Wren visits the town of their dreams. A man finds a doll that looks just like him. Featuring Jess Syratt of Nowhere, On Air as Liz. (CWs, some spoilers: alcohol, possible murder, body horror, derealization, dysphoria?, blood, insects) CONWAY: Sometimes a drop of water is all it takes for rust to form. A single grain of sand to gum up the gears. One thought to plant to the seed of doubt.   Sometimes we don’t want to think that thought, so it festers, mold in our minds. We wear masks, build whole cities–empires–just to obscure that one thought. It can drive some people to madness, others to enlightenment.    What that thought is I’ll leave up to you. I’m not here to give you answers. I’m here to tell you what happened. The facts, as I see them.   Despite my power and wealth, something stung me. Ants crawling on my skin, salt in my wound. Defection among the ranks. And something else, too. A feeling that something wasn’t right. That I wasn’t right. That something had gone wrong somewhere along the line, but I couldn't remember what.   You can’t usually go back and fix the past, so what you’ve got left is thought, grains of sand, drops of water. Masks. What happens if the mask takes over, starts to be more real than the face underneath? And if you’re a mask, who’s wearing you?   Was it too late for me to take it off? Was I really…me? Or was I just what I thought I should be? Was I in the cave, or in the tower? Wren, can you see my face? Or do you see the mask?    ***   The first thing I noticed was the fog. Wisps of light gray curling and drifting above the tall grass that framed the narrow road. It wasn’t the fog itself that gave me pause, it was the movement. I hadn’t seen anything outside of my control move at all these past 3 days.   The yellow cones of the car’s headlights illuminated a sign, bent and scored by weather and age: “WELCOME TO AISLING, THE TOWN OF YOUR DREAMS. POPULATION–” I couldn’t read the rest: rust and time had swallowed the populace of this place.   Though there was movement here, it was nearly silent and empty. No crickets, no birds, no rumbling engines or hushed voices. I suddenly felt very exposed in my car. I pulled off into the dewy grass and got out. I took the flashlight and jacket out of my emergency kit in the trunk and ventured into the haze.   As I drew nearer, a cluster of short buildings emerged from the mist, and I could smell the lake on the air. Its gentle lapping barely pierced the foggy aura surrounding the town. The steady beam from my flashlight guided me as best it could, given the conditions.    The second thing I noticed was the cold. The temperature dropped precipitously as I crept through the barren streets. I focused the flashlight between my heavy puffs of breath onto the nearby houses. Every home along this road was encased in hanging ice, sheets of gray vacuum sealed to the facades, dripping at the edges in a thousand angry fangs. The frozen tendrils hanging from every surface mimicked alien architecture: these were no longer houses, they were noneuclidean sculptures hauled from the deep itself, symbols of tentacled things unseen and unspoken dwelling miles below the surface. Spiraling, bubbling cathedrals dedicated to the worship of beings our species had forgotten, or chose not to remember. There is a difference. One in particular near the shore stood elevated on a dock, now smothered in sharp icicles. There it sat hunched before the lake like a withered king on a throne, now too thin for his hanging robes. All he can do is watch as his kingdom melts away.   The third thing I noticed was whistling. As I explored the town further, I could make out a faint ethereal tune floating on the air. I followed it, and it grew in volume as I neared the lake. Out on the frozen piers stood a man in an orange vest, human alone amongst the jaws of ice, casting his line into what had to be frozen lake water.