Chapter Text
Mark
Heathcliffs’ Basement - March 1st - 2007
In the amber light of the attic, Mark wrote letters to a ghost.
It had become routine over the years. He’d seal each envelope with blue wax, almost ritualistically. Sometimes, he’d attach a postcard of Bythorne’s beach, a faint reminder to dream.
Then, he’d send the letter to Cesar’s house. Each letter carrying a small, foolish hope, attached with delusional words.
The hope that, somehow, someone was reading them.
The rational part of his brain tugged on him, Cesar has been gone for a while now, to understate it. Nobody goes MIA for 17 years without ending up on a milk carton somewhere. He couldn’t imagine how Cesar would be faring if he were still alive, rather, he didn’t want to.
His mind drifts to a scene, as vivid as always, of Cesar’s battered face in a corner of some jet black room. He brandished a dagger with slender and trembling fingers, wide-eye staring at something ahead that was cornering him. Cesar resembled prey, staring into the glint of it’s predator canines.
Anyone with basic cognitive could tell that Cesar was wildly horrified. If he clenched his jaw any further, his teeth would’ve just shattered. Perhaps in effort to shield his actively quivering chin. His appearance was gaunt and tortured. Dark red scabs were strewn over his face, stark contrast to his dirtied pale skin. They looked deliberate and narrow, as if a sword grazed him.
Like a film reel burning out before the climax, he didn’t know what happened next to this imaginary Cesar, forcing him into reality each questioning second.
For years, he’d poured his thoughts into those letters, each one a last-ditch effort to reach him. It helped, in some small way. The act of writing, as if Cesar might see it, read it, understand it—it was better than sitting alone. But the more he wrote, the more the idea pulled at him. Could he keep living with that “what if,” never knowing for sure?
Mark ran his fingers over the latest letter he’d written, folded and creased from reading it over and over again. He checks his syntax, as if Cesar could tease him for using the wrong you’re/your again.
Dear, Cesar
My sister is starting a club against alternates, though I really wish she wouldn’t. She talks about it like she isn’t as powerless as you and me. And I don’t have the heart to tell her that these things don’t care about missions. Or people.
It’s like watching the past play out in front of me, and I don’t know how to stop it. I see her heading down that same path, looking for answers that don’t exist, for monsters that don’t follow the rules.
I’ve told her stories, tried to scare her out of it, but in the end she's not a child. (Well, I don’t consider her an adult per se.) I’m lucky she’s not rebellious, or I’d be done for. You’d remember how hard she was to “tame” as a kid.
It’s like carrying two lives—mine and hers. Especially with what people her age do now a days. (I feel 50 saying that, but it’s true.) You’d remember how paranoid I can be over these things. All I can do is hope neither of us slip.
Sincerely, Mark
P.S if you have any way of watching over Sarah, I hope you can keep an eye on her for me.
Maybe he was chasing ghosts, maybe he’d come back with nothing but the same hollow ache he had since Cesar disappeared.
But he had to know. He had to see for himself, to find something in the silence he found himself sitting in regardless that felt like closure. And if there was even the slightest chance that Cesar was out there, waiting to be found… then how could he ignore it?
The decision felt like it was already made, deep down. Mandela County haunted his every thought, filling his dreams with memories twisted by regret and the echo of things unsaid. He needed to go back—not just for Cesar, but for himself.
“What are you doing? It’s eleven-ish.” Mark jolts a little, Sarah’s voice breaking the quiet.
He glances up from his desk, finding her standing at the stairway, arms crossed, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the kitchen behind her. Mark clears his throat, fumbling slightly as snaps the notebook shut.
Mark scans the room, his gaze landing on the silver-lined ballpoint pen, a pitiful excuse forming in his mind. “Just… Writing.” The excuse sounds thin in his own ears. Sarah, always quick to notice, zeroes in her gaze on the envelope sitting beside the notebook. “A letter?”
Mark hesitates, then huffs, gesturing to the letter like it's something completely obvious. “It’s what we did before the Internet.” She rolls her eyes, clearly not buying it. “You’re not that old, I mean, computers existed in the nineties.” He holds his tongue, refraining from saying ‘oh yeah? Learn that in school today?’
“The only time you don’t bug me about being old is when you’re trying to get in my business. I’m very amused.”
“I’m very amused.” Sarah mimics his deadpan tone. She descends down the stairs, leaning against the railing no matter how much Mark told her not too. “Anyway, I came down here to ask something.”
“Here it comes. I’m disappointed in myself to tell you this, but I don’t have even a fiver to my name.”
“I’m not asking for money! I’m more sophisticated than that.”
Mark feigns shock at this, a hand over his mouth. “You weren’t sophisticated last month.”
“That’s besides the point— What I wanted to ask is, can I hang out with a friend tomorrow?”
