Owen and Vivian sat the tiny card table in the center of the room, both sipping from steaming mugs. A plate of shortbread cookies sat between them. "Not as good as our chef prodigy I'm afraid, but still tasty," Vivian had said as she set them down. Owen had taken one to be polite though he had never really liked shortbread. An awkward silence now bloomed between them. Vivian appraised Owen thoughtfully over the rim of her cup, giving her the appearance of an affectionate but strict grandmother. Owen hoped she wouldn't launch into some odd fortune-telling demonstration as she had the first night he met her.

"Don't worry," said Vivian. It was unsettling, in an ironic way, how much more normal she seemed when she wasn't speaking in an affected voice and putting on airs. "I won't tell you your fortune unless you ask. That's the first precept of an occupation such as mine, though most pretenders ignore it in favor of establishing themselves and proving their so-called ability."

It took an extra second for Owen to puzzle out the meaning of her words. "You're a real fortune-teller then?" he asked hesitantly, not wanting to offend her.

"I rather detest that designation," she said mildly, as though she was describing her dislike of the rain. "'Fortune-teller.' Anyone can tell your fortune. Most are hedging and will never be correct. 'Psychic' I believe is more accurate—it means relating to the soul—but it still doesn't quite fit. It sounds almost cheap, does it not? I suppose that's due to sensationalizing in the papers and the like..."

"Um," said Owen, not at all sure what he was supposed to say.

Vivian waved her hand. "Forgive me, dear. It's been a while since I've had any real conversation. I forget myself. To answer your question, yes. I was born with a predisposition to clairvoyance. I could predict peoples' fortunes with a rather high degree of accuracy. But without all this hullaballoo," she said, gesturing at large to the tent and carnival beyond. "This is Bebinn's idea of what I did. In truth, people knocked upon my back door at twilight and I would speak to them at my kitchen table. Much like we are now. I am out of practice now I fear. Not many mortals come this way if you can imagine."

Owen set his cup down; the fragrant tea was getting to his head. "If you don't tell the fortunes of the dead souls then what exactly do you do?"

"I show them their pasts." She refilled Owen's cup. "Souls have memories, but sometimes they have a hard time re-experiencing them. Most memories are of what happened to you in relation to your body. Once you shed your skin, many of the memories fade and become hard to recall, but there is much to be learned from studying the past." She caught Owen's eye and the corners of her mouth twitched. Owen felt sure she knew but didn't want to risk voicing it aloud. If she was willing to talk to him about the past that was good enough for him.

"Most souls who wander in here want to know their future," continued Vivian. "Is there a heaven? A hell? If so, how will they be judged? I cannot answer that. Once souls cross into this world, their fate is no longer in their hands and so out of my sight. A higher power judges them, one I have no hope of understanding, and it would be a terrible thing to fashion myself as one who can read the mind and decisions of God, or gods, depending on your preference.

"The past, however, is quite different. I'm sure you've noticed the souls that come here are the unsavory variety. They have done things of a certain degree of terribleness that renders them the way the appear now. But that does not mean they cannot face what they have done, and in doing so, perhaps offer themselves a better chance at a more favorable afterlife."

"So... the souls who decide to face their past—how does it work?" asked Owen.

"I can show you if you'd like," said Vivian.

Owen hesitated. He put his half-eaten cookie on the table. A flicker of unease went through him at the idea. He hadn't done anything terrible that he knew of, but it didn't mean he hadn't done things he was ashamed of either. And to put them on display for a total stranger...

"You don't have to, of course," said Vivian. "And it will not harm you. But it is the easiest way to explain."

"Sure, I guess," said Owen. But he regretted the words almost as soon as they had left his mouth.

Vivian smiled. "Well then, follow me, dear." She rose to her feet, a bit unsteady, and walked stiffly to the back of a tent, pulling back a velvet drape. Owen swallowed, feeling crumbs of shortbread stuck in his throat, and followed her.

In the back room there were three doorways spaced evenly about the circular vestibule each also covered by a different colored curtain. The old fortune-teller walked to the one on the right and drew the drape aside, beckoning Owen to follow. He rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve some of his apprehension, and repeated silently to himself that Vivian was not Bebinn before stepping through the dark doorway.

It was impenetrably dark in the room; the light from the exterior room reached only a few feet before dying abruptly. When Vivian let the drape fall, the darkness became absolute. Owen felt himself sway on his feet as his body tried to regain balance with the loss of his eyesight. His breathing sounded unnaturally loud.

He wanted to speak, to ask what he should do next, when suddenly the darkness burst in a riot of sound and color. All around him, even below his feet, was a rush of blurred scenes, making it feel like he was racing physically through time. He stumbled with the return of his vision and the disorienting feeling that the sphere around him had become some kind of mobile, transparent movie projector. Beneath his hands and between his fingers, he caught glimpses of his mother and brother, brief flashes of memory that flicked by so quickly he didn't have time to place them.

