Chapter 14: A new life (Part 3)

Pete continued his frantic search, weaving through the cobbled streets of Mineral Town like a man chasing shadows. His breaths came in shallow bursts, his boots striking the ground too fast, too loud—drawing eyes he didn't want. People paused mid-conversation, their chatter dimming to murmurs as he passed. He could feel them watching, their curious stares pricking at the back of his neck like needles. No one called out. No one asked if he was alright, and he didn't dare stop to explain.

He kept his gaze down, shoulders hunched, as if hiding from the truth would slow its approach. He scanned every face, every doorway, every familiar storefront warped into unfamiliarity. But she wasn't there. He completed a full lap around the town's streets, each step heavier than the last. A knot twisted in his stomach. Panic gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, but he clenched his jaw, forcing himself forward. He couldn't give up. Not yet.

He turned his focus to the dirt road that led toward the ranches. The noon sun bore down relentlessly, its heat radiating off the packed earth and wooden fence posts. In the quiet hum of cicadas and distant clucks from the ranches in the diatance, Pete moved with urgency. This was the last place he hadn't searched.

Then—he stopped cold. Just ahead, by the whitewashed fence in front of the front gates of the chicken ranch, a flash of unmistakable pink hair shimmered in the sunlight. Popuri. Her hair glowed like spun candyfloss under the midday light, caught in the soft breeze that swept over the hills. Pete's chest clenched as he stared at her, his breath catching. She was here—really here. His Popuri. Alive. In this world.

Relief surged through him like a crashing tide—until he heard her voice. "I hate you, Rick!"

Popuri's voice split the summer air like a crack of thunder. Her face burned red with fury, eyes blazing as her fists clenched at her sides. Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and stormed away, the heels of her boots kicking up a fine cloud of dust as she disappeared into the woods behind the chicken coop. Her pink hair flared in the sunlight, a streak of color trailing after her like a comet's tail.

Pete lingered at the edge of the ranch yard, frozen in place. His instincts screamed to follow her—to make sure she was alright—but something in Rick's expression gave him pause. The man stood rigid, breathing hard, his eyes fixed on the spot where Popuri had vanished. Anger still burned in his face, but beneath it, something else flickered. Resentment? Guilt? Grief?

Finally, Pete took a step forward, then another, crossing the gravel-strewn yard until he stood a few feet from Rick. His boots crunched against the earth, loud in the silence that had settled after Popuri's outburst.

"Rick," he said quietly. "What happened?"

Rick exhaled, long and heavy, dragging a hand through his already-mussed hair. He looked older than Pete remembered—not in years, but in wear. Like the morning had stolen something from him. "She left the coop open again," he muttered, his voice low and rough. "One of the chickens got out. A wild dog got it."

"Damn." Pete said. His mind is already filling with questions, what was Popuri doing at the coop? And why is Rick with her? Are they friends in this twisted variation of the world?

"I didn't even yell at her," Rick added quickly, defensively. "I just told her she needed to be more careful. That's it. And she blew up—like she always does. Everything turns into a battlefield with her when she hears something she doesn't like." He spoke with frustration, but not venom. It was the tired, ragged edge of someone who'd been through this routine too many times before.

Pete studied Rick's face, listening—but only halfway. The other half of his mind was caught on something he couldn't quite place. A dissonance. Something small, but wrong. Rick's face was familiar—his brown eyes, the mop of carrot orange hair tousled by the midday heat—but… his goggles. They were gone.

Pete blinked. Back in Flowerbud Village, Rick's goggles were practically a part of him. He wore them all the time, perched on his head or over his eyes, as much a signature as his reputation as the village inventor, tinkering with machinery. But here, just a pair of thin, practical glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

"Since when do you wear glasses?" Pete asked before he could stop himself.

Rick blinked, taken aback. "What kind of question is that? I've always worn glasses." He tilted his head, squinting at Pete with sudden concern. "Are you feeling okay?"

Pete looked away quickly, swallowing hard. A dull pressure tightened in his chest, like the air around him had thickened. The unease that had been simmering since the moment he awoke in this twisted reflection of his life now began to boil. Every face he'd seen so far—Elli, Manna, Saibara, Gray, Basil, even Mary, despite her slightly altered name—had mirrored the people he knew back home with uncanny precision. But Rick… Rick was different. Visibly, tangibly different. And not just the glasses.

