Chapter Text
The corridor digests.
(It prefers the sweet ones first.)
A boy wakes.
His eyes are stitched shut.
Silver hair catches light that isn't there.
He doesn't remember falling asleep.
(He always does.)
The stitches strain.
Wet.
Always wet.
Stitch 12 pulls tighter.
(A mother's applause, trapped inside.)
He touches the wall.
Longing for light.
The wall is breathing.
Somewhere, ticking fills the air.
Consistent.
Mechanical.
Wrong.
A girl walks from the darkness.
Her entire body ticks.
From hair to toes, every bit of her body ticks.
The sound fills the corridor like a heartbeat that forgot how to stop.
Her slim figure is wrapped in silk.
Gold.
Shimmering.
No skin is shown.
(Like the sinners in hell, covered.)
(Or the saints in heaven, adorned.)
She shouldn't be here.
Her parents must be looking for her.
She's adorned by everything, even the grains of sand on beaches.
(But the corridor called her.
It always does.)
The boy's stitches turn toward the sound.
He can't see.
He sees everything.
"Who—" he starts.
Her ticks stutter.
One.
Two.
(The corridor laughs.)
"You're bleeding," she says.
Her voice is efficient.
Thirteen years old and already optimizing.
He touches his face.
The stitches are wet.
Not blood.
Tears.
(Never his.
Always his.)
"I cry for others," he whispers.
"That's inefficient," she replies.
The corridor's walls contract.
Digestion begins.
She steps closer.
Her ticks fill the space between them.
He can feel them in his chest.
Counting.
Measuring.
Judging.
"How old are you?" she asks.
"Sixteen."
"You look younger."
"I am younger."
(Both true.)
Her left hand twitches.
Spins backward.
Just once.
(No one notices.)
"Have we met before?" he asks.
"No," she says.
(Timeline 47,293.
They've met 47,292 times before this.)
(She doesn't remember.)
(She remembers everything.)
"I'm Lily."
"I'm Noel."
The names are exchanged.
The corridor laughs.
It sounds like teeth closing.
It sounds like a door locking.
It sounds like the beginning of digestion.
They stand in the corridor.
Two strangers.
(Two pieces of the same people.)
(Two people who've never met.)
Both true.
"Have we met before?" he asks.
"I don't think so."
(They have.
47,292 times.)
"You feel familiar."
"So do you."
(The corridor designed them that way.)
They don't know this yet.
They will.
(They won't.)
The corridor's teeth gleam.
Its first meal.
(Its 47,293rd meal.)
(Its only meal.)
All true.
This is the first time.
(This is the 47,293rd time.)
(This is the only time.)
The stitches on his eyes strain harder.
A memory floods through.
Not his.
Hers.
A girl at thirteen.
Perfect scores.
Gold medals.
Empty applause.
The taste of copper and bile.
(She crammed achievement between her teeth until they bled.)
He gasps.
The memory cuts.
"Don't," she says.
Her voice is sharp.
"Don't look at my memories."
"I can't help it."
(Stitch 8 snaps.)
(A boot's kiss escapes.)
His knees buckle.
She catches him.
Her arms are stiff.
Mechanical.
(She saw someone do this once.)
"You're broken," she observes.
"You're a clock," he replies.
Her ticks never falter.
(Until they do.)
One.
Two.
Three.
Skip.
The corridor drinks the silence.
"I'm Lily," she says.
"Noel."
"Like Christmas."
"Like the end."
(His name means both.)
(It means neither.)
She releases him.
He stands.
The stitches weep.
Around them, the corridor has teeth.
In the walls.
In the air.
Everywhere.
Too many to count.
(They're being judged.)
"Where are we?" he asks.
"The corridor."
"What is it?"
"A place."
(A predator.)
(A digestive tract.)
(A witness.)
"How do we leave?"
Her ticks stop.
Complete silence.
For one second.
Then they resume.
Faster.
"We don't," she says.
The corridor laughs.
(It sounds like ticking.)
(It sounds like crying.)
(It sounds like teeth.)
Noel's stitches flood the space.
Lily's ticks count the seconds.
The corridor feeds on their meeting.
This is the first time.
(This is the 47,293rd time.)
(This is the only time.)
(Time doesn't exist here.)
The boy with stitched eyes and the girl made of clocks stand in a corridor that digests.
They've just met.
(They've always known each other.)
(They've never met.)
The corridor prefers the sweet ones first.
It's already decided which one to consume.
(Both.)
(Neither.)
(It doesn't matter.)
The ticking continues.
The stitches weep.
The corridor breathes.
This is how it begins.
(This is how it always begins.)
(This is how it never ends.)