Mark stands up, kicking the chair away from him. He places his hands on Sarah’s shoulders in an exaggerated gesture. “I pronounce, thee, Sarah Heathcliff, the ability to just leave.” He releases her shoulders with a squeeze, holding back a grin. “Really?” her expression shifting as she prepares to launch into a familiar argument about why he should let her go.
“You’re eighteen, I legally can’t stop you. But… For my own sake, I want a call beforehand. Don’t get into trouble with the law or anything.” He says, in spite of the part of him that wants to keep her within arms-reach forever.
“Thanks!” Sarah gives a small smile, interrupting his thoughts momentarily like waving a hand to clear gas.
As Sarah ascends up the stairs, Mark’s gaze lingers on the door. Did he make the right choice? The words he had spoken felt liberating, yet a nagging feeling coiled in his stomach.
Part of him felt proud, she was no longer the scared little blond girl who cowered behind his leg for safety. She was becoming her own person. But with that growth came risks he wished he could shield her from.
With a heavy breath, he folded the letter and tucked it away. It was time to find his way back, even if all he found waiting was the same old emptiness.
Sarah
Outside - March 2nd - 2007
Rain assaulted Sarah’s mesh umbrella, the occasional raindrop counter-intuitively landing on her and Adam. She had taken him under her wing, feeling guilty watching the poor guy running across the road as rain pelted.
She had met Adam recently through her club advertisements, and they were already getting walking-home-together comfortable with each-other. Not like Sarah would know if thats a big deal or not, she preferred to walk/drive home by herself.
She remembered refreshing her computer a million times, the deep-seated feeling of triumphant like a spark of electricity when she spotted a message from him asking about her club.
Adam was, to put it bluntly, weird. Not that she expected anything particularly stable, given she was running a paranormal club of all things. His energy was as closed off as it was strange, something she immediately picked up on. She made mental notes about him, wondering if his oddities came from just leaning into the mystique for effect.
Most of the time, Adam spoke in a flat, almost guarded tone, like he was deliberately keeping everyone at a distance. His vocabulary felt clipped, mostly consisting of “damn” and “alright” — words that didn’t give anything away, but left him just talkative enough.
She briefly thought he might just be a non-committal type, but seeing how he got talking about their club she doubted that.
“So,” she began, keeping her tone casual, “what exactly made you interested in joining my club?” She watched him for a reaction, scanning for any hint of skepticism. Adam shrugged, glancing away briefly as soon as their eyes could meet.
“Guess I’m curious about the whole thing. You know—seeing if any of it’s real.” A part of her didn’t think that was the truth. “If? Do you think it’s fake?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.
“Honestly, I think you’re a bit crazy. All this ‘alternate’ stuff sounds like a ghost story.” He chuckled under his breath, no louder than the cold gusts of wind. She smirked, twisting her umbrella idly. “Well, stick around. You’ll get your chance sooner than you think.”
“It’s taking forever to get an actual job, though.”
“I’ve been checking if I ran out of phone cred like every week in case.”
“We might graduate before it happens.” As if on cue, her phone buzzes in her pocket. “Hold on,” she briefly stopped walking, halting Adam in his tracks.
She’d gotten a text from her brother— out of character for someone as un-tech-savvy as he was.
Mark H.
Don’t worry if you don’t see me home, I’m out doing errands in another city.
<3
Did I do the heart right?
Sarah Heathcliff
One: Bravo you did!
Two: Okay. Drive safe
Despite her encouraging response, she wondered, what the hell could he be doing out of Bythorne?
Mark
Mandela county - March 2nd - 2007
Mark drove in silence, the hum of the engine blending with the faint memories that rose up as he passed familiar landmarks. He hadn’t set foot in Mandela County in years, but certain places remained etched in his mind as if no time had passed.
The weathered brick St. Gabriel church loomed up on his right, its cross steeple looming over him starkly against the sky, just as imposing as he remembered, like someone watching him.
He could still picture Cesar leaning against the front steps laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. Both relating to how Cesar was generally laid back and wasn’t really religious.
The houses on the surrounding streets held a strange, unsettling familiarity too. He remembered drawing up maps with Cesar, each house as its own marker, once they were allowed to walk home from school.
Their faded siding and cracked sidewalks brought back fragments of conversations, moments he’d tried to push away. He passed the old movie rental store, now boarded up with yellow barricade tape, but he could still imagine the flashing marquee from when they were kids.
Mandela county was fundamentally a ghost town and . In his whole ride to the heart of the county, he hadn’t seen a single person or light on.
Then, finally, he pulled up in front of Cesar’s house. The place looked just as forgotten as it felt in his memory—windows clouded with dust, weeds pushing up through cracks in the driveway and the path. The house stood silent, holding an odd, empty sort of tension, like it was caught in a moment between his last visit and today.
