Lumen didn't sleep that night.
The wind scratched against the wooden walls of the shed he called home, and somewhere beyond the fields, something was still watching.
Not with eyes.
With intent.
He kept his sack-mask near, folded at his side like a shield he hadn't yet earned. Its rough stitching and crooked mouth were too familiar now — the one thing that felt like his.
And now, the villagers had given him a name.
"Scarecrow."
He hadn't corrected them.
He wasn't sure he could.
By morning, frost had settled into every crack of the village. The sky was pale and cloudless, the kind that made sounds echo too far and shadows look too sharp.
Lumen walked the edge of the barley fields, pretending to search for pests, but his mind was elsewhere.
What were those symbols?
Why did the system respond?
And… who were those two?
The girl didn't bring him lunch anymore. Not after the disappearances. Not after the word "cursed" had passed her lips like a prayer and a warning.
The other villagers avoided him more openly now. The blacksmith, who used to nod in passing, now crossed the road. The baker wrapped her loaves tighter when he came near. Even the dogs barked longer.
He was still the outsider.
But now?
He was something worse.
He was noticed.
🛠️ [System Prompt: Emotional Isolation Surging]
Sigil Stability: ⚠️ Minor fluctuation
Suggested Action: Engage in mundane routine. Blend. Wait.
Observation Level: ████░░░░░
Thread Status: Unknotted but pulling
Lumen returned to the chapel at dusk.
The broken mirror was still shattered. The wall behind still held the sigils — the Threadbinder at the center, its lines branching like veins across stone.
But something was different now.
One of the faded sigils had shifted color. Barely — just a flicker, a gleam, like heat hiding under ash.
Lumen stared, then touched it again.
Nothing.
No system window. No pulse.
Only silence.
"Why show me something I can't use?" he muttered. "Why now?"
A soft creak echoed behind him.
He spun.
Nothing.
Only shadows. And in them, maybe something breathing. Or maybe his own fear.
He left.
🛠️ [System Update: Memory Root Spreading]
Dormant threads connected: 2/7
⚠️ Caution: Psychological pressure may lead to instability
🩸 Initiate dream tethering?
[Yes] [No]
—
He didn't choose.
The system did.
That night, his dream was colder than the world.
He stood in a room that smelled of rusted metal and burnt wool. A table lay ahead. Someone sat across from him.
A man with his face, but older — scarred, tired, mouth stitched shut.
A thread connected their throats.
"What do you want from me?" Lumen asked.
The stitched man didn't speak.
He simply reached across the table…
…and cut the thread.
Lumen gasped awake.
He was sweating again. But this time, the sack-mask wasn't beside him.
It was on him.
Tied tight.
And he didn't remember putting it on.
The next day, it rained.
Not heavy. Just enough to turn the soil to mud and make everything quiet. Lumen worked the fields with fewer eyes watching.
At least, fewer human ones.
Sometimes, when the trees whispered at night, he remembered those two shapes from the edge of the forest. One laughing. One twitching. A clown with painted eyes. A puppet without a voice.
They hadn't moved. But they hadn't left either.
The crows had returned.
Six of them, circling the fields. Two sat on the pole he once used to scare them. Another perched on the chapel's broken cross. They didn't caw. Just watched.
"You lot like names too, huh?" he whispered.
One tilted its head.
Another fluttered its wings once — like a shrug.
Lumen smiled, just barely.
"Guess I'm one of you now."
🛠️ [System Notification: Title Affinity Achieved]
🕯️ Provisional Title Unlocked: "Scarecrow"
⚠️ Warning: Title classification not approved
Side Effect: Passive Observer Attraction (Minor)
Thread Density in Region: Increasing
Signature Trace: Still Common. Still Unknown. Still… Changing.
Later that night, he returned to the chapel once more. This time, he wasn't alone.
A figure stood inside — tall, hooded, robes soaked in rain.
Not the puppet.
Not the clown.
Something else.
Lumen didn't run.
He stepped through the chapel doors, letting them groan behind him. Rain dripped from the figure's sleeves.
The stranger turned slightly.
Their voice was like paper dragged across stone:
"You shouldn't touch what isn't bound."
Lumen narrowed his eyes.
"And yet… here I am."
The figure didn't reply. Instead, it raised a gloved hand and pointed toward the wall.
The Threadbinder glowed faintly.
"You are not ready," the voice said. "But you are already chosen."
"By what?"
"By the lie."
Then the figure vanished.
No flash. No wind. Just gone.
Only a single thread remained, drifting in the air like cobweb.
That night, Lumen didn't sleep.
He sat under the stars again, sack-mask over his head, knees pulled to his chest.
The crows watched from their perches.
In the woods, the clown and the puppet still waited.
And the system whispered like breath between bones.
"Scarecrow…"
"Threadbinder…"
"Common…"
"Lumen…"
He didn't understand it yet.
But he would.
He had to.
Because the world was watching now.
And he was no longer forgotten.
He was a thread in a greater pattern.
And something had started to pull.