He Who Wasn't Me

The image of those black eyes in the dead library screen wouldn't leave me. Sleep was a mess of dark reflections and that chilling void staring back. Waking up felt like stepping onto thin ice – everything looked normal, but I knew something terrifying lurked just underneath. Sylin Mirrel wasn't just a puzzle; she felt like a piece of the nightmare that brought me here. My Neurostride, usually so sharp, felt shaky against that memory.

But the part of me that wanted control, that needed to understand this world, wouldn't let me hide. To understand her was to maybe understand what happened to me. Being near her was risky, but it was the only way to learn. And right now, the daytime Sylin acted… normal. She sat beside me in Calculus the next morning, giving me a polite little nod. No sign of the void. Just the quiet girl with the leather journal.

Neurostride hummed in my head, pushing past the fear. It laid out choices, cold and clear:

Avoid her completely. Safe, but learn nothing. Might make her suspicious if I suddenly ignore her.

Keep things like yesterday. Polite school stuff. Safe, but boring. Won't learn much.

Try to get closer. Find something we both like. Work together. Riskier, but could learn a lot.

Option three. Always go for the information. Keep the fear locked away. Use it, don't let it use me.

The chance came in Physics. Professor Thorne, always messy with chalk dust, announced a big project: partners needed to research "how time and space might interact weirdly in one spot." Fitting, considering my situation. Neurostride scanned the room instantly – who was pairing with who. Sylin sat alone, already reading the assignment.

The path was clear. Wait for the pairing rush to calm. Walk over just as she's packing up. Sound interested, not pushy.

"Professor Thorne's project looks pretty involved," I said, stopping by her desk. Neurostride kept my voice level. "Need a partner?"

She looked up, those warm amber eyes meeting mine. Neurostride read her face: a flicker of surprise, then thought. No tension. "It does," she agreed softly. "Finding someone who gets the basic ideas might be tricky."

"I understand the basics well enough," I offered, downplaying it thanks to Neurostride. "And what you said yesterday about things feeling 'off-kilter'... that actually feels like a useful way to think about this stuff." Truth, wrapped in a compliment. Bait, but friendly bait.

A tiny spark in her eyes. Interest? "You remembered that?" she asked, tilting her head a little.

"Unusual ways of putting things stick with me," I replied, giving a small, easy smile. "Caelus Vireon. Officially." A little callback to yesterday.

"Sylin Mirrel," she returned, that faint almost-smile touching her lips again. "Officially." She paused, then nodded. "Alright. Partners. Better than trying to work with someone random."

Partnership. Goal: Watch. Learn. Stay close.

We agreed to meet after school in the smaller east wing library – the one without that monitor. Safe ground.

The annex was quiet, smelling of old paper and dust floating in the afternoon sun. Sylin arrived right on time, carrying her journal and a big, cloth-wrapped bundle. She set it down gently on our table.

"For the project," she said, unwrapping the bundle carefully, like it was treasure.

It wasn't books. It was an old clock, partly taken apart. Brass and steel gears of all sizes lay nestled in the cloth. The main frame was there, but lots of pieces were off. It looked ancient, beautifully made, and definitely broken.

"Something real," Sylin explained, her fingers hovering near the gears. "My grandpa's old regulator clock. It stopped working years ago. I've been trying to fix it." She looked at me. "Talking about wobbly time and space is abstract. This," she pointed to the clock, "is a real machine that keeps time. Seeing what's wrong with it, how it wobbles itself... maybe it helps understand the bigger idea?"

It was smart. And totally unexpected. Neurostride adjusted its view. Practical. Hands-on. Sentimental? The way she handled it suggested care.

"Wow," I said, real interest cutting through my caution. Neurostride confirmed it wasn't fake. The complexity, the history, the tiny moving parts – it appealed to the same part of me that liked Neurostride's precision. "Like a tiny world with its own rules. What's broken?"

Sylin changed. The quiet student faded, replaced by focused intensity as she pointed to a tiny forked piece near the pendulum. "Here. This little fork isn't catching the wheel right every time. It makes the pendulum swing unevenly." She picked up the tiny FTE with tweezers. "It's worn. Or maybe bent a tiny bit. Hard to be sure."

For the next hour, the world shrank to the table, the scattered gears, and Sylin. We talked about how things vibrate, how metal behaves, how temperature can change things. Neurostride fed me answers instantly – what might cause the wear, what gentle cleaner to use on old brass, how the pieces should fit. I gave them to her carefully, making them sound like guesses or questions.

"Since it's old brass," I said, peering at a gear under the library lamp, "maybe something gentle would clean it without damaging it? Like a mild soap or specialized metal cleaner?"

Sylin paused, looking genuinely surprised, then pleased. "That's... really smart. I've been hesitant to use anything too harsh." She reached into her toolkit and pulled out a small, unlabeled bottle. "I actually brought a brass-safe polish—just in case."

