my god, i miss the way we used to be

Once upon a time, Élodie was a kid.

Once upon a time, she played in the streets of Paris and the buildings and the statues surrounding her were her jungle, her paradise, her adventure.

Once upon a time, she went to an island with her parents, and she met kids who were outcasts just like her, and they were the closest of friends.

She wonders what the Pariahs would think of her now, sitting in front of a fire that doesn't burn, in a realm that shouldn't exist, writing in messy French cursive in a journal she's not entirely sure exists. Maybe it's made of the same fog that circles the perimeter of the campfire like an omen, resting like a predator waiting for prey. Maybe if she turns away for just a moment, her attention snatched for a fleeting second by something or other, the book with its yellowed pages and scratched leather cover will vanish, and it'll be like it wasn't there at all.

This place is like a dream turned real. All too fitting for the domain of the Thing that haunts her nightmares; a place that shifts from one plateau to another seemingly on a whim.

She's found what she had searched for, but all it leaves are questions in its place.

That's okay. She's built her life on hard-to-answer questions, questions that some argue shouldn't be answered—she's no stranger to mysteries. She'll just have to pry the answers out of this realm, one at a time.

In the present, she writes by firelight, pen flowing over paper as she puts her thoughts to the page, observations and questions and curiosities becoming more solid with every stroke. Engrossed in her work, she barely looks up from the page, tuning out the steady crackle of ever-burning wood—and the footsteps of those around her.