The first thing I felt was cold.
Not air. Not wind. A cold that ca from inside.
Then—mories.
Not mine.
They flickered behind my eyelids like sparks trying to beco fire.
A child.
Alonne.
Winter-cracked hands reaching through frostbitten windows. A quiet room with no door. The sound of her voice—once strong—reduced to whispers in corners where no one listened.
She was always there.
But no one saw her.
She was born in silence. Born into a life already written out without her na.
The first thing she rembered was a voice not her own.
And the second thing—was its absence.
The warmth of a woman's hand, once constant, slowly faded into mory. There was no mont it stopped—only an erosion, piece by piece. First, the sound of laughter. Then the sll of her coat. Then her na.
What remained was shadow.
And Helene.
"You're different," she said. "That's why they left you."
The child didn't understand.
But she listened.
Because it was the only voice left.
Years passed like seconds. Or seconds like years. It didn't matter. Her cell was not made of stone—it was made of sorrow.
Every ti she cried, her mory dimd.
Every ti she scread, her voice unraveled.
Until even the echoes refused to return to her.
She tried to draw—once. A figure in the dust. A woman with long hair.
Helene erased it before it finished.
"She left you!," she barked. "It's your fault!"
The child scratched at the floor with her nails. Carved her na into the stone. And again. Then again.
Hundreds of thousands of tis.
Until her nails stopped growing.
Until her thread dimd.
And still, no one ca.
***
She learned to watch the shadows.
Not because she feared them.
But because they listened.
They were the only things that listened.
When she finally spoke again, it wasn't a word.
It was a scream.
And the shadows curled around her like arms that knew better.
She began to speak only to them.
Not words. Sounds built by grief. Scread in pain.
The shadows never answered.
But they stayed.
And that was enough.
For years, the only voice she heard was Helene's.
"They don't need you."
"They never did."
"They discarded you, yet you cling to their mories. Pathetic."
The child didn't argue.
Because a part of her believed it.
And that was worse than pain.
For a life that had never been hers.
For a mother that never called her daughter.
For a na she was forgetting how to say aloud.
She held no sense of ti, for her cell was dark. Lifeless.
She was stuck in a prison of endless suffering.
Until she wasn't.
Until she woke.
Each blink of Helene's presence erased another fragnt of who she had been.
It all disappeared.
Until there was nothing left but silence—and rage.
Her screams echoed into silence.
When she left her cell, it wasn't freedom.
It was purpose—implanted, rewritten. A thread twisted by a voice not her own. And when she stepped into it, she didn't recognize any of it.
But her rage remained.
And she followed it.
***
When I opened my eyes.
It was morning.
Real morning.
A thin fog crawled through the grass. THe sky was gray, low.
Pain blood through my ribs, dull and deep. My head trembled as I sat up.
Konrad was nearby. Still pale, but conscious. Leaning against a stone wall, arms folded, eyes shut. Breathing slow.
Erich sat at a fire. No fla. Just ash.
He turned as I stirred. His face said everything.
"Two weeks," he said. "You've been out."
I looked around.
We were in a clearing—a ruin of sothing once whole. Trees leaned inward, protective. The chapel was gone. The pale field, erased.
"Where—"
"Outside," he said. "It collapsed completely. We barely made it out."
I swallowed. My throat was dry.
I didn't want to ask. But I needed to know.
"Where's Clara."
Erich didn't speak.
He just looked.
Behind him, three graves.
No flowers.
Three nas, carved with care.
Clara Weiss.
Shuji.
Sayo.
Each one held a different silence.
Clara's was soft. Like breath that never ca.
Shuji's was heavy. Like a sentence that never finished.
Sayo's was empty.
I couldn't breathe.
I stood. Stumbled.
Erich caught my arm.
"She was already gone by the ti we made it out," he said quietly. "There was nothing we could do."
I didn't answer.
My legs gave. I dropped in front of their graves.
The dirt was fresh. The silence loud.
I tracked Clara's na with my fingers.
"Why?" I whispered,
There was no answer.
Only wind.
Konrad opened his eyes. Said nothing. But I saw the guilt there.
I stayed by their graves for hours.
The sun never broke the clouds. The day passed, but the light never changed.
Erich eventually stood. Gathered what little remained of our gear.
Konrad didn't move.
No one spoke.
I remained in my place until the sky dimd.
Until the fog returned.
And even then—I didn't move.
Because if I did, I would have to accept that she was truly gone.
And I wasn't ready.
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