Keeper and the Walker

Chapter 9: Verge

While wondering where she was, she looked down at herself.

No bruises. No blood.

She touched her face, her arms, her chest. She was whole. "Am I dead?" she asked herself, but she suddenly remembered the horn, the headlights, the pain, the blood.

She was confused, her heart began to race.

She looked around the glowing forest, confused and scared.

Then, out of nowhere, she heard a familiar voice.

She turned quickly. It was Eugene, but not the Eugene she knew from school. Not the quiet, nerdy boy who always sat at the back.

This Eugene looked different

His posture was confident.

His clothes were clean and sharp.

His eyes were calm but strong.

He looked… cool and kind of handsome.

“You’re not dead,” Eugene said, walking toward her.

Lyra stared at him, her mouth slightly open.

“If I'm not dead, where am I?” she asked. “Also, what are you doing here?”

Eugene stopped a few feet away, the soft glow of the silver forest casting threads of light across his face. He smiled gently, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“This place is called the Verge,” he said. “It’s where threads drift when they’re untethered.”

“Threads?” Lyra echoed, her voice trembling.

“You,” Eugene said softly. “You’re a Threadwalker now. A soul awakened by pain. You were in an accident — your body still breathes, but your thread slipped loose from the Loom.”

Lyra’s breath caught. “So I’m not dead?”

“Yes, as i said earlier,” Eugene said. “But you’re not fully alive either. You’re walking between lives. Each thread you touch is a version of you, a life you could’ve lived, or did live in another weave.”

Lyra looked down at her hands, whole but unfamiliar. “And you? What are you?”

“I’m a Threadkeeper,” Eugene said. “I guard the paths. I guide the walkers. I help them choose.”

“Choose what?”

“Which life to return to,” he said. “But there’s a cost. Every thread you walk steals a memory. A piece of who you were.”

Lyra looked around the glowing forest, her eyes wide with wonder and fear. “So… there are other versions of me? Other lives I could’ve lived?”

Eugene nodded slowly. “Yes. Each thread is a different path. Some are happy. Some are painful. All of them are real in their own way.”

Lyra took a step forward. “I want to see one. Just one. I need to know if you’re telling the truth.”

Eugene’s expression changed. He looked serious now, almost sad. “Lyra, I’m not lying. But if you walk a thread, even for a moment, it will take something from you. A memory. Maybe a small one. Maybe something important. ”

Lyra frowned. “But what if I just look? Not stay. Just… a little peek.”

“The Verge doesn’t work like that,” Eugene said gently. “Even a peek is a step. And every step has a price to be paid.”

Lyra’s voice trembled. “There has to be a way. Something I can do, so I don’t forget everything. Some memories even though I don't like them … they've been part of me. I can’t lose them. They make me who I am.”

Eugene looked down, thinking carefully. “Hmm… it’s not easy,” he said. “But if you’re only going to peek — just a short walk — maybe only a small part of your memory will fade. Something light. Maybe not too important.”

He looked up at her again, more seriously now. “Still, you have to remember: every thread you choose, and how long you stay in it, comes with a cost. The Verge doesn’t give anything for free.”

Lyra nodded slowly, her eyes still locked on the glowing paths ahead. “Then… you can come with me,” she said. “Help me measure the time. Help me know when to stop before I lose too much.”

Eugene stepped closer, the silver light brushing his shoulders like a cloak. His expression was calm but serious. “Of course I will,” he said. “That’s my duty as a Threadkeeper.”

He looked at her with quiet strength. “I’m not just here to explain things. I’m also here to guide you through the Verge. To make sure you don’t lose yourself in the threads.”

He hesitated for a moment, then added, “But you have to promise me something.”

Lyra turned to him, alert. “What?”

“If the thread feels too good, too perfect, don’t stay,” Eugene said. “That’s how walkers get lost. They forget who they were. They forget what they came from. And they never return.”

Lyra swallowed hard. “I promise.”

Eugene gave a small nod. “Good,” he said. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Then, more softly, almost to himself, he added, “I’ll count on it.”

His voice dropped even lower, barely a breath, not loud enough for Lyra to hear.

“I don’t want to lose another walker after all.”

The words slipped into the silver air like a thread unraveling, quiet and heavy. His eyes lingered on the glowing path ahead, but something in his expression shifted a flicker of memory, of something he wasn’t saying.

Lyra didn’t notice nor hear what Eugene said. She was already focused on the thread opening before them, its light pulsing gently like a heartbeat.

Eugene straightened, his face calm again. “Stay close,” he said. “And remember what you promised.”

Lyra nodded once. “Let’s go.”

Together, they stepped into the thread not knowing what version of her life waited on the other side.