It was originally a blank sheet of paper, remarkably well-preserved. The pale yellow surface was spotless, yet it wasn't perfectly smooth to the touch. At the very top, two sentences were written in a floral, universal script, penned with a quill—a rare sight these days—and dipped in deep blue ink: Return to the dawn of the 31st.
These two lines had already caused two temporal reversals, and if things continued as they were, it was bound to happen again.
Jenkins rolled the paper back up, carefully tied a ribbon around it, and placed it back in the small box. The explanation he'd been given made sense for now, but it left him with a host of other questions.
He soothed his disgruntled cat, licked his dry lips, and began with a question that seed, on the surface, to be entirely unrelated.
“Mr. Pisco, if everything you’ve just told is true, do you not feel as though your entire life has been deliberately orchestrated?”
The middle-aged man shook his head again, the fuzzy stubble on his face starkly clear in the firelight.
“I used to wonder about that when I was younger, but it doesn't matter to now. What is orchestration? And what is freedom? I’ve lived a happy life, and every decision I've made has been of my own free will. Besides,” he added, “compared to the poor souls huddled in alley corners to survive the winter, I have the privilege of sitting here with a cup of tea, discussing these matters with you. What right do I have to complain?”
Jenkins accepted his answer. He had only asked to gauge whether the man’s story about the Millstone of Fate was genuine.
“What is the Millstone of Fate?”
He asked his next question. The phrase contained the word "fate," and its security level was zero—its special status was undeniable.
“It’s a very unique Bestowal. What I possess is rely a single page from it. Its origins are lost to ti, and its primary function is simply to record important events that affect the world’s destiny. That was, until soone discovered that a specific person, holding a specific pen, could write upon it to alter history—or even create it. Of course, this cos at a considerable price.”
As he spoke, he undid the buttons of his pale, striped pajamas. His skin had turned translucent, offering a faint, horrifying glimpse of the organs within.
“Using the Millstone of Fate demands a price. And that’s to say nothing of the fact that what I have here is only a single page.”
“How many more tis can you use it?”
“Twice. Twice at the most. Mr. Williams, you have two more chances to return and find the event that is the source of the coming disaster. We have no way of knowing if the incident you resolve is the correct one, so you must try as many tis as you can. But since the Millstone of Fate has chosen you, there’s no need to worry. The event is certainly happening sowhere around you. All you need to do is find it.”
“But why ?”
He finally asked the central question. Just then, a soft pop echoed from the fireplace, but neither man paid it any mind.
“Soone has to do sothing. Just as I must be here to guide you, you must be the one to solve this problem.”
He let out a resigned sigh and turned his head slightly to look at the window. The stark difference in brightness between the room and the night outside turned the glass into a mirror, reflecting their faces and the dancing flas. Only a few snowflakes could be seen drifting down from above before vanishing from sight.
“Go, Mr. Williams. Do whatever you wish. Things will inevitably happen around you. I imagine that in the past two ‘todays,’ you’ve already encountered so unusual events. You can co find again at dawn on the next 31st. I will answer so of your questions then. Consider it a small asure of help from .”
The ssage was clear: it was ti for him to leave. But Jenkins still had things he needed to understand. Though he was beginning to believe the middle-aged man—the paper was undeniable proof, after all—he still had too many doubts.
“So, you’re saying I need to discover as many unusual things as I can that happen on the 31st. Then, after the final reset, I have to resolve all of them at once?”
“Yes. And you must be the one to resolve them.”
That was terrible news. His divine power was limited, yet he was already facing two situations that required force.
“Will you die?”
“Of course.”
He stated it with perfect calm, then gestured to himself. “The mont I made this decision, I understood. My entire life has been for this purpose. Smoothly climbing to a level others could never reach was only so that I could burn all the more brightly, leaving you with more opportunities.”
“Oh, don’t look at with such pity. I don’t resent this fate. As I said before, my life has been sufficiently brilliant, and sufficiently happy. To ignite myself like a firework at the end is, for , the best possible conclusion.”
He smiled and shook his head again. “You see, perhaps even my personality was shaped this way by destiny, all for this one mont. Mr. Williams, we are both writers. We both enjoy contemplating the various tropes that the masses find so entertaining. But you and I both know that reality is not a story. If destiny truly has a plan for soone, that person will face their end with a smile, just as I am. Because that, too, is destiny. All mortals must die, and even I am no exception.”
“But if you die like this, no one will ever know of your contribution. Your honor will go unrecognized,” Jenkins pointed out, his gaze sharp.
“No. You will know. And that is enough.”
Mr. Pisco’s words were profound.
“Who am I?”
“No, no, please don’t ask that question again. It would destroy the trust we’ve worked so hard to build. In this strange and wondrous event we are experiencing, the only help I can offer is to continuously turn back ti. When we et for the last ti, if I am still able to speak, I will explain so of the things I cannot answer now. Such as—what a Savior is. I believe you have been searching for that answer as well, haven’t you?”
Jenkins nodded and rose from his chair. Mr. Pisco stood as well. Jenkins retrieved his coat and hat from the rack by the door, while Mr. Pisco donned his own greatcoat again to see him downstairs.
The landlady, though still grumbling, politely asked Jenkins if he needed an umbrella. He shook his head in refusal, made sure Chocolate was nestled securely inside his coat, and walked out into the swirling snow with a grave expression.
Mr. Pisco stood in the entryway for a mont before turning and slowly, heavily, making his way back up to his apartnt. A black-and-white kitten was now perched on the chair Jenkins had just vacated, its amber eyes studying the master of the apartnt. The middle-aged man showed no surprise. He simply bowed his head slightly in a gesture of respect, then sat down just as before, only this ti, he was facing a cat.
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