Neurostride noted it: Barrier lowering. She's opening up. Starting to trust (a little).

As we worked, her hands moved with that same quiet grace, but now with purpose. Careful, precise. She talked about her grandpa, how he loved clocks, how frustrating it was that this one broke. Her voice, usually soft, got a little warmer when she talked about the mechanics. She even laughed softly, a quick breathy sound, when a tiny spring shot out of the tweezers and vanished under the table. "Slippery little thing," she murmured, kneeling down to look.

"Hey, if we lose that, we're doomed," I said, chuckling as I joined her under the table, scanning the dusty floorboards. "This clock's already got enough mysteries."

She glanced at me, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "You're not wrong. It's like it wants to stay broken." Her tone was light, almost playful, a side of her I hadn't seen before.

We found the spring after a minute of searching, and I handed it back to her with a mock-serious bow. "Your rogue spring, m'lady."

She rolled her eyes but smiled, tucking it safely into a tiny dish. "Thanks, knight in shining armor."

The clash in my head was crazy. This Sylin – focused, smart, actually caring about fixing this old clock, laughing when a spring escaped – felt completely real. Normal. Likeable. The girl with the void eyes felt like a bad dream. But the icy fear in my gut wouldn't leave. Which one was real? Or were they both? It messed with my head.

Neurostride kept watching:

Her expressions look real – focused, frustrated (about the spring), happy.

No signs she's hiding anything or acting.

She knows a lot about clocks, which fits.

Moves well, but like a normal person.

The facts said 'normal'. My gut still whispered 'danger'.

We managed to clean the sticky parts and put the little fork assembly back together. Sylin carefully wound the mainspring just a tiny bit. We held our breath. The fork clicked. The wheel turned one notch. The pendulum, hanging free, gave a small, hesitant wobble.

"It moved!" Sylin whispered, her amber eyes wide with pure, happy surprise. It was the first truly warm look I'd seen from her, and it caught me off guard. "You're really good at figuring things out, Caelus."

"Just thinking it through," I shrugged, but Neurostride picked up a weird little flicker – satisfaction? Not from controlling something, but from… helping. Fixing. Strange feeling. "You know this clock inside out."

She carefully let the spring power down again. "It's like solving a puzzle. Learning the rules of a tiny world." She looked from the clock to me, the warmth fading back to her usual thoughtful look, but softer than before. "Like figuring out this world. Everything has its rules. Even the weird bits."

The word 'weird' hung there. My dream. The shattered feeling. Did she mean anything? Neurostride couldn't tell.

"Weird bits mean something's not working right," I said carefully, keeping my eyes on the clock. "But sometimes, seeing the broken part shows you how it should work."

She was quiet for a moment, tracing the clock's brass edge. "Sometimes," she agreed quietly. She started rewrapping the clock. "Thanks, Caelus. This helped… both for the project and the clock."

"The project's just starting," I said, packing my own stuff. The part wanting control nudged back in. "We should meet again. Keep going? Maybe look at the main gears next?"

She nodded, tying the cloth bundle. "Yes. That makes sense. Tomorrow, same time?"

"Perfect."

We walked out together into the late afternoon sun, long shadows stretching across the path. It had been… nice. Interesting. Neurostride logged real progress. We were becoming partners, maybe even… friends? The start of something, anyway.

But as we reached the library steps, Sylin heading home, me heading for the bus, that cold dread was still there, just pushed down. She paused, half-turning. The sun lit up her dark hair.

"Oh, Caelus?" Her voice was soft, clear in the quiet.

"Yeah?" I turned, Neurostride snapping alert.

She reached into her blazer pocket and held up something tiny. It glinted brass in the light. The lost clock spring. "Found it," she said, that faint almost-smile back. "It bounced further than I thought."

She held it out. I walked back the few steps and took the tiny, coiled piece of metal. Our fingers brushed. Her skin was cool.

"Thanks," I said, putting the spring in my pocket. A tiny piece of metal.

"You notice things," she said, her amber eyes meeting mine. No black. No void. Just thoughtful. "Little details. Especially the ones that get lost."

She turned and walked away, disappearing around a corner where jasmine vines bloomed, the scent suddenly sweet and heavy.

I stood there, the tiny spring cold in my pocket. Notice things. Little details. The lost ones. Neurostride had nothing. No percentages, no hidden meanings. Was she just talking about the spring? Complimenting how I spotted the fix? Or something else… something cold, reminding me she knew I saw something in that library screen? That she knew I knew?

The nice afternoon, the teamwork on the clock, suddenly felt flimsy. The start of friendship felt like it was built on the edge of a deep, dark hole. The gardener, walking away into the golden light, was still the biggest, scariest mystery of all. The clock in my mind ticked, counting down towards something I couldn't see.