Leave - Return to your family.

You step back, shaking your head and refusing her offer. Miranthe’s shoulders tighten, just slightly, before she turns away to walk among her flowers. “Very well,” she says simply. Nothing more. You linger for a moment, your eyes drifting across the grove one last time, before turning and stepping back through the opening in the vines. The air beyond is colder. Quieter. Your horse is gone. The reins no longer hang from the branch where you secured them. You call out, scanning the trees, but you see nothing. No movement. No sound. Just the stillness of the forest pressing in around you. With a slow breath, you begin the walk back. At first, it’s only a weight in your limbs. A heaviness that settles in far too quickly. Your steps grow slower, your breath shorter, as if the journey itself is pressing harder against you than it should. The further you move from the grove, the worse it becomes. By the time you reach the forest path, something feels deeply wrong. You glance down at your hands. The skin is more lined than you remember, faint creases where there had been none before. Your clothes feel off on your frame, and when you flex your fingers, your joints ache with a stiffness that wasn’t there before. Even the path feels different. Overgrown. The trees thicker, older, their branches stretching in unfamiliar ways. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve lost your way. But you haven’t. You know this road. Eventually, the village comes into view, and you stop. Fences stand where there had once been open space. New buildings rise where fields used to stretch. Everything looks… older. Lived in. Changed. Your home stands where it always has, but even it has aged. The wood weathered, the stone worn, yet still cared for. You move toward it slowly, each step heavier than the last, as if something unseen is pressing down on you with every pace. The door creaks open before you reach it and a young woman steps out into the yard. “Lora," you say in relief. But it's short lived. She startles at the sound, her eyes snapping to yours. "But you were just..." she says slowly. Her face riddled with confusion. Alarm. “Mom!” she calls suddenly, her voice tight as she turns back toward the house. “Mom, it's—” Mom... The word catches you off guard. It doesn’t make sense. Footsteps sound from within, slower this time. Measured. And then an older woman appears in the doorway. And you recognize her instantly, even through the years she had lived. Lora. The years sit plainly on her face, in the lines at the corners of her eyes, in the way she holds herself in the doorway. She stops when she sees you, her breath catching as the same alarm and confusion crosses her own features. You feel it then, not as a thought, but as something sinking into place. The girl was your daughter, Lillian, now twenty years older. The space behind Lora darkens as another figure steps forward. He moves easily, naturally, like he's stood beside her a thousand times before. Like he belongs there. Your breath catches. It’s you. Not similar. Not close. You. The man’s hand comes to rest lightly at Lora’s shoulder, steadying her, grounding her, as if she needs it. As if he’s the one she turns to. “Go inside,” he says, his voice low. Your voice. Lora hesitates, her gaze flicking between the two of you, uncertainty trembling just beneath the surface. But she listens. Of course she does. She turns and disappears back into the house, the door closing softly behind her. The man steps forward into the yard with no hesitation. No confusion. Only calm certainty. His eyes meet yours, and there’s something knowing there. Something familiar. “Hello, Alex D'Arke...” the imposter says with your own voice. A faint smile touches his lips as his eyes flash green for just the briefest moment. “I told you it would take time.”