The Well

Six Months Earlier…

The ground I was on reversed.

I didn’t see it happen—I felt it.
A tilt, that was subtle. Just enough making forward became up.
And up? Was now impossible.

I ran to escape the slide. A rapid slide towards a hole.

The slope became slick. Not wet—just feeling of no traction. Like a treadmill on a steep incline with no motor.
Each step difficult. Each breath louder. Heart beating in my ears.
Then it happened.

Slide.
My foot caught air. My arms followed.

Falling.

But I didn’t fall far.
Something caught me. A ledge, or shelf, or memory.
I held it like it would break, and it didn’t.

I pulled myself up—
And that’s when I saw it.

The swamp.
But not from where I had stood before.
I was inside it now—one layer deeper.
A camera hung from a tree. A sign flickered behind fog.
And before I could move—

A figure leaned over the edge where I had fallen.
It wasn’t looking at me.
It was looking through.

Startled, I let go again.

Another drop.

Slower this time.
Like falling through film.
Another ledge.
Another grip.

I looked up—
And saw the wave from before.

Not crashing, not advancing—just suspended.
Like it hadn’t yet decided whether to destroy or remember.

It shimmered. It held still.
And in the reflection of that stalled wave, I saw something I had missed:

Myself.
Taking the photo.
But from behind.

My hand wasn’t on the shutter.

It was on my wrist.

Hovering.
Ready to press.