Chapter 76 Yours, a Stranger [Silver/Onyx/???]
I had a long dream. It stretched like a lifeti, flickering between monts of warmth and despair. I rembered laughing, then crying. It hurt, deep in a place I couldn’t touch, but then the hurt dissolved, leaving only a strange lightness. Sohow, I was happy again, though I couldn’t explain why. The dream felt whole, like it had stitched pieces of together, yet when I woke, all I had was the faint echo of emotions with no clear mory to hold onto.
It was the crack of dawn, faint light spilling through the slats of the boarded-up windows. I rubbed my eyes, groggy but restless, the kind of exhaustion that didn’t quite leave after waking. For the past week, I had fought against sleep, terrified of what I might lose if I gave in again. But eventually, even stubbornness has limits, and the nights won. I woke to the hush of morning, as though the world itself had been holding its breath while I slept.
Sothing was off. I knew I suffered mory loss, but the shape of it was cruel. The gaps were jagged, like soone had carved out the edges of a puzzle, leaving only a hollow center. I pushed away the sheet tangled around my legs and staggered toward the kitchen. The fridge greeted with its weak hum, holding a half-empty bottle of… milk, maybe. I tipped it back, cold liquid burning down my throat, and sighed… It was soy milk.
On the counter was a worn cookbook, pages stained with age and fingerprints, and it beckoned . I flipped through until I found sothing simple, sothing I could manage with the scattered ingredients left in the cabinets. Eggs, onions, rice, and a little dried at. My hands moved on instinct, practiced and sure, as though cooking had been second nature to once. The knife chopped with steady rhythm. The skillet hissed when oil t heat. Garlic blood in fragrance, followed by the soft crackle of eggs and the savory scent of rice mixing in.
When it was done, I plated the al and blinked. Two servings sat on the table, steam curling up in delicate wisps. For a mont I just stared at them, confused. I only needed one. Why had I cooked for two?
I sat down and took the first bite. It was good… Better than good. I knew, without arrogance, that I had a knack for this. Objectively delicious, as though every step had been precise, every flavor balanced. Yet when I swallowed, the satisfaction did not co. The taste lingered, but the warmth felt hollow, as though sothing was missing.
Food should have been comfort, but…
I sighed and pushed another bite into my mouth, chewing slower this ti. Maybe the problem wasn’t the food at all. Maybe it was . The silence was annoying. I needed noise, even if it was aningless chatter. I reached for the remote on the couch and turned on the TV.
The screen flickered as the morning news anchor’s voice droned on. His tone tried for optimism, but beneath it was the unmistakable weight of exhaustion. “Recovery continues across Markend after last month’s chaos,” he reported, his words accompanied by shaky footage of devastated neighborhoods. Rows of hollowed-out buildings, their windows shattered and walls scorched, bled across the screen. “Blackouts still affect the southern districts. Splinter gangscontinue to grow in numbers, filling the vacuum left by the Murder of Crows and the other syndicates. Officials warn that the danger is far from over.”
I chewed another mouthful of breakfast, slow and deliberate, my eyes never leaving the screen. The man’s expression tightened as he added, “In the wake of mounting criticism, several SRC officials have stepped down, citing failures in oversight and accountability.”
The channel cut to a press conference. A woman in a pristine white-and-gold suit stood behind a row of microphones, her platinum hair immaculate, and her eyes shining with restrained sorrow. Promise, the leader of the Vanguard. Her voice was clear and steady, but each word carried guilt like a stone.
“I want to extend my deepest apologies to the people of Markend,” Promise said. “We failed you. The Vanguard failed to prevent the loss of lives, and we failed to hold ourselves to the standards you deserve. But we will not stop. We will rebuild trust. We will hunt down every last threat to this city. And we will catch Eclipse.”
At the ntion of that na, sothing inside jolted. A small tug at my chest, faint but sharp, like a string plucked too hard. I pressed a hand to my sternum, startled at the reaction. Eclipse. Why did the word make feel… strange? Sadness? Longing? I couldn’t pin it down.
I switched the channel before I could think about it too much. The news dissolved into the laugh track of a sitcom. Bright colors replaced grim footage. On the screen, two scrappy-looking mundane teenagers were bickering in a cheap motel, clutching a lottery ticket with a million-dollar smile between them. I raised an eyebrow as the episode quickly jumped to them basking on a sunny island. By the next cut, they were stranded, caught in so bizarre ti loop that reset the day whenever they tried to leave.
It was ridiculous and silly, yet I kept watching. Their fear softened into routine, then into comfort, as they realized they could live there forever… young, rich, and carefree. No wars. No gangs. No blackouts. Just sun, sand, and each other.
I leaned back on the couch, the corners of my lips twitching in sothing close to a smile. My mind drifted. I pictured myself in the place of the girl, the one laughing as she tried to spear a fish with a stick, or lounging on a hammock while the world’s worries passed her by. A vacation. The word felt alien, and foreign in my mouth. But for so reason, I wanted it.
It was a weird feeling for .
