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It is precisely at this moment, I know for sure there’s a mechanism toying with me beyond my understanding.

“Why is there only one headstone?” I ask.

Christian is still facing me. His brow furrows and he releases me to turn around. He doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes flick once toward me, then back to the cemetery.

“What is it?” I prod.

His posture changes, the easy confidence he had drains from his shoulders, replacing with rigid alertness.

“There aren’t any other headstones besides this one, are there?” he asks without looking back at me. His fingers creep their way around my wrist and squeeze tightly.

“What is happening here Christian?”

“I don’t know. This was perfectly intact when I visited a few days ago. The family…there is a family buried here who left a daughter behind. The—” Christian abruptly stops.

“What is it?”

“Something’s wrong. I can’t seem to—” He steps back. I notice the slight strain in his voice, the visible effort of his throat as if he’s forcing the words upward and through a barrier. His brows draw together. He tries again. This time I step toward him. Our gazes meet, his filling with confusion and mine in concern.

“What is happening?” My hands shoot out to his shoulders, holding him in place.

“Of course. I shouldn’t have brought you here, this will never work. You have no memories. We have no shared memories of what I want to show you.”

“Christian, talk to me.” I grab hold of his sleeves and tug him toward me.

“There are rules of Devil’s Bay, some I don’t understand. Some I know. One, being out after dark is never the best thing; two, some things don’t show up. I can see things that you can’t. Like right now, I can see the faint outline of other headstones, but you were only able to see them for a brief moment.” Christian swallows hard.

The silence that follows feels unnatural. It presses outward, humming with tension. The wind stills, branches pausing mid-sway. Stillness encroaches on all sides.

“Why can I only see one headstone, then? Whose is it?” I ask.

“What name do you see?”

“Richard Valen.”

Christian freezes, eyes widening. Slowly, he settles himself on the ground. “Of course. You were there with me when I had the phone call. I wasn’t there with you when it happened. You were with him. Why did I think the world would allow you to see the names? None of this makes sense.”

Crouching before him, I thread my fingers into his.

“Who is Richard Valen?”

“My father.”

The response is not one that I expect. Why would I be able to see a headstone of someone I don’t know? And why would Christian think I needed to see headstones of the couple who died?

Realization dawns. The manuscript had been telling the truth after all.

“You said there was a family buried here, did you think they were mine? Is it the Wren family?”

“Yes…I believe you are Sara Wren⁠—”

“Daughter of Antonella and Soloman Wren?” I interject, feeling blood rush to my head.

You’re finally asking the right questions.

“Yes...” he whispers, agony evident in his gaze.

“And what do you know of them?” A sinking feeling tells me I may already know. The papier-mâché masks. Daisy’s admission in the vision.