The Watcher in the Deep

They didn't speak for a long time after the gate fell.

The wind had returned, soft and unsure, as if even nature was uncertain how to move forward. The stone altar still pulsed faintly, but the power that had opened the portal—the promise of home—was gone. Not lost, not broken. Withdrawn.

Ren finally broke the silence.

"That wasn't a doorway."

Mike shook his head. "No. It was a warning."

⸻

They followed the new trail into the foothills of a range the map didn't name. But something about the terrain felt… warped. The stars didn't sit right above them. Trees grew in spirals. Rivers ran uphill for a breath before returning to normal.

They camped in a ravine surrounded by quartz formations that sang quietly when the wind passed through. Aero remained close, silent, protective. She hadn't flown since the gate's collapse. Her wings trembled with tension, like she felt a predator too vast to see.

Mike studied his father's journal by firelight.

Several pages were smeared, but one entry stood clear. At the top, Tom had written:

"The Watcher isn't death. It's memory that won't sleep."

Mike turned the page.

Beneath it was a rough sketch of a city—towers reflected against their own foundations, stairs that led nowhere. And below the drawing, a single phrase:

"Do not follow the mirrored road."

Mike shut the journal slowly.

"We're not the first," he said.

Ren looked up.

"My dad… he found the gate too. Maybe years ago. Maybe he's still out there. But the gate… the seals… it wasn't just about opening something. It was about holding something back."

Ren stared into the fire. "The Watcher."

Mike nodded. "It's watching all of us. And it remembers everything we forget. Maybe it feeds on that."

Ren stood and paced. "Then we need to stop it. Before it finds a way through."

A rustle behind them made them both spin.

A shape stood at the edge of the firelight.

Not human.

Not beast.

Tall, robed, face covered by a mask of polished black stone. Its hands were long and motionless. On its chest glowed a broken symbol—three circles, shattered.

Mike stood slowly. "Who are you?"

The figure tilted its head, then raised a hand—two fingers extended.

Mike felt it before he saw it. Pain.

A wave of memories struck him. His mother weeping at night. Jake silent and unreachable. Ren, younger, hiding in tunnels. Aero, alone in an egg. Mike, watching his father disappear over a hill.

It passed in seconds—but left him breathless.

Ren had drawn his blade. "Back away from him!"

The figure did not move.

Then it spoke—not in sound, but in feeling.

"The gate is a wound."

Mike stumbled forward. "Why show yourself now?"

"Because the wound is opening."

And then it vanished—no wind, no flash, just absence.

⸻

The next morning, Mike rose early.

Ren handed him the map. "Where to?"

Mike pointed to the glowing trail—now curving east, toward cliffs that gleamed like glass in the morning light.

"There's another gate," he said. "And I think my father went there."

Ren looked uneasy. "What if we reach it, and it's worse than the first?"

Mike didn't hesitate. "Then we seal it. Or break it. Or fight whatever comes through."

Aero gave a sharp, resolute cry.

Together, they turned east—toward the mirror cliffs, toward the city Tom had sketched, and toward the shadow that watched from a deeper place than even the gate had reached.