Brammelwurz and the Prism of the Divided Hour

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Morning crept gropingly through the branches, as if unsure of its welcome. In this hour that wasn't—neither night nor day—Brammelwurz stood at the edge of Mirror Bay. His cloak was damp with dew, and his boots left barely a mark on the soft moss. Before him, the water lay still, like a waiting question. The surface didn't shimmer; it breathed. No wind stirred the leaves, no bird called. It was as if time itself had decided to pause here. In his hand rested a strange artifact: a prism encased in a frame of root-etched copper, with seven layers of glass stacked at its center—thinner than dragonfly wings, iridescent like memories just before waking. He had found it deep within the tooth chamber beneath the Time Lake, hidden between pent-up minutes and trapped seconds. It was called the Prism of the Divided Hour. A device that didn't cut through time, but through possibility. Brammelwurz sat down on a fallen tree trunk. The fog was cool and tasted of old rain. He pulled his small time jar from his pocket and carefully placed it beside him. It was still empty, but soon it would collect drops—not water, but moments too fleeting to last. Slowly, Brammelwurz raised the prism. At first, nothing happened. Then the light began to refract—not around him, but through him. He saw. Himself, in countless variations. A Brammelwurz who had never broken open. One who had never answered the white wolf's question. One who had stayed with Zelda, in the silence of the forest. One who remembered everything—and shattered because of it. The shards lay before him like sparkling paths, and in each one a face that resembled his, but different: heavier, lighter, emptier. A voice flickered through him—not spoken, but thought: "What would you have become if you had made a different choice?" Brammelwurz closed his eyes. The stream of images didn't stop—they ran through his fingers like sand, burning into his memory. Not all of them were sad. Some were beautiful. But they weren't his. He opened his eyes. The jug was half full—with what, he didn't know. Perhaps with regret. Perhaps with clarity. He whispered, "I never did everything right. But I never stopped asking." The prism in his hand began to vibrate. Not threateningly—more like a heartbeat saying goodbye. The seven layers of glass dissolved, slowly, layer by layer, until only the frame remained. Brammelwurz laid it in the moss. The mirror bay showed his reflection—just one, unadulterated. No variations, no doubts. He smiled softly. Then he stood up, reached for the jug, which was now warm, and turned away. Behind him, the day began with the first rays of sunshine. Ahead of him lay the path, uncertain—but his.