The church bell tolled, its solemn peal echoing across Aldwinter, announcing the commencement of the 299th loop. Will Ransome had never known such happiness, nor felt so vividly alive, until the day his conscience was restored. Each breath was a marvel—so effortless, so secure in his chest. When he wandered outside, he discovered anew the sun’s caress upon his roughened skin—a touch both warm and comforting. For the first time, he heard his own voice resounding in his mind, rather than the silent, heavy print of words dictated by another’s pen. He felt the steady thrum of his heart—this, truly, was life; this, at last, was what it meant to be human.

Yet, to awaken one’s conscience is to inherit the world’s pain alongside its pleasures. The memories of all 298 preceding loops returned to him in their fullness; each cycle repeating the same weary plot, each memory echoing with sameness and sorrow. The realization unsettled him deeply, that he had been molded—written solely for Cora Seaborne’s sake in the Essex Serpent book, his existence bent to serve another’s narrative. It was a knowledge that chilled and troubled him, haunting his waking hours. Even with this newfound awareness, Will retained the memories of his own youth in this 299th loop. He understood, with painful clarity, that he did not wish to be as the Wills who had come before him.

Thus, to spare her from the wounds he and the writer might otherwise inflict, Will chose not to marry her. He could only watch from a distance as she sought her own happiness, content merely to ensure her safety. The years unfolded inexorably; the year that should have marked children's births passed quietly by, as did those in which more children ought to have entered the world. Still, Will lingered near her, ever watchful. When Cora appeared again, Will beheld her with eyes unclouded by narrative or desire. Two years his senior, she wore her age plainly: her face was lined, her appearance far from alluring. "You never went to school," Will said firmly. "I cannot permit someone unqualified to unsettle the villagers. Permission must be sought before any digging." When Cora retired to her inn, Will's thoughts turned to her. In every previous loop, she had fallen to consumption soon after Cora's arrival. "Good afternoon," he greeted, interrupting her at her task with a warm smile. "I've noticed illness increasing among villagers. I'm conducting visits in person. Forgive my introduction runs long," he added with a soft chuckle. "So, tell me—how do you fare? Are you well, little lamb?"