Christopher's journals are rarely straightforward, but tonight's entry carries something altogether stranger. What begins with ordinary conversations and strained marriages quickly spirals into a vision that cannot be dismissed. Is it a glimpse of what lies ahead, or perhaps a warning?
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I sat at the table, watching these two expectant mothers speak with the sort of animated joy that only women in their condition can muster. Questions flew like sparrows: "How far along are you?" "What are your cravings?" until the chatter dipped into darker waters. All I caught before they drifted from earshot was, "I did not tell James," and, "Richard is so fed up and believes this is nonsense."
I set my pen down then, though only for a moment. If my task is to write the truth of these days, I could not leave it unwritten.
Andrea and Bianca returned a few minutes later to inform me they had decided to go shopping. For what, I asked. Their answer: "Provisions for the Sepulcher."
When I asked whether their husbands would be accompanying us, they exchanged a look, then said in unison, "Who cares?"
This spells trouble. Trouble wrapped in silk smiles, but trouble nonetheless. And if there is one place I do not wish to stand, it is between two determined mothers and the men who would stop them.
So I made the wiser choice: I picked up the phone. James was the first I called. He seemed almost pleased at the idea of Andrea leaving, convinced she would return home cured of "nonsense" and empty talk. Richard's response was much the same, though at least he offered something useful. He contacted me shortly after, saying he would send two men along as backup, with equipment in tow.
I confess, I felt a shade of relief. At least now we could count on more than wishful thinking and maternal instincts. Of course, food, common sense, and a plan remain on our list of needs. The last two, I fear, may be harder to find than the Sepulcher itself.
We still had to wait for the sign of the Ethereal Snow. I sat back, chewing on the silence, reflecting on its promise and its danger.
Then the world spun.
Not a dizzying turn of the head, not the lurch of a ship, but the violent wrench of reality itself. The Labyrinth was ripped away in a single heartbeat, the shelves and walls tearing like paper until nothing remained.
We stood together, ankle-deep in a wasteland of ice. The air burned with silence, the sky a shifting canvas of violet and ash. Snow fell, not white, but translucent, each flake glowing faintly as though carrying some ancient memory. They struck our faces like sparks, stinging yet alive. Andrea's breath caught as a flake dissolved against her lip in a flash of gold. Bianca's hair shimmered silver where the snow touched it.
For a breathless moment, the world held us in its palm. And then, we blinked.
The shelves loomed once more. Ink and parchment returned. The Labyrinth stood unchanged, as if nothing had ever happened.
Only the sting of snow against my cheek remained to tell me it had been real.
It is near. The Ethereal Snow is near. And the time to leave is now.
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It is one thing to study maps and chase rumors, another to stand in the echo of a miracle. The Ethereal Snow is not just a season or a cycle. It is a summons. Christopher may not yet grasp its full meaning, but Heaven's design is at work. What has begun cannot be undone.