“That would explain some of the knowledge you've demonstrated,” River said carefully. “Details about my life that you shouldn't know, familiarity with places and experiences you've never had in this reality.”
“It would also mean I'm completely losing my grip on what's real and what isn't.”
“Or it would mean reality is more complex than we understand.” River helped Finn stand, noting how unsteady he remained. “But right now, what matters is that these episodes are getting more severe and lasting longer. We need better medical intervention.”
Finn wanted to argue, but the devastating aftermath of the episode had left him feeling fragile in ways that made independence seem less important than safety. Maybe Maya was right about needing more structured support. Maybe he was beyond the point where he could manage his condition alone.
“I'm scared, River,” Finn admitted. “Not just about the episodes, but about what they mean for us. What if the version of our relationship I experienced during the episode is more real than what we have? What if this intense, desperate love is just a symptom of my condition rather than something genuine?”
“Then we deal with whatever comes,” River said with quiet determination that felt like an anchor in stormy waters. “But we don't borrow trouble from possibilities that might not happen.”
The next morning brought Mrs. Pemberton, arriving at precisely nine AM with the kind of expectant smile that made Finn's chest tight with dread. She moved through the bookshop with the careful steps of someone who valued every object around her, her elderly hands gentle on the spines of books as she made her way to his workshop.
“I'm so sorry to bother you, dear,” she said, settling into the chair across from his workstation with obvious excitement. “But I was wondering if you might have any updates on my husband's journal? I know we discussed it being a challenging restoration, but I've been thinking about it so much lately.”
Finn stared at her blankly, panic rising in his chest as he tried to summon any memory of her husband, her journal, or any conversation they might have had about restoration work. “Mrs. Pemberton, I'm so sorry, but could you remind me exactly what journal you're referring to?”
Her face fell slightly, disappointment mixing with concern. “Harold's maritime journal from his merchant marine days. I brought it to you about three weeks ago after the basement flooding damaged so many of our family papers.”
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a photograph showing water-damaged pages covered in faded handwriting, the kind of personal historical document that represented irreplaceable family memories. “You said you thought you could save most of the text, that it would take time but the damage wasn't as extensive as I'd feared.”
Finn nodded and smiled while internally screaming, having no memory of this conversation or any record of receiving such an important family document. The photograph showed exactlythe kind of challenging restoration work he specialized in, but he had no recollection of agreeing to take on the project.
“I've been having some organizational issues with my current projects,” Finn said, hoping his voice sounded more confident than he felt. “Could I check my records and get back to you with a proper status update?”
Mrs. Pemberton's expression shifted from enthusiasm to worry. “Of course, dear. But Finn, are you feeling alright? You seem different than when we spoke before. More... distant.”
The gentle concern in her voice made Finn's throat tight with emotion he couldn't afford to show. Mrs. Pemberton had been coming to his shop for years, had trusted him with family documents and personal treasures, had developed the kind of relationship that made his work feel meaningful rather than merely commercial.
Now he was failing her in ways that went beyond simple business incompetence. He was betraying the trust of someone who'd counted on his expertise and reliability, all because his brain was systematically erasing interactions and commitments that mattered.
“I'm fine, just a bit scattered lately with some health issues,” Finn said, the partial truth tasting bitter. “I'll locate your husband's journal and call you with a proper update by tomorrow.”
After Mrs. Pemberton left with obvious disappointment and growing worry, Finn sat in his empty workshop and faced the reality that his condition was destroying not just his professional life but his sense of himself as someone reliable and trustworthy. He couldn't restore books he couldn't remember receiving. He couldn't maintain relationships built on expertise and care when he forgot conversations and promises made during episodes.
His phone rang with River's name on the display, and Finn answered with relief at hearing a familiar voice that still felt safe and grounding.
“How are you feeling today?” River asked, his concern evident even through the phone connection.
“Like I'm watching my life fall apart in real time,” Finn said honestly. “I just had a customer ask about work I apparently agreed to do but have no memory of accepting. She trusted me with her late husband's journal, and I can't even remember her bringing it to me.”
“That's rough. But Finn, maybe it's time to consider temporarily closing the shop. Just until we can get your condition under better control.”
The suggestion felt like admitting defeat, but continuing to operate while having episodes that affected his professional competence wasn't fair to customers or sustainable for his reputation. The bookshop was his identity, his livelihood, his connection to meaningful work, but he couldn't risk further damage to relationships with people who trusted him with irreplaceable materials.
“You're right,” Finn said quietly. “I need to close, at least temporarily. Which means I need to figure out how to survive financially while pursuing treatment that might not even work.”
“You don't have to figure out the financial implications alone,” River said gently. “I can help cover essential expenses while you focus on getting better.”
The offer should have been comforting, but instead it highlighted how much Finn had come to depend on River for everything from emotional stability to practical problem-solving. Maya's accusations about unsustainable relationship dynamics echoed in his mind, mixing guilt with gratitude in ways that made his chest tight with complicated emotions.
“I can't ask you to support me. We've barely been together any time at all, River. That's not something you take on for someone you've known two weeks.”
“It's not about timelines or obligations,” River said firmly. “It's about caring what happens to you and wanting to help however I can.”
“But what if Maya's right? What if I'm asking too much of you? What if my condition gets worse and you realize you signed up for more than you can handle?”
River was quiet for a moment, and Finn could almost hear him thinking through the implications of the question. “Do you want to slow things down? Do you want to try to establish more normal boundaries?”
