The Threads We Leave Behind
The Watchman - part two
~ part one here ~
“I always knew my destiny would catch up with me. I just hoped he’d bring tea.”
The Watchman tossed and turned in his narrow bed, the chill of the morning doing little to quiet his restless mind. The child’s question echoed in the corners of his thoughts, gnawing at him with an insistence that no amount of pulling the blanket over his head could muffle. "What if the memories weren’t mine to forget?" The words struck like a splinter he couldn’t pry loose, sharp and nagging.
At his feet, Moss, his ever-faithful border collie, let out a low, impatient whine. The dog had been watching him with an intensity that suggested he shared the Watchman’s unease. Finally, Moss stood, padded over to the bedside, and pawed at his master’s arm. The Watchman groaned, sitting up and rubbing his face. "All right, Moss. I’ll bite. You win. No one gets any rest, apparently."
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for his boots. His fingers trembled slightly, though he told himself it was the cold and not the persistent tug of doubt tightening its grip on him. Moss wagged his tail once, satisfied, before trotting to the door as if he’d known all along that this moment was inevitable.
By the time the Watchman stepped out into the early morning hours, he was wrapped tightly in his long coat, his lantern in hand. The frosty air bit at his cheeks and turned each breath into a plume of white mist. The town was still silent, its streets blanketed in snow that muted the sound of his boots crunching beneath him. The lanterns he’d extinguished earlier loomed like dark sentinels, their empty glass panes glinting faintly in the moonlight. For the first time, they unnerved him, as if watching his every step.
"If I’ve been wrong about all this," he muttered to Moss, who trotted ahead with ears pricked, "I owe someone several centuries of apologies. Possibly a fruit basket."
They reached the Watchman’s house, tucked away at the farthest edge of town where the streets gave way to the forest. It was a modest home, unassuming and deliberately so. Yet inside, it held secrets far older and grander than its humble façade suggested. He pushed open the door, the warmth of the hearth still lingering faintly from earlier in the evening. Moss bounded up the narrow staircase ahead of him, as though leading the way. The attic was a small, dusty space, cluttered with forgotten relics of a life that no one—least of all the Watchman himself—spoke of anymore. In the far corner stood a chest, bound with iron and etched with faintly glowing runes. At first, the Watchman hesitated, his hand hovering just above the latch. For years, he’d avoided this moment, convincing himself that some things were better left untouched. But the child’s words had stirred something deep within him, and now there was no turning back.
He opened the chest. A faint hum filled the air, and the room seemed to shimmer, as if reality itself was holding its breath. Inside, fragments of threads lay coiled and tangled, their colors faded but still faintly pulsing with light. Beside them rested a journal, its leather cover cracked with age, and an old, cracked lens through which he had once peered into the loom of fate itself. Moss, ever curious, sniffed at the chest and nudged one of the threads with his nose. The thread flickered, and for a moment, an image appeared in the air above it: a younger version of the Watchman, standing before a grand loom that stretched endlessly in all directions. The threads glowed brightly then, vibrant and full of life, weaving together the stories of entire civilizations.
The Watchman’s breath caught in his throat. He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over the thread. Memories he’d long buried came rushing back, of a time when he was not merely a Watchman but the Curator of Threads—a mystical archivist who safeguarded the memories and choices of entire worlds. He had held the power to shape destinies, to preserve or erase the stories that defined existence itself. But the burden had been too great. To hold onto every regret, every triumph, every hope, and every sorrow… it had nearly broken him. And so, he had unraveled the loom, freeing humanity from the weight of their collective past. In doing so, he had condemned himself to live among the scattered fragments of those memories, bound to them but never truly part of them.
Moss let out a soft bark, snapping him back to the present. The Watchman closed the chest, his hands trembling. The child’s question rang louder than ever now, and with it came a terrible realisation: the memories he had thought he was extinguishing with the lanterns were not just remnants of a forgotten past. They were echoes, trying to find their way back to the loom.
"The child…" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "He knew."
He stood, the weight of his past settling heavily on his shoulders. Moss wagged his tail, sensing that something had shifted. The Watchman grabbed his lantern and turned to the dog, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Curators, wizards, and now adventurers," he said. "It’s a demotion, Moss, but let’s make it work."
With that, he stepped out into the snow-covered streets, the lantern’s faint glow losing itself into the early morning light. The day was still, but the Watchman could feel the threads of fate beginning to stir once more. Somewhere in the distance, the child’s laughter echoed faintly, a reminder that long-forgotten memories can never truly be buried.