The rhythm of the train was oddly comforting, a soft lullaby against steel rails and the humming pulse of motion. Andrew sat by the window, head tilted slightly, eyes closed, breathing steady. The world outside passed in a blur of autumn-kissed hills and fog-draped fields. He was alone in the compartment, though the weight in his chest made him feel anything but.
Whitmore was silent.
Since their last conversation, the fragmen this force within him had not spoken. Not a whisper, not a flicker. Just silence. For days.
Andrew exhaled, one hand resting lightly on the tome nestled in his satchel, the other curled loosely against the glass.
"You said you were me," he murmured to the empty train car. "Then why won't you answer?"
No response.
Just the faint screech of the tracks as the train curved around another bend.
Though he expected the silence he lampooned
"split personality my ass you're literally your own personality"
He didn't expect answers anymore. But questions still bloomed in his mind like unwelcome vines
Why the split?
Why the power?
Why now?
And why him?
Whatever the answers were, he couldn't find them in Halberd's dusty archives or glowing tomes. He needed air. Earth. Familiarity. He needed home.
And so, with a signed leave from the academy Andrew had boarded the train.
Across the city, in a quiet apartment lit by golden lamplight, Kate sat before a mirror.
Looking as beautiful as ever
Her brush moved slowly through her chestnut-brown hair, each stroke mechanical. Her eyes, however, were distant.
Then, out of nowhere, her heart skipped.
Then again.
Her breath caught, and she placed a hand above her chest, brow knitting. A faint chill passed over her skin, and she stared hard into the mirror not at her reflection, but at the strange shimmer behind her pupils.
"Andrew…?" she whispered.
The name didn't come from logic, no amount of logic could explain her suddenly feeling Andrew's presence in her room
The soft quietly cheerful but broken presence.
It came from certainty.
Her pulse quickened as warmth spread from her fingertips to her shoulders. It wasn't panic. It was presence.
Like someone had just stepped into the room.
She stood, brushing aside the moment with a practiced breath, but it lingered in her gaze. She didn't believe in superstition.
But something told her he was close.
Meanwhile, in a bustling little café tucked into the edge of the university district, Emma sat across from Michael. A stack of paperbacks rested beside their coffee cups, each marked with bright review stickers and accolades.
"Your second chapter lacked punch," Michael said, teasingly flipping through Emma's latest.
She rolled her eyes.
"That's rich coming from someone who rhymed 'moon' with 'spoon' in their third poem."she lampooned
"Classic imagery," he retorted his voice haughty
But then Emma froze.
Her eyes unfocused. Her fingers trembled slightly against the coffee cup.
Michael frowned. "Hey. You good?"
She didn't answer, not that she didn't want to but her mind was trying to decipher what she just felt
Her gaze snapped to his.
"Andrew is here."
Michael blinked. "Wait, what? Like, here here?"
He stared with a strange look
The reached his hand slowly towards her to check he temperature
She slaps his hand away
"Ouch" he mutters.
She shook her head. "Not in the café. Just… here. Back."
Michael studied her. He didn't believe in things like auras or psychic bonds, but he knew Emma. And the way she said it, like she could feel him breathing against her skin, made him pause.
He glanced out the window.
Somewhere out there, Andrew was on the move.
In a cozy living room far from the cities, the Whitmore house lay quiet. A fireplace crackled lazily, casting soft shadows against aged photo frames.
Andrew's parents sat curled under a blanket, half-watching an old movie, half-lost in thought.
Until both of them, as if on cue, turned toward the door.
There was no knock.
No footsteps.
Just a moment.
His mother spoke first.
"He inherited it."
Her voice was quiet. Not shocked. Just resigned.
His father didn't look at her. Just smiled, slow and wistful.
"You said he wouldn't," she continued. "That it skipped you."
"I thought it would skip him, too," the older Whitmore said, leaning back. "But I should've known better. The signs were there."
He chuckled, the sound low and rich.
"He's gonna be here soon."
"And when he arrives?"
His father turned, a glint in his eye.
"We tell him the truth."
Back on the train, Andrew stirred.
His head leaned against the window, but his fingers twitched like they were searching for something.
Outside, the landscape grew familiar. The hills softened into the countryside he once ran through as a child. The trees thickened. The sky brightened with the promise of home.
Andrew's mind drifted through voices.
Kate.
Emma.
Michael.
Jason.
Fragments of memories. Laughter. Rain. Library steps. Long walks. Crashing waves.
They were distant, but real.
And then another voice.
Whitmore's.
A whisper.
"They feel you now, you know."
Andrew didn't answer.
"You changed. Your presence does more than echo it imprints. They feel your name like thunder in the veins. You should thank me for that."
Andrew smiled faintly in his sleep.
"I'll thank you when I understand you."
Whitmore was silent again.
But this time, Andrew didn't mind.
Because the train was slowing.
And the familiar shape of his hometown rose in the distance, warm and waiting.
He was going home.
And home somehow already knew.