It was in the way he spoke, the way he carried himself. The spark was missing—the restless intellect, the boundless frustration with things that didn't work exactly right, the fire of invention. Here, Rick just looked tired.

Pete hesitated, his thoughts crashing into each other like waves against a cliff. Still, he had to ask. He had to be sure. "Rick," he began, forcing his voice to stay even. "Are you still an inventor?"

Rick snorted—a short, dry sound without a hint of humor. "Inventor?" he echoed, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "I don't have time for that kind of nonsense. The chicken ranch keeps me busy enough already."

Pete froze. It was just a sentence. A simple, offhand remark. But it hit like a punch to the gut. In his world—his real world—Rick had been brilliant. Eccentric, yes. Obsessed, definitely. His mind had been a forge, always alight with possibility. And now? Here? This version of Rick might as well have been a stranger, one who barely remembered what the word inventor even meant.

Pete's mouth went dry. His heart sank, dragging his stomach with it:

No machine.

No lab.

No way home.

He stared past Rick, toward the trees where Popuri had vanished, his vision blurring with the weight of the realization settling in. He really might be stuck here.

Rick, seemingly oblivious to the storm behind Pete's eyes, gave a half-hearted shrug and turned toward the house. "Anyway," he said over his shoulder, his tone breezy and indifferent, "do me a favor, will you? Talk to my sister and bring her home. She's probably off sulking somewhere in the woods, and I'm the last person she wants to see right now."

He didn't wait for a response. The screen door creaked and banged shut behind him, leaving Pete standing alone in the dust and silence. Pete nodded absently, his limbs stiff, his thoughts heavier than lead. He watched the door swing for a moment before stilling. Then, with a breath, he adjusted the brim of his hat and turned toward the forest path.

"Focus", he told himself. "Just find her."

But before he could take a single step, the weight of what Rick had just said finally registered. His boots came to a dead stop on the dirt trail. A hollow breeze whispered through the grass as Pete's breath caught in his throat. "His sister?"

The words hit like a hammer to the ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Rick's offhand remark echoed again in Pete's mind, each repetition louder, more surreal. The world tilted under him. "Popuri... is now... Rick's sister?"

He stood frozen, eyes wide, staring into the dense trees beyond the ranch—but seeing nothing. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the soft rustling of the wind. In his world—his real world—Rick was a friend. Just a friend. An inventor. A reclusive genius too absorbed in his gadgets to notice the changing seasons. And Popuri… Popuri had been something else entirely.

She was the girl who ran barefoot through the flower fields in the spring. The girl with laughter like sunlight and hands that smelled faintly of chamomile and soil. The girl who once sat beside him on the riverbank, whispering dreams into the water's flow. She was the girl who became his home. The girl who would grow up and become his wife.

But here… in this skewed reflection of his life, this mirror with all the edges warped and wrong… They were siblings now. He staggered back a step, as if the very thought were a physical blow. The ground beneath his feet felt unstable, the world shifting and reshaping itself around this single, impossible truth.

It felt like a cruel twist in a play written by a higher power with a warped sense of humor. As if the universe had torn up the script and scribbled a farce in its place. His best friend and his wife—now bound by blood instead of circumstance. Not neighbors. Not strangers. Family. If she wasn't his Popuri… did that mean his wife was truly gone?

Pete ran a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck as he tried to steady his breathing. How much more is going to change before I can't even recognize the world anymore? And still—despite the confusion, despite the dread gnawing at his ribs—he turned again toward the woods. Because even if she wasn't his Popuri, not exactly, she was still out there. And she still needed to be found.

Pete shook his head hard, as if trying to dislodge the spiraling thoughts from his mind. "I can't let this overwhelm me," he whispered. His voice was rough, barely more than breath. "She's upset. I need to find her… talk to her… bring her back home."

He turned toward the forest where Popuri had stormed off, her anger still hanging in the air like smoke after a fire. As he stepped off the ranch path and into the woods, the landscape changed around him. The trees grew taller and closer together, their leafy canopies filtering the sunlight into fractured beams that painted the ground in shifting patterns. The air turned cooler in the shade, laced with the scent of pine and damp earth.