I began cleaning up the place, if only because I had nothing better to do. The clutter was small, a few empty cans, so scattered clothes, and dust on surfaces no one touched for weeks. Still, in a sense, I had considered this my ho, even if I wasn’t sure when I made that decision.
On the table sat a box of cookies. The cardboard edges had softened from being handled too much, but when I opened it, a few pieces still remained. I took one, biting through the sweetness. Not bad. Not fresh either, but still… comforting. My eyes drifted past the box, catching on the fedora lying there, its brim frayed, the fabric worn thin. It looked cheap and insignificant. Yet when I touched it, sothing pulled at . A strange magnetic tug, not physical, but deep, like a mory refusing to surface.
The cookie slipped from my fingers as I sat down heavily on the sofa. My hands moved over the fedora’s edges, tracing the uneven stitching, the rough spots where it had weathered ti. I didn’t know why, but tears welled up. My throat clenched.
“Huh?” My voice cracked. “Why am I crying?”
I pulled the fedora onto my head, tugging the brim low to cover my face from the empty room. Tears stread regardless, burning hot, and falling heavy. I hated it. I hated how it made feel weak, exposed, even though no one was here to watch.
I drew a deep breath and felt that strange tug within again, and the faint stir of power. Slowly, I pulled myself back together, bending emotions to my will until they slipped into line. My breathing steadied, my chest eased, and ntal clarity slid back into place like a lock clicking shut.
With my sleeve, I wiped my eyes and noticed sothing else sitting on the table beneath the hat. A manila envelope. I pulled it close and slid out its contents. The first thing I saw was a folded deed to this house. Under it, detailed docunts spilled onto my lap, papers stamped and notarized, official to the last line. My picture. Bank accounts. A driver’s license. A national ID.
The na leapt out at . [Nicole O. Silvers.]
My hands stilled. Nicole. Silver. Onyx.
Heart hamring, I reached for the smaller envelope tucked inside. The flap tore under my thumb. A folded letter slid out, handwritten in a sharp, almost impatient scrawl.
I read.
“Hey, you.
I don’t know where to begin. I am sorry for a lot of things, but mostly I am thankful I t you. Attached in this manila envelope are things that should be able to help you settle down. Wrangling the original deed for the house was a bit challenging, but I managed.
I hope you don’t mind taking liberty with the naming. I guess, be honored? After all, you were nad after the important won of my life. There’s my mom, Nicole. And then there’s Silver and Onyx, a part of you that you now lost.
When writing this letter, I argued with myself. Should I go with mysterious and say sothing cryptic, like: I am not your friend, forget about , move on? It would sound cleaner. Safer. But no. I’ll be honest. The reason I wrote this letter in the first place was for myself… for closure. Maybe it will be closure for you too.”
The paper trembled slightly in my hands. I didn’t even realize I was standing until I ran for the door, pulling it wide and stepping out into the busy streets. People bustled past, none of them sparing a second glance. The noise of traffic and chatter swelled around .
I stood frozen on the threshold, heart pounding, breath catching, the letter still gripped in my fist. Then slowly, I turned back inside, shutting the door. My eyes lowered again to the words written for .
I walked back into the house, reading the rest.
“You probably don’t rember, but we t in the most chaotic circumstance. One thing led to another, and you lost your mories. I am not good with this kind of stuff, so I hope you bear with . And god, I sure glossed over a lot of details. A wishful part of hoped that the Silver and Onyx I knew still lived inside you, that one day they’d co back to . I don’t know if that will happen. Tear this letter apart if it helps, and then go looking for . Honestly, that would be unrealistic. By the ti you read this, I am probably gone. A logical part of says that’s for the best… you get to start again, to try for a normal life.”
My fingers tightened on the paper. The letter kept coming, and the voice grew softer, and more honest.
“In the short ti I lived as the villain Markend feared, I learned how overrated villainy really is. Cri pays in ways I won’t sugarcoat, but it also hollows you out. eting the kinds of monsters people make myths about taught how small I really was. I regretted opening that door. I regretted killing Sunstrider, regretted ever eting Royal, regretted getting strung along in Crow’s sches. And yet, if there is one thing I do not regret, it is eting you.”
… Nick. That was his na, right? When I first opened my eyes to this world, he was the first person I saw. But… why couldn’t I rember his face? It slipped through like smoke, familiar and yet unreachable.
“Do not look for ,” the line read bluntly. “I know that sounds cruel, but you should not waste the life you can live your own. Do not waste this chance on looking for . You’re free now, free to do whatever you want, and I beg you not to waste it. Live. Because soone like you deserves more.”
Outside, the city humd with living noises with cars, and distant shouts, For a long ti, I sat with the letter in my lap, letting its strange rcy settle over like a thin, awkward coat.
“If you ever forgive for most things, forgive for leaving without a map. If you ever hate , I guess that is fair too. Live small, live ssy, and be kinder than I was. If you must rember one thing, let it be this: the world keeps taking from us, but it gives strange, stubborn monts of grace in return. Hold on to those. They are rare.
Yours, a stranger.”
Reviews
All reviews (0)