Everything Left Behind

“Turns out, the end of the world isn’t loud. It’s quiet. Like a cat not answering when you call her name.”

Snuggled up all cosy and warm in Beatrix’s bed, I stretched my limbs lazily beneath the weight of the doona, the fabric heavy and soft against my skin. For a fleeting moment, I forgot everything—the tension, the sleepless nights, the wreckage of my home. My toes flexed, bumping against the familiar warmth of Snowflake at my feet. She gave a sleepy twitch but didn’t stir. Wrapped in the embrace of someone else’s sheets, I allowed myself to pretend.

No Guardians. No questions. No missing sisters or smashed-in hallways. Just me, a cat, and the silence.

But reality, like a persistent debt collector, came knocking all too quickly.

My eyes blinked open, adjusting slowly to the pale light seeping through the thin curtains. Something about the angle of it was wrong. I wasn’t in my own bed. My room didn’t face that way, didn’t smell faintly of Beatrix’s shampoo or that oddly nostalgic lavender drawer liner she insisted on using.

Beatrix’s bed.

That single thought jolted through me like a prod. The air shifted. Dad had refused to let me stay at my house—not after what had happened. And Beatrix… she still hadn’t come home. That unsettling truth lay in the room like a second occupant, silent but very present.

Glancing across to the bedside clock, I muttered, "Shit, it’s almost ten." The digital numbers glared at me with unnecessary boldness. A flicker of urgency twisted in my gut—though for what, I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like anyone expected me anywhere. I was unemployed. Possibly under some kind of quiet surveillance. And my social circle had apparently retreated to the land of full voicemail boxes.

Still, something about the late hour itched at me.

Snowflake snored lightly between my feet, her body a small, dependable furnace. I glanced at her, her white fur gently rising and falling. Peaceful. Entirely unaware of the chaos unravelling beyond these four walls. Her serenity both calmed and unnerved me.

Then, without warning, the air in the room split open.

A crackling burst of light surged through the space, a kaleidoscope of colour exploding into life just beyond the bed. Swirls of electric rainbow energy twisted and collided, fizzing against the walls and casting shifting patterns across the ceiling. The effect was beautiful—hypnotic, even—but laced with danger, like fire dancing too close to paper.

Snowflake shot upright, ears flattened. With a swift, acrobatic leap, she bolted from the bed and disappeared beneath it, leaving only the ripple of the doona in her wake.

I sat bolt upright, heart thudding so hard it might’ve been audible.

Through the wall—literally through it—walked a young man. His skin was a deep olive tone, the colours of the Portal briefly painting him in bright, surreal shades as he emerged. His expression was focused, unreadable. The swirl behind him collapsed in on itself, vanishing with a soft pop, like someone had exhaled the entire universe through a pinhole.

And just like that, the room was ordinary again. Except it wasn’t. Not even close.

"You must be Gladys," the man said, his voice measured, eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked over me with a mix of recognition and appraisal.

I nodded, too stunned to speak. My hands gripped the blanket on instinct, tugging it up to my chin like a child hiding from monsters under the bed. My knuckles whitened. The blanket was all I had—no shoes, no plan, no clue what he wanted.

He took a few cautious steps toward me. My body responded before my brain had caught up—tensing, recoiling, edging backwards as far as the mattress would allow. Every hair on my arms stood up.

This man could be linked to the break-in. He could be one of them—whoever they were. I still didn’t know. Only that I was meant to be afraid.

"I’m Leigh," he said, calmly, his hands open and low, palms facing me—non-threatening, deliberate. “I mean you no harm.”

"How... how do you know who I am?" I asked, my voice emerging as a brittle whisper. It shook, just enough to betray the fear I was fighting to contain.

"I know your sister," Leigh replied.

"Beatrix?"

"Yeah. You know she's a Guardian?" His question carried urgency, a subtle lean forward that suggested this wasn’t idle small talk.

"I know," I said quietly.

"Have you seen her recently?" he asked, slipping a hand into his trouser pocket. The movement was casual, but it still set my nerves alight. I watched his hand too closely, the way you might watch a snake in tall grass.

I shook my head. "No. I haven’t seen her for a few days."

Leigh’s jaw tightened. His lips pressed together in a grim line, his whole posture shifting slightly—tense, alert. Whatever he’d come here hoping to find, he hadn’t found it. And now, like me, he was worried.

"Why are you looking for her? How do you know her?" The questions came spilling out before I could filter them, carried on the rasp of my parched throat. My voice was dry, brittle—like a page left too long in the sun. The disbelief, the curiosity, the fear… they all came tumbling into the open.

Leigh’s expression softened, just slightly. His shoulders relaxed a fraction, his posture easing from guarded tension into something closer to reluctant honesty.

"She's been helping me with something," he said, simply.

"Helping you with what?" I asked, my head tilting without thinking, like a cat scenting uncertainty in the air. I searched his face for clues, anything beyond that maddening vagueness.

"That's between Beatrix and I. It's important work though. Dangerous too."

The wall went back up. His words were measured, clearly chosen with care. A red flag if ever I saw one. I frowned, unimpressed. I didn’t like being treated like an outsider in my own story. I was tired of strangers turning up through walls, speaking in half-truths and cryptic warnings like I should already be clued in.