Rick's words echoed in his mind, sharp and lingering: "I'm the last person she wants to talk to right now."

"Then maybe I'll be the first," Pete thought. The idea pulsed like a heartbeat in his chest—a chance. A moment where fate had cracked open just wide enough for him to slip through. But doubt crept in alongside the hope.

"What if she doesn't recognize me? What if this isn't her—not really?" His boots crunched against the dry leaves scattered across the trail, each step heavier than the last. The weight wasn't just physical—it was the ache of memories colliding with the strangeness of this world. The way her eyes didn't quite hold the same light. The way everyone here was close to what he knew, but never quite right.

He stopped abruptly, one hand rising to grip his forehead. "What am I even thinking about?" he muttered. His voice trembled with the confusion and quiet desperation clawing at him. "She's here… right in this world. I don't care if she's a little different."

His hand fell to his side as he stared through the trees. "She's still Popuri… isn't she?"

A gust of wind rustled through the branches overhead, and Pete closed his eyes, breathing in the earthy scent of the forest. When he opened them, his expression had changed. The panic was still there, buried deep, but something steadier now pushed it back.

"I'll figure it out when I see her," he said quietly. "Right now, I just have to make sure she's okay."

With that, he squared his shoulders and pressed on, the light shifting above him as he ventured deeper into the forest—deeper into the unknown—chasing a girl with pink hair and a memory that refused to fade.

As Pete followed the winding forest path, the earthy scent of pine needles mingled with the sharper tang of freshly hewn wood. The murmuring rustle of leaves overhead gradually gave way to a steady, deliberate thwack—the unmistakable rhythm of an axe biting into timber. He slowed, senses sharpening, and instinctively veered toward the sound.

Through a break in the trees, a small clearing emerged, dappled with sunlight and edged by wild ferns. There, at the center, stood Gotz.

The burly man moved with the kind of practiced efficiency born from a lifetime of physical labor. Each swing of his axe was purposeful, the blade cleaving clean through thick logs stacked beside a modest log cabin. His shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to his broad back as he worked, and sawdust clung to the cuffs of his trousers like fine powder.

Pete froze for a moment at the edge of the clearing, a flicker of recognition rising within him—but it was distant and warped. Like remembering a melody from a song you couldn't name. He stepped forward slowly, his voice tentative. "Gotz?"

The axe halted mid-air. Gotz wiped the sweat from his brow with a thick forearm and turned, his face splitting into a friendly, beard-framed grin. "Hey, Pete! How're you doing?"

Pete blinked, thrown off by the easy familiarity. "What are you doing?" he asked, the question out before he could fully gather his thoughts.

Gotz gave a hearty laugh and gestured broadly to the scattered logs. "What does it look like I'm doing? Making lumber! A carpenter's work is never done."

With that, he resumed his rhythm—axe rising, then crashing down in time with a wordless tune he hummed under his breath. Pete stood motionless, a chill settling in beneath his shirt despite the warmth of the day. "Carpenter?" His gaze swept the scene: the neatly cut timber, the freshly built log cabin, the scent of sawdust in the air. It was real. Tangible. But it didn't belong.

In his world—his real world—Gotz was something else entirely. A winemaker. Gruff, often distant. He was known for long silences, stronger spirits, and a strained relationship with his daughter Karen who tried so hard to leave to the city. Not a carpenter. Not this… settled, domestic figure in the forest.

Pete muttered under his breath, the words barely audible. "He's making lumber now? Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

The thought tasted bitter. In his mind's eye, he saw the Flowerbud carpenters—Gensan, Itta, and Nitta—the trio with their booming laughter, boundless energy, and uncanny ability to throw together anything from a bridge to a barn in a matter of days. They were wild, eccentric, beloved. And now, gone.

"Where are they now?" he wondered. "Do they even exist here? Or have they, too, been erased and rewritten like everything else in this strange, perfect copy of a life I used to know?"

Pete turned his eyes back to Gotz, who continued to work, oblivious to the storm unraveling behind Pete's eyes. He stood alone at the edge of the clearing, trapped between the comfort of familiarity and the sting of everything it had become. The weight of unanswered questions pressed down on him, but Pete tightened his fists and bit back the urge to ask. Every answer he'd found today only led to more confusion, more reminders that this world wasn't his. Not really.

