The fire crackles in the Brakebills fireplace as I sit curled in an armchair, a mug of tea growing cold in my hands. Eliot sits across from me, his own glass of wine barely touched as he watches me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Outside, snow falls silently, blanketing the campus in white.

"You've been staring at me for ten minutes," I say, finally breaking the silence.

Eliot doesn't look away. "Just making sure you're still here." His voice is quieter than usual, lacking its usual theatrical flair.

I set my mug down, suddenly too warm despite the winter chill. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you've been... distant lately. Like you're not quite present in your own skin."

He's not wrong. Since waking up in that Fillory castle, I've felt like I'm missing something essential—like there's a chapter missing from my own story. Gaps in my memory that no one seems willing to fill.

Before I can respond, the door creaks open. Alice steps inside, shaking snow from her coat. Her eyes find mine immediately, softening when she sees me, but there's a shadow of concern in her expression.

"There you are," she says. "I was looking for you everywhere."

Eliot stands abruptly, adjusting his sleeve with deliberate casualness. "I'll leave you two alone."

As he passes behind my chair, his fingers brush lightly against my shoulder—a brief touch that sends an electric current through me. When I look up, his eyes lock with mine, and in that moment, I swear I glimpse an entire lifetime of memories flickering behind his gaze—memories I don't possess.

"Stay," I hear myself say. "Please."

Eliot hesitates, glancing at Alice. The tension in the room is suddenly tangible, crackling like the fire between us.

Alice sits beside me on the arm of my chair, placing her hand gently on my knee. "Quentin, we need to talk about us."

Eliot's jaw tightens. "I should go."

"No," I repeat, more firmly this time. "Both of you. There's something I need to understand."

I look from Alice to Eliot and back again, suddenly desperate for answers I don't know how to ask for. "There's something wrong with me. Something missing."

Eliot's face palers slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I keep remembering things that never happened," I confess, the words tumbling out. "Fragments. A life with..."

I trail off, unable to finish the thought as the memory slips away like smoke. But when I meet Eliot's eyes again, I see recognition—and pain—in his expression.

"Tell me what's happening to me," I whisper.