— Between Grief and Revelation
The thunderous aftershocks still echoed in Shawn's ears as he stood in the dim hallway.
His body hadn't yet recovered from the golden field—it lingered like a phantom between memory and reality.
Inside the control room, the air still shimmered faintly from the dissipating Rewind Space.
"You're saying… that was the 'Rewind Space'?" Judy's voice broke the silence, her tone dazed and uncertain.
Shawn looked up at Lucy, who stood calmly at the console. She wore her signature gray trench coat, expression as tranquil as ever, as though what had just happened was merely an anticipated part of her plan.
Lucy nodded slightly. "We only touched the edge of the past. That wasn't the end."
"Don… he's really gone?" Judy whispered, glancing at Shawn.
Shawn didn't respond.
He looked at the door. No one knew where Don had gone. His final words still seemed to linger in the air:
"Shawn... remember, this isn't over."
Just then, Shawn's wristband flickered to life.
A voice message appeared. The sound was fragmented, only a few words discernible:
"… journal… hurry…"
Shawn shot to his feet, face paling.
"It's my grandfather!" His voice trembled. "Something's happened to him!"
Judy and Lucy turned toward him in shock.
"I have to go. Now."
"But we—" Judy began.
Shawn shook his head. "I need to see it for myself."
He bolted from the control room, vanishing like a shadow.
---
Zone Three, South City. Building 13.
His grandfather's apartment building was as quiet as ever, the hallways filled with the scent of disinfectant and old furniture.
Shawn shoved the door open.
Inside, the lighting was dim. A teacup sat on the table, still half full.
"Grandpa!" he shouted, but no answer came.
Then he saw it—faint splashes of blood on the floor, trailing toward the study.
Shawn rushed in. One of the bookshelves was slightly ajar.
He instantly realized: someone had been here.
He pulled open the hidden compartment. The old journal was still there—worn and familiar, its yellowed pages edged with Lucy's handwritten notes.
But where was his grandfather?
Outside, a neighbor's voice cried out:
"An ambulance just came! Took your grandpa to First General!"
Shawn didn't hesitate—he tore back out the door.
---
First General Hospital. Emergency Wing.
The lights were bright and clinical. The air was thick with urgency and quiet dread.
Shawn ran to the front desk, nearly shouting:
"My grandfather! Elias Mercer! Zone Three, Building 13—he was just brought in!"
The nurse checked the records, her expression freezing mid-scan.
"…Please come with me."
She led him down a long hallway.
As they turned the corner, Shawn saw a moment that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
A figure, covered in a white sheet, was slowly wheeled out of the trauma room.
At the foot of the gurney, a name tag:
Elias Mercer.
"No—!"
Shawn rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside the stretcher.
"Grandpa! You promised to take me back to the wheat fields... remember?"
Doctors and nurses stood in silence, unwilling to intrude on his collapse.
Shawn clutched the journal with trembling fingers, his knuckles bone-white. He sat there on the cold floor, motionless… for a very long time.
---
Three Days Later. The Funeral.
The skies were heavy with gray clouds. Rain threatened but never fell.
His grandfather was buried in the west cemetery, beside his grandmother. The tombstone bore a simple epitaph:
Elias Mercer. Senior Researcher at the Center for Foundational Consciousness.
After the ceremony, Shawn remained by the grave, silent and still. His face was blank, lost behind a closed door of memory and grief.
Footsteps approached softly from behind.
"You weren't going to tell us?" Judy's voice was gentle.
Shawn didn't turn.
"When you left, something felt off," she continued. "Lucy said she heard the feedback echo of the Thunder Core right after you got that message. She said it wasn't just a sound—it was a warning."
Lucy stood on the other side of the grave, her expression unreadable.
She knelt, reaching toward Shawn's hand, gently taking the journal from him.
"I'm taking this," she said softly but firmly.
Shawn frowned. "Why?"
Lucy met his gaze. Her gaze held a quiet intensity
.
"Because what you're looking for… isn't in this book."
She paused, then added, even more quietly—yet with a weight that rang like a bell in the soul:
"What you're looking for… has always been inside you."
Shawn froze.
In that moment, he could almost see it again—the golden field, his father's blurred face, and a small child curled asleep in the wheat.
"Meta Matrix…" he whispered.
Lucy smiled.
"Maybe it never existed. Or maybe it's always been there—deep in the structure of your consciousness."
She turned and walked away, the wind lifting the hem of her coat.
"When you're ready… we'll meet again."
Her voice drifted on the wind.
Judy gave Shawn a soft pat on the shoulder and quietly left as well.
Dusk. The Cemetery.
Shawn remained alone.
He pulled a worn photograph from his pocket—his grandfather as a young man, standing in front of the old institute, full of life and questions.
He murmured, "How much did you really know, Grandpa…"
Then—he felt it.
A strange sensation, like a needle of instinct piercing his spine.
Slowly, he turned.
Beneath the pine trees, in the shadows, stood a familiar figure.
Black coat. Hands in pockets. Calm. Detached.
Don.
He didn't approach. Just stood there, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Shawn's pupils contracted sharply.
Before he could react, Don turned away.
His figure slipped into the forest shadows like a ghost, vanishing without a sound.
The wind turned cold.
By the time Shawn returned to the city streets, night had fully fallen.
Flickering streetlamps lit patches of cracked pavement, and even the distant hum of traffic seemed subdued—muffled by the heavy stillness of the hour.
And in the quiet—
A black cat slinked across a faraway alley beneath a flickering streetlight.
It stopped. Turned. Stared.
Its eyes were twin rings of dimming light—deep, bottomless.
At that exact moment, Shawn's phone lit up.
"1 unread message. Sender: Don."
He opened it.
Just two words:
— "Thank you."