He was reminded of how eerie Cesar’s house was, even when it had a bustling garden and swing set. He wonders where that swing set went— It felt nearly symbolic of their transition to childhood to teenage-hood when Mrs. Torres removed it to make more space for her veggie garden.
Mark took a breath, steadying himself, and turned off the engine. Something in him stirred, a familiar blend of hesitation and determination. He hadn’t come all this way to just sit in his car, haunted by memories. He needed to see it for himself.
Mark’s hand lingered on the car door handle, fingers tapping a rhythm that betrayed his nerves. The air around Cesar’s house felt heavy, stifling, as though it held the whispers of all the years gone by. The house had a bleakness to it now—paint peeling off in thin, brittle flakes, shingles missing from the roof, and the garden beds overrun with weeds, reaching out like skeletal fingers.
Stepping out of the car, he scanned the empty street, half-expecting to catch sight of Cesar waiting on the steps with that signature wave. But it was just him and the silence. His footsteps crunched on the gravel as he made his way up the cracked pathway, each step feeling like he was crossing some kind of threshold.
Mark glanced up at the window he remembered as Cesar’s room, the faded curtains drawn, their edges frayed from years of neglect. For a moment, he considered turning back. But he swallowed, pushing past the feeling, and reached for the doorknob. His fingers brushed against the cold metal, and he felt the weight of all the questions that had brought him here settle on his shoulders.
With a slow, deliberate twist, he turned the knob. The door creaked open, releasing a stale, musty air from within.
The stale air wrapped around Mark like a shroud as he stepped into the dim foyer, the faint smell of mildew thick in the silence. Dust hung in the air, catching weak slants of light seeping through the drawn curtains. Memories flooded his mind—the laughter, the noise, the liveliness that once filled this house. Now, it felt like a tomb.
Mark took a shaky breath and made his way down the hallway, each step muffled by an old, threadbare carpet. Shadows seemed to curl in the corners of his vision, playing tricks, and yet… he could feel something. A presence, subtle and lingering, as if he were being watched.
The door to Cesar’s old room stood ajar at the end of the hall. A thin sliver of darkness lay beyond, and something in Mark’s gut twisted. He approached, slow and steady, his pulse hammering louder with each step.
As he entered the room, he was met with the faintest shuffling sound.
In the corner, crouched low and hidden in the half-dark, a figure hid under the bed,
gaunt and outlined,
head hanging low.
Mark felt the blood drain from his face,
his chest tightening.
As if
Time was slowing down
“Cesar?!” he whispered-yelled, barely able to recognize the name as it left his lips.
Cesar didn’t respond at first, his shoulders only twitching up at the sound.
But then, he slowly raised its head from under his bed. Mark’s heart plummeted. The face was familiar—too familiar—but hollowed. From under the bed, there was only a shadow of Cesar’s face, the eyes sunken and unfocused, as if caught between two worlds. His hair was noticeably ruffled, wisping over his face.
Immediately, Cesar sprung to his feet nearly instinctual, a dagger pointed towards Marks face— He nearly expected a red dot to signify a sniper’s aim. He gasps involuntarily, jolts of fever leading hair to stand up on his skin.
“Who are you?” His voice was rough and accusatory, like his voice box was held together by tape.
“It’s me, Mark!” Mark took a careful step back, shaking hands raised in defense.
“As if I’d believe you that easily.” His eyes narrowed, just as dangerous as the ridgy dagger in his hand. “Whens my birthday?”
“It was in June, or something— I’m sorry, It’s been a long time!”
Cesar gave a raspy, mocking laugh, contributing to the influx of guilt washing over Mark. How did he not remember Cesar’s birthday? “Not good enough. If you're really Mark, what did I get you for your last birthday?”
Mark stammered, his mind racing like it was scrambling for answers. He thought about his 18th birthday a lot; it being the last the birthday celebration he had. Between sacrificing his adulthood for his younger sister and general disinterest in the notion.
“You, uh… you got me that… that weird action figure. The one you swore was a a collector’s item?” He couldn’t imagine Cesar’s face could contort such a threatening expression, “I k-kept it, you know.”
Cesar’s white-knuckled grip on the bronze handle of the dagger loosened slightly, but his stance remained wary and wide. “Lucky guess. Anyone who knows me could’ve told you that.” Mark saw multiple fallacies in his argument. (Everyone who knows you is dead. How could that be a lucky guess? And lastly, why the hell did you ask then?!) But he knew it was a bad time to communicate them.
A silence settled in the atmosphere as Mark darted his gaze around. Cesar looked like he was frozen in time, from how he stood like a statue, and from his outfit. Maybe the alternate attack happened mid-wedding for him, because he was wearing a blazer and dress shirt.