So instead of spiraling over the impossibilities, Pete latched onto the one thing he needed in that moment—the only thing that truly mattered. "Have you seen Popuri?"

Gotz looked up from his work and nodded, casually pointing with the handle of his axe toward the northeast trail. "She went that way. Toward the Goddess Spring. She always heads there when she's upset."

Pete felt something stir in his chest—hope, fragile and flickering like a candle in a breeze. "Thanks, Gotz."

"Take care, Pete," the carpenter called as he returned to his steady rhythm, the crack of wood against blade echoing behind Pete as he moved on.

The intersection of the forest path narrowed as it climbed toward the Hot Springs, winding between thick-trunked pines and moss-covered boulders. Pete's boots crunched over fallen needles, his breath beginning to catch with each incline. The air shifted—cooler, quieter, laced with the faint scent of mineral water and wildflowers.

At last, he crested the final set of stone steps and the sacred clearing opened before him. The pond shimmered like polished glass, reflecting the sky in wavering ripples. Lush greenery framed the spring—ferns swaying gently in the breeze, and a soft mist curling at the water's edge. There she was, Popuri.

She stood at the edge of the pond, her back to him, gazing into the mirrored surface as if searching for answers beneath it. She was perfectly still, her pink hair cascading down her back, gently swaying like willow branches in the wind. Pete hovered at the edge of the steps, suddenly unsure if he should approach. The words tangled in his throat, fragile and raw. He forced them out.

"Popuri?"

She flinched, her shoulders tensing before she slowly turned to face him. The motion was fluid. Controlled. Graceful in a way that struck him as intentional—like someone who'd long since learned how to command attention without asking for it. Her eyes locked on him, and for a moment, everything in Pete's world seemed to still.

It was her, and it wasn't her at all.

The differences hit like a slap: She was taller now. Her corseted dress fit more snugly than he remembered, accentuating a mature figure that seemed out of place on the girl he had once known—hips that swayed with each subtle movement, a confidence that wrapped around her like perfume. The whimsical air that had once clung to her like dew was gone. No longer the girl who danced barefoot in the meadows. No cheerful giggles rippling like spring water. This Popuri moved like a woman who knew exactly how to hold herself—and how to push others away.

But it was her eyes that hit hardest. Gone was the wide-eyed sparkle, the laughter that once hovered just beneath the surface. In its place: something measured. Sharp. Wary. Like a curtain had fallen between them, and she was watching him through it—coolly, critically. And worse yet—she looked annoyed. Like his presence was unwelcome.

She tilted her head, one hand coming to rest on her hip with the kind of grace that only came from habit. "Yes, Pete? What do you want?" Her voice was soft—pleasant, even—but clipped. Efficient. As if this moment was just another line on her busy schedule. As if he were merely someone getting in the way.

Pete opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His breath caught halfway to a word, snagged on a tangle of disbelief and grief. He stared at her, struggling to recognize what was right in front of him. It wasn't her.

This wasn't the Popuri who used to twirl through the flower fields barefoot, laughing until her cheeks were pink and breathless. This wasn't the girl who tucked wildflowers into his hair just to hear him groan, who said the moon was her diary and sang to the stars when she thought no one was listening.

No—this was someone else. Distant. Shaped by a different life, a different history. Shaped by this world. Pete's throat tightened. His mouth went dry. He tried to speak, to say her name, to ask if any piece of her remembered him, remembered them—but the words never made it past the surge of emotion rising like a tide in his chest. Everything hit him all at once. This broken mirror of a world. The people who were the same but not. The memories that no longer matched the faces. The future that had no road back.

And now her. Popuri. His wife. The center of the life he'd lost. Was a stranger to him. His knees gave out beneath him. The world tilted violently sideways, and then it was gone—spinning into darkness as the weight of it all dragged him down. The last thing he heard before everything slipped away was the sharp gasp of a woman he barely knew.

"Pete!" Popuri's voice, finally unguarded, cracked with alarm as she dropped to her knees beside him. "Pete, what's wrong?"

Her hands were on his shoulders, shaking him, panic rising in her voice. But Pete was already gone, pulled under by the storm of his unraveling reality. The forest held its breath. The spring rippled quietly behind them. And the world shifted again.