The images stuttered and then slowed and changed direction, rushing up at Owen rather than past. It gave him the dizzying, stomach-dropping sensation that he was falling from a great height. The memories became such a racing blur that they burned white and Owen squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he was staring at his living room; not an image of it but the room itself. He looked down at his feet, about four sizes smaller than they should have been and softer around the edges, and he scrunched his toes into the thick, dusty carpet. He could feel the thread. Owen wasn't just watching his memory, he was living it.

He glanced around and noticed everything seemed much bigger. The coffee table came up to his chest; the recliner in the corner looked large enough to swallow him whole. This was an early memory, one he would have trouble recalling on his own if at all. He tottered to the other side of the room and saw his parents sitting together on the couch. His mom leaned into his father who had his arm around her; her right hand intertwined with his left in between them. They were murmuring to each other, words Owen couldn't hear, but they were both smiling. They looked happy.

"Mommy," he said aloud, his voice high and a little indistinct. He reached up small, pudgy hands, his fingers grasping in the air. She didn't look at him but titled her head towards his father so her eyelashes tickled his cheek. "Mommy," he said again, more insistent. His mother sighed, reached down to pick him and set him on her lap, but she never looked away from his father.

The scene changed and Owen was taller, standing on a plastic step-stool to peer into the playpen of a toddler Ethan. He was trying to use the mesh walls to stand, his stubby baby fingers sliding off and sending him thumping back down on his ballooning diaper butt. He tried again with the same result, this time rolling to his side. Owen tried to reach an arm over the side to help his brother, but he couldn't reach. Ethan let out a frustrated wail and pushed himself back into a sitting position. His face crumpled into a furious pout and instead of reaching back to the wall, his little fingers went to his hair and began to pull. A hot red flush boiled in his cheeks and Owen jumped off his stool and ran downstairs.

His parents were dancing in the kitchen, a scratchy song coming from the old radio on the counter. His father spun his mom around, her long orange skirt billowing out like a fan of setting sunlight and she let out a clear, ringing laugh.

"Mom!" he said.

"Just a sec, dear," she said, circling into his father's arms.

"It's Ethan!"

"Just a –"

"He's hurting himself!" bellowed Owen. His parents let go of each other, looking more startled at the sudden outburst than anything, and his dad bumped into a chair, sending it crashing to the tiled floor. His mom stared at him for a minute as if wondering how he got there. Owen looked to his dad who had stooped to pick up the chair. "Do something!"

His mom flinched as though his voice was an electric shock and finally pushed past him and thundered up the stairs.

The surroundings morphed again and now Owen sat across from his mom at the scarred Formica kitchen table. She had tears in her eyes and exhaustion pulled at her mouth and neck. Owen swung his feet, the thudding of his heels against the chair legs caused his shoes to light up. Flickers of green and red bloomed against his mom's ripped jeans.

"What do you mean Ethan is different?" he asked.

"He just—" his mom faltered and looked toward his father in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb and scowling. He shook his head and walked away. His mom pushed back her stool with a squeal and went after him. Owen scooted off his seat and went to sit down by Ethan in the living room. His younger brother was lining up blocks and didn't look up when Owen kneeled beside him.

Owen began to build a tower out of the remaining blocks, but Ethan scowled and knocked them over. Owen collected them and started restacking them, but Ethan made a distressed noise and pushed Owen away.

"I wanna play," complained Owen, but then a sharp pain lanced through his head and something dripped down his eyebrow. His fingers came away red. Ethan had hit him with the edge of a block. Owen began to cry and shoved Ethan over. The two boys struggled until their parents came in and pulled them apart.

"This is why we need to explain," his mom was shouting over Owen's crying as his father restrained a red-faced Ethan.

The image melted like candle wax and pooled at Owen's feet, spiraling away like it was washing down a drain.

In it's place materialized a dilapidated apartment, one Owen didn't recognize. He was positive they had never lived anywhere else other than the small house where he had grown-up. The plaster walls around him were cracked and flaking away. The wooden floorboards were full of holes and a thick layer of dust upon everything. A mouse scuttled across the floor.

"It smells in here," whined a little girl's voice. Owen turned and saw the small girl from the forest, the one that was more than ghost but less than human. She had on a ragged dress with ripped tights and only one shoe. She dangled from a younger Genzel's arm like a limp flower too tired to turn its face to the sun. A second girl, a few years older, peered from behind his leg. Her eyes, blue as glacial ice, sent a shiver down Owen's spine. He was in Vivian's memory. 

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I'm sorry again about the wait, guys! I've been so stuck with writer's block on this chapter, (part one and two) so I'm sorry if it's not up to my usual standard. Any feedback would be really helpful so that when I go back to edit, I know what to focus on. Thanks as always for sticking around and being awesome :)