Mark took a careful breath, his heart pounding in his ears. “Cesar, come on. When you disappeared, I—” He caught himself, realizing opening that topic might be as productive as stepping on a land mine. “I mean, I’ve been looking for you. It’s been 17 years.” That wasn’t the inherent truth, but he now doubts any of his letters reached Cesar.
Cesar’s expression twisted, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "Seventeen years?" He spat. A bitterness was vivid in his demeanor, like a resentment that went beyond time itself—like he despised the very idea that Mark had thought of him. “Do you even—can you even comprehend what that kind of time does to a person?”
“Cesar, I know it’s been… a long time.” Mark’s voice softened. “But it’s still me. I came here to find you. Because I couldn't—” He places a hand over his heart, too scared to reach for his rosary.
“Couldn’t leave well alone, right?” Cesar’s voice dropped to a whisper. He lowered the dagger, but his words remained sharp.
“You act like time is something you can fight against. Time doesn’t need a reason to change things. It strips everything down, piece by piece—no fanfare, no grand mystery.”
“I. forgot. It. All.” He enunciated, lightly grasping the dagger to his side. “Your face blurred, our memories rotted. You think you’re holding onto me, but what you’re holding onto doesn’t exist anymore. I’m not the person you came to find. I’m not sure I ever was.”
Mark blinked, absorbing the words. His mind raced, trying to process Cesar’s bitterness. Could time really erase everything so easily? The idea that all the years he'd spent agonizing over his friend, replaying memories, seemed to mean nothing to Cesar. But how could that be? How could someone forget their life so completely?
Maybe he's just... broken. All this time alone, he’s had no one to ground him. Mark wanted to believe that was it, but a small voice in his mind whispered doubt. Was it possible that the Cesar he had come to find truly didn’t exist anymore? Who was he writing to?
But the alternative was worse. If Cesar was gone, if time had eaten away at him piece by piece, then what was left for Mark?
No. He clenched his fists, swallowing the knot in his throat “I didn’t come here to fix the past, Cesar. I know it’s gone. But I couldn’t let you disappear without trying.”
A tense silence settled between them. Finally, Cesar took a step back, though his gaze remained hard and distant. “Fine. Say I believe you. Doesn’t mean it was a good idea for you to come here.”
Mark managed a small, strained smile. “Yeah… I’m getting that impression.”
Mark took a steadying breath. “Listen, Cesar, I know it’s been... a while. And I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. But you don’t have to stay here, like this. You can come back with me. To Bythorne.”
Cesar looked away, the tension in his posture barely easing. “Why would I? There’s nothing there. Everyone I knew… they’re gone. There’s nothing left.”
Mark swallowed, pressing on. “But at least I’m there. You don’t have to be alone, and you don’t have to do this on your own.” He paused, his voice softening. “It’s better than hiding out in this… place. Come on, Cesar. Just come back with me. At least let me bring you to the hospital.”
Cesar’s grip on the dagger tightened, but lowered it like a truce. His gaze flicked between Mark and the dim, hollow room around him.
“I’m not doing this out of pity,” Mark said quietly, the quietude feeling like the biggest test he’d ever failed.
After a long silence, Cesar sighed, a reluctant nod forming. “…Fine. But don’t think this makes us even.”
Mark managed a half-smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He turned his back, constantly checking to see if the other would follow him. Or chuck the knife into his back once given the chance…
Cesar moved toward Mark’s car with a reluctant gait, as if he might change his mind any second. Mark unlocked the passenger side, watching as Cesar slid in, his eyes darting around the interior. He settled in the seat stiffly, his fingers clenching the edges of his coat, as if bracing for something.
Mark slipped into the driver’s seat, glancing over at Cesar before turning the key. “It’s… uh, it’s a bit of a ride. Shouldn’t take too long, though,” he said, unsure if he was speaking to reassure Cesar or himself.
Cesar barely nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the road ahead. Mark shifted into gear, and they pulled away from the curb, leaving the house—its memories and shadows— to disappear into the rear-view mirror.
The streets of Mandela County passed by in a blur of abandoned shops, cracked sidewalks, and faded signs that seemed to stare back at him. Mark gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, sensing the weight of every turn as they edged closer to the outskirts of town.
And, For a while, they drove in silence.
Mark wanted to ask so many questions. Simple ones, “any wounds?” To dumb ones, “how did you pass time?” To bitter ones “how did you just let me think you died?”
Mark stole a glance at Cesar, as if he only had a few more before it got deadly, trying his best to decipher his expression. He spotted that Cesar still held the dagger, trailing his fingers expectantly over the dull side of it.
Finally, the open road stretched out in front of them, the old line marking Mandela County fading away and relieving a weight over his shoulders.
He could feel Cesar’s expression ease, if only a little.