“Where are you from?” I asked, eyeing him carefully. There was something in the way he spoke—his accent not immediately placeable, textured and rich. I clung to the question as a small attempt at grounding myself in this increasingly surreal situation.

“I was born in Egypt. That’s where I became a Guardian,” Leigh replied. His voice carried the soft cadence of memory, the syllables laced with something distant—something buried.

I gasped, surprised. “You’re a long way from home.”

Egypt. Ancient sands, endless sun, and now... Guardians? My mind struggled to place it all within the narrow confines of what I thought I understood. The mythology of Guardians, already overwhelming, now stretched across continents and cultures. It made my little corner of the world feel infinitesimal.

A shadow passed across Leigh’s face, drawing it down like a curtain. His features sagged—not dramatically, but enough. The worry lines deepened, carving stories into his brow.

“I’ve been a Guardian for so long now, I’m not really sure where home is anymore.”

His words didn’t shock me. If anything, they made a painful kind of sense. My life had changed so drastically in such a short time—twisted and warped beyond recognition. I couldn’t imagine what that same path would look like over years, decades. Luke was a Guardian. My sister had vanished into that world. My best friend was gone, lost in some unknowable realm. Even my cats were scattered.

And then there was Cody.

I frowned. My chest tightened at the thought. There had been so much death already. Too much.

“It’s so tragic,” I murmured, surprised to hear the words spoken aloud. They slipped out uninvited, but true.

“I guess it can be,” Leigh agreed quietly. His voice held a quiet resignation, as if he’d said those same words to himself a thousand times before. The shared acknowledgement—of the weight, the toll—was strangely comforting.

“Anyway,” he said, drawing a breath and lifting his tone slightly, shaking off the heaviness. “It’s a good thing I’ve found you here.”

My brow furrowed. The shift jarred me. “Why?”

“I believe I have something of yours,” he said, a note of mystery edging his voice. Then, with deliberate calm, he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small, familiar object.

My breath caught.

The shape, the slight metallic gleam—I knew it instantly.

“A Portal Key,” I gasped, the words snatched from my lungs. My heart slammed against my ribs.

He stepped closer, his movements unthreatening. In his hand, the device looked small—harmless. But to me, it was everything.

“I’m certain Cody wanted you to have this,” Leigh said softly, his words landing like stones dropped into a still pond.

My eyes stung, a sudden heat welling beneath the lids. Cody. The name alone carried too much weight. Too much loss. A sharp ache twisted in my chest, compounded by the image of my house—my destroyed house—and everything torn apart within it.

My jaw tightened.

"Where did you get that?" I asked, the words leaving me like a hiss, sharp with accusation. I didn’t trust him—not entirely. This man, this stranger, had shown up out of nowhere, and now he held one of the most important things in my life.

"Charlie Claiborne," Leigh said. His voice was even, but the name fell like a brick.

"Huh?" I blinked. “Sergeant Charlie Claiborne?” The name tasted strange now, laced with disbelief. I needed to hear it again. Needed to be sure.

“Yes.”

"What... how did...?" I stammered, the words stumbling from my lips. My brain scrabbled to keep up, trying to slot this into some kind of logical framework. It didn’t fit.

Leigh paused. His eyes closed briefly, just for a moment, like he was bracing himself. “Charlie took the Portal Key from your house and then he gave it to me,” he said, his gaze steady, unflinching.

I held it—his stare—for a breath longer than I meant to, searching for cracks. Lies. But if they were there, he kept them buried deep.

I didn’t press. I didn’t want to. My instincts screamed at me to tread carefully. Whether Leigh was friend or foe, I couldn’t be sure. But the Portal Key was mine.

With as much composure as I could manage, I reached out—and snatched it from his hand. My fingers closed around it before I even registered the movement. There was no grace in the gesture, only desperation.

I sat back, silent. My fingers toyed with the device, twirling it absently between thumb and forefinger, the metal cool against my skin. It spun like the axis of a storm.

And for a moment, all I could do was stare at it.

And wonder what the hell came next.

Leigh’s weight shifted audibly between his feet, the creak of the floorboards beneath him loud in the quiet stillness of the room. The silence had stretched thin, brittle as glass, and now it snapped.

"I need to be off now," he said, voice low but certain.

Behind him, the bedroom wall burst once more into colour. The Portal reignited in a blaze of electric radiance—swirls of violet, gold, and cobalt rippling outward like ink dropped into water. The air shimmered, charged and alive. It felt like standing too close to lightning, as if the space itself were holding its breath.

I sat frozen on the bed, clutching the Portal Key in my hand, its weight suddenly heavier than before. The hum of the portal filled the air, a low vibration I could feel in my chest. Beautiful. Unnatural. Unsettling.

Leigh took a step towards it—one foot already within the shifting light. Then he paused and turned back to me, half-shadowed in the kaleidoscope glow.

"Just slide your finger across the small button on the end of the device to activate it," he instructed. His voice was almost swallowed by the portal’s resonance. “I’m sure Cody will fill you in on the rest.”

