CHARPER 5:
Lena stared at the message on her phone, her heart pounding in her chest like a trapped bird. The screen glowed in the dim light of her bedroom, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Marcus was asleep beside her—or at least, the version of Marcus she had remarried just weeks ago. His breathing was steady, peaceful. But the text wasn't from him.
If you want to save him, come alone. The park bench by the old oak. Midnight. – E
Dr. Elara Voss. It had to be. Lena had only met her once, briefly, during that frantic call after the accident-that-wasn't. Elara had warned her then: "Remarrying him will tear the veil further. You're inviting chaos." Lena hadn't listened. Love, stubborn and blind, had won out.
She glanced at the clock: 11:15 PM. The house was silent, but it didn't feel empty. Lately, nothing felt truly empty. There were echoes—whispers in the corners of rooms, glimpses of movement in mirrors that vanished when she turned. Alternate realities bleeding through, Elara had called it. The quantum divorce had sealed the rift created by their first marriage. Undoing it had reopened the wound.
Lena slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Marcus. She dressed quickly in jeans and a dark hoodie, grabbing her keys. As she passed the hallway mirror, she froze. For a split second, her reflection didn't match. It smiled when she didn't. It raised a hand she hadn't moved.
She ran down the stairs, out into the cool night air. The drive to the park was short, but every streetlight seemed to flicker unnaturally, as if struggling to stay lit in this reality.
The old oak loomed in the park, its branches like skeletal fingers against the moonlit sky. Dr. Elara Voss was already there, sitting on the bench with perfect posture. She wore a long black coat, her silver-streaked hair tied back severely. In her lap was a sleek tablet, glowing faintly.
"You're late," Elara said without looking up.
"It's 11:58," Lena replied, breathless. "What's this about saving him?"
Elara finally met her eyes. Her gaze was sharp, clinical, like a scientist observing a flawed experiment. "Your husband—both versions—is in danger. The Weaver has noticed the disturbance. It's... accelerating."
"The Weaver," Lena echoed. She'd heard the name before, in Elara's warnings. "The entity that maintains the multiverse balance?"
"More than maintains. It weaves the threads. When threads tangle—like yours and Marcus's did twice now—it prunes them. Ruthlessly."
Lena sat on the bench, keeping distance. "What does that mean for us?"
"It means one of you will cease to exist. Or both. Or worse—your realities will collapse into each other, creating a paradox loop. People are already noticing glitches. Haven't you?"
Lena thought of the mirror, the whispers. And earlier that week: a coworker mentioning a project Marcus had supposedly led years ago, one from a timeline where they never divorced. Marcus himself had woken from nightmares, muttering about a life where Lena had died in a car crash—the very "accident" that prompted their remarriage.
"What do we do?" Lena asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Elara handed her the tablet. On the screen was a complex diagram: branching lines representing timelines, with red alerts pulsing at intersections. Their marriage was a bright knot in the center.
"There's a device," Elara said. "A stabilizer I built based on the quantum divorce tech. It can seal the rift again without fully severing your bond. But it requires both of you to activate it—at a nexus point."
"A nexus point?"
"The place where your realities first diverged. The chapel where you got married the first time."
Lena's stomach twisted. They hadn't been back there since the divorce.
"And if we don't?"
Elara's expression darkened. "The Weaver will intervene directly. Last time it did, entire branches vanished. Thousands of lives... gone. As if they never were."
A rustle in the bushes made them both tense. Lena turned, but saw nothing.
"We're being watched," Elara murmured. "Alternates. Echoes slipping through."
As if on cue, a figure emerged from the shadows—a man who looked exactly like Marcus, but with a scar across his cheek that her Marcus didn't have. His eyes were hollow, desperate.
"Lena," he said, voice cracking. "Don't trust her. She's the one who—"
He flickered, like bad reception, and vanished.
Elara stood abruptly. "We don't have much time. Convince him. Meet me at the chapel tomorrow night. Come alone first—I'll prepare the device."
Lena nodded numbly as Elara walked away into the darkness. The park felt colder now, the air heavier.
Driving home, Lena's mind raced. How could she tell Marcus? Would he believe her? And that other Marcus—what had he been trying to say?
She pulled into the driveway, heart sinking. The lights in the house were on. All of them. Marcus was awake.
Inside, he was pacing the living room, phone in hand. His face was pale.
"Where were you?" he asked, relief mixing with suspicion.
"I... couldn't sleep. Went for a drive."
He showed her his phone. A text, identical to hers: If you want to save her, come alone... – E
"Marcus," Lena whispered. "We need to talk."
They sat on the couch, and she told him everything—Elara, the Weaver, the stabilizer. He listened, face growing grim.
"I dreamed about this," he said finally. "About versions of us dying. Over and over."
He reached for her hand. "The chapel. Tomorrow?"
She nodded.
But as they held each other, neither noticed the mirror across the room. In it, their reflections didn't hold hands. They stood apart, staring out with eyes full of accusation.
And in the glass, a third figure watched them both—a shadowy silhouette with threads of light weaving through its form. The Weaver was coming.