the dream is all that keeps a soul from breaking."
But Zixuan isn't here to let him sleep.
He's here to witness.
And to remember.
The world Cecilion crafted is too beautiful to be real—lavender fields that never wilt, skies that mimic the strokes of forgotten childhood, a mother who died weeping over a fevered boy now reborn whole and unmarred. Every element is a balm. Every sound is a lullaby sewn from regret.
But beneath it all—beneath the colors and birdsong—Zixuan hears something else.
