Hallow Creek lies before me, my hometown wearing a stranger's weather. Water licks my ankles. A black owl drops onto a lamppost and clicks its beak. "My name is Lancelot. You don't belong here," it says. "Tower's your air. Move." I move. He glides lamppost to lamppost, eyes on me. The road to the tower is blocked by the collapse of a neighbor's house. "Inside," he says, and I take the back-porch door. Mom's place is almost as I remember: neat, lemon-clean, wrong only in that the water keeps rising. It reaches my calves while I walk the photo wall with perfect smiles, yearly poses, no one breathing. "Lots of memories," I say. "Good ones?" Lancelot asks, settling on the couch. "Some. Jamie was the light. After he died... things got messy." "I'm sorry," he says, softer. A padlock blocks the exit door. I start checking drawers for a key. The water ripples at the far wall. "Careful," Lancelot says. "We aren't alone." They come out of the shadow like toss pillows sprouted legs: seam-stitched bodies, button eyes, eight silver needles each. They smell like dryer sheets and mutter one word as they circle. "Safe," they chirp. "I don't like this," I say, stepping back. One leaps. The needles go in bright, fast pain and it settles on my forearm heavier than it looks. Another lands on my ribs. Two more take my thigh and shoulder. "Get off!" I yank at them; they dig deeper. Red beads vanish into the water. Lancelot claws one midair, but more come. "Find the key," he calls. "Move." I lurch for the kitchen counter and catch myself on the edge. Shears sit beside the mail. I get the nose under a seam and snip the stitch that angles the needles inward. The legs loosen; the thing slides off and thumps to tile, blinking. I push over my ribs and twist—two more come free with a sting. A deep, wet growl rolls through the ceiling. I look up. A quilted mass bulges down, rimmed with zippers and thorny seams a queen of fabric. Creatures drop from its fringe and scatter, button eyes tracking me in the wavering light. "I can't do this," I say, panic breaking loose. Weight gathers on my back; needles bite. "Please—" "Center," Lancelot says, swooping between me and the fringe. "Breathe. Look for what doesn't belong." I I take a deep breath forcing my eyes back to the wall and pass the perfect faces, the matching sweaters, the staged smiles. One frame doesn't match: Jamie's first win. Rain hammers the bleachers; Mom's mascara is streaked and laughing; Dad's jacket is around both of us; I'm half in frame, yelling. Jamie's jersey is plastered to him and, right over his heart, a small stitched owl. That's the one. I reach for it. I peel the frame, take the key. A fabric strap runs into the ceiling, tethered to the thing above. I cut it with the shears. A house-wide thud. Then silence. We wade to the mudroom. The padlock turns; the door gives. "Let's go," Lancelot says. The road funnels us to an old bar my father used to haunt. Water is to my thighs now. We scout until we find a roll-up gate; its pull-chains are ice-welded. The water at my legs grains to slush. A sound, close. The beer lines thread themselves into a metal serpent. Dog tags clink along its body. Frost steams off its skin. A reticle turns in its glassy eye and locks on my heat. I bolt for the counter. Slush hardens as I run. I throw myself up; the serpent lashes the bar edge, cracking wood. "Can't stay here," Lancelot says. He spots the old stove and then the dark square of the cellar. "Heating below. Reset the system. Three turns. One breath. No plan B." He rockets to the kitchen. Click-click-click—whoomph. Burners roar. Steam blooms off a towel dunked into the coffee urn. The serpent whips toward the hotter target. I fill my lungs the way Jamie taught me and dive. Cold bites. The hum falls away. The RESET wheel waits on the manifold. I grip and twist. First turn—resists, then gives. Second—the pipes groan alive; frost powders off the bolts. My chest spasms. Third—I jam a boot in a crease and force it home. The building answers with a new, warmer note. I break the surface and gasp. Heat starts to crawl the room. The serpent goes wild, striking at warmth it can't pin. Lancelot meets me by the gate. I pour urn-hot water down the chains; ice runs to beads. We haul. The roll-up shudders, then climbs. "Finally safe," Lancelot says as we slip out. Behind us, distance turns the serpent's rage into a quiet hum.We leave the bar behind. A library stands between us and the tower. "Inside," Lancelot says. We shoulder the door against chest-deep water. In the center, a hooded figure sorts books between three tall aisles: PAST · PRESENT · FUTURE. Every spine shows my face at some age; the future ones blur when I try to focus. Jamie comes to mind. If these are moments, maybe I can change the one that took him. I wade into PAST and find it: the day my brother went in my place. I pull the book. A low roar ripples the water—the hooded Archivist turns, angry—but I open the cover anyway and the library falls away. Home. No flood, no monsters. Dad on the couch, dog tags resting on his chest, a beer in his hand. Mom beside him, stitching my brother's torn jersey. Far off, a roar answers: the Archivist has followed. I bolt for the door. Lancelot flutters after me. "You can't change it, Arthur. It isn't right!" I ignore him, pounding toward the bus stop. The bus doors hiss shut. "Wait!" I slam the side as it lurches. "Please!" "Art, leave it," the owl calls—in a voice more familiar than mine. I turn. For a heartbeat Jamie's face flashes under the feathers; his chest shows a soaked jersey, the little owl patch bright. "Jamie?" I whisper. "It wasn't your fault," he says, soft and steady. "You didn't crash the bus. You didn't run the light. You don't get to trade places. You do get to breathe." I look down. The memory book is still in my hands. The Archivist reaches out—not attacking, just waiting. "Let it go, Art," Jamie says. "Live without this undeserved guilt. Please, brother." I breathe the way he taught me—deep breaths. "Jamie died. I lived." I hand the book over. The world tilts back into the library. The Archivist nods once and gestures. A ladder thumps down from a hatch. We climb for the roof and the tower. Lancelot settles on my shoulder, weightless and warm.I make my way onto the roof, our destination close at hand. Lancelot—Jamie—coos a familiar tune as we cross to the tower ladder. I climb. At the top, the town is a quiet bowl of water. Not grief now something lighter in my chest. A steel door in the tank glows with a thin white seam. "This is where we part, brother," he says. "Live your life, Arthur. Without burdens. Without regret." I fold him into a hug warm feathers, rain smell. "Thank you," I say. "As will I little brother" he answers Jamie's voice under the feathers. "Deep breaths Art." I turn to the door, look back once at the owl and the town that made us, and take the knob. White takes me bright and close until it isn't white anymore but blue turning red turning blue. A siren winds up like a breath. Cold closes around my shoulders. "There found him! He's in the lake!" a voice shouts, ordinary and sure. I keep breathing. Deep Breaths. The light holds.