And just like that, my chest collapsed inwards.

My heart dropped like a stone through a well.

“Cody’s dead,” I blurted, the words ripped from somewhere raw and unguarded. I didn’t even realise I was going to say them until they were already out, cutting through the swirling magic and crashing back into the room like a cruel echo.

Leigh froze.

For a breath—just one—he was still, the vibrant colours painting his features in strange, shifting shadows. Then I saw it—just for a second—a flicker of pain that crossed his face like a passing cloud.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said, his voice quieter now, more grounded. The sincerity in it struck me, unpolished and plain. No embellishment. Just truth.

He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t offer false comfort. And for that, oddly, I was grateful.

Then, with that final, solemn glance, he turned and stepped fully into the light.

The Portal swallowed him whole.

And the room fell dark again, the colours extinguishing in a blink, leaving only the usual wall and the faint smell of ozone behind. A crackle still hung faintly in the air, like the ghost of thunder. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful—it was hollow. A space left behind. A reminder. An absence.

What the hell! My mind screamed at the blank wall, teeth gritted and breath shallow. That wall, so blank and ordinary now, had moments ago swallowed up the only lead I had. Why did he leave me? Why didn’t he ask what happened? Does he not care?

The questions came like a swarm—each one buzzing loud and insistent, feeding off the last. I tried to swat them away, tried to force calm, but they multiplied. Loud. Fast. Relentless. They circled my mind like vultures, feeding on the chaos.

Snowflake! My heart lurched.

In the storm of confusion, I’d forgotten her.

I dropped to my knees, pressing my ear to the cool floor, eyes straining to see beneath the bed. “Snowflake?” I called, voice tight with worry. The quiet under the bed mocked me—still, shadowed, empty. “Snowflake!” I called again, louder this time, my voice cracking with panic.

I shoved aside a tangle of half-packed boxes and scattered socks, clawing through the dust and the forgotten things. My fingers scraped against cardboard and timber, but no soft fur, no startled mewl.

“Shit!” I gasped, scrambling upright, my hands clumsy on the floor. My knees throbbed where they’d hit the boards.

“Snowflake, where the heck are you?” I hissed, spinning now, eyes darting from corner to corner. Under the dresser? Behind the curtains? Panic surged, sour and dizzying. The room felt smaller, suffocating.

My heart slammed against my ribcage—fast, unsteady. My pulse thundered in my ears as I stared at the wall Leigh had vanished through. The air around it still felt wrong, as if it held a static charge no one could see.

And still, no Snowflake.

My throat tightened as the first hot sting of tears burned at the back of my eyes.

“Not my beloved Snowflake,” I wailed, my voice raw and trembling as the first tear slipped down my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, but another followed, and then another. I sat there, breath shallow, staring helplessly at the space where my entire world seemed to be falling apart one piece at a time.

The loss, the uncertainty, the fear—they crushed in on me like a rising tide. Snowflake wasn’t just a pet. She was one of the only things left in my life that hadn’t lied, hadn’t vanished, hadn’t betrayed me. Her absence cut deeper than logic could justify.

My gaze shifted to the wine bottle sitting on Beatrix’s dresser, its dark glass glinting under the morning light. A taunt. A promise.

I reached for it. The top had long since been discarded. I lifted it to my lips and took several long gulps, the wine burning on the way down, harsh and biting. It wasn’t comfort. It was distraction. A momentary silence to drown the thoughts in.

You’ve got nothing left to lose, Gladys, whispered a voice inside my head—calm, cruel, and all too familiar.

The wine said yes. The ache in my chest said yes. Even the silence agreed.

I picked up the Portal Key from the crumpled sheets, where it had landed after I’d thrown it aside. My hands moved on autopilot now, detached. I watched myself like I was floating somewhere above the scene, distant and numb.

I pointed it at the wall. Slid my finger across the small button just as Leigh had instructed.

A sharp sting bit into my skin—a tiny prick at my fingertip. I gasped softly, blinking at the drop of blood blooming on my skin. Oddly, it grounded me. It made it real.

And then—

The wall exploded in colour.

A small, bright ball of energy shot from the device and burst against the wall, unfurling in concentric waves of buzzing brilliance. It spread like light dancing on oil—impossible to look away from. It was beautiful. Terrifying. A door into something I didn’t understand, couldn’t explain, and now couldn’t avoid.

Just do it, Gladys, the wine bottle seemed to urge from where it dangled in my left hand.

“I’m sorry, Beatrix,” I whispered. The words felt heavier than I’d expected. Not just an apology—an admission. A goodbye.

I stepped forward.

My legs trembled, but the wine gave me just enough courage to cross the threshold. I walked through the Portal with my heart pounding and my stomach coiled tight with fear.

The bedroom dimmed behind me, the colours giving way to shadow, and then—nothing. No scent, no sound. A stillness unlike anything I had ever known.

And then, a voice.

Not spoken. Not heard.

Felt.

A presence in my mind, neither male nor female, neither warm nor cruel. Just there.

“Welcome to Clivilius, Gladys Cramer,” it said.

The words were smooth. Polite. But empty. Emotionless.

Like an automated gatekeeper to another world.