𓂀

𝟙𝟚-𝟚𝟞-▅▅▅

There were rooms, I know that much.

There were windows, streets, mouths moving around me, hands reaching for mine, rain sliding down glass with all the patience of something that had nowhere else to be.

There was light too, or something pretending to be light, but it never entered me.

It only touched the surface of things and left them exactly as they were.

Then you came, and the world changed its temperature.

I will not name what you were to me.

Every name feels smaller than the wound.

I used to think color belonged to the world.

Then I met you, and understood it could belong to a person.

You were my color.

I know how childish that sounds, but grief has made me honest in humiliating ways, and I no longer have the strength to make my ruin sound intelligent.

Before you, everything had edges.

After you, everything had light.

That was what frightened me.

Not loving you.

I could have survived that.

People survive loving someone every day by turning it into a habit, into hunger, into a photograph they stop looking at.

What I could not survive was being seen by you, because you looked at me as if there was still something inside me worth finding, and I had spent so long living in the dark that your faith felt almost cruel.

I wish you had never looked at me like that.

I wish I had never met you.

That is not true.

I do not know whether you were a person or the last mercy my mind invented, but I know the world changed its temperature when you looked at me.

And I know what I did after.

I had no choice.

I was afraid.

You have to understand.

I wanted that to be enough.

You were my color, and I still chose the dark because it asked less of me.

I do not know if I deserve to remember you in color, but I do.

I think that is why the dark never felt honest again.

𝕃𝔼𝕋𝕋𝔼ℝ 𝟚

𓂀𓂀

𝟘𝟞-𝟘𝟜-▅▅▅

I thought the first letter would empty me.

It did not.

I thought if I wrote the worst sentence down, if I let it sit there where I could see it, then maybe it would stop moving around inside me.

But it only became easier to find.

That is the problem with truth, I think. Once you know where it is, you start noticing everything you put in front of it.

I have been thinking about the dark.

Not the kind that fills a room when the lights go out. That kind is honest. It does not pretend to be anything except absence.

I mean the other kind.

The kind I lived in.

The kind I defended.

The kind I called peace because it never raised its voice.

I used to think it was something that happened to me. Something I inherited. Something was placed in my hands before I was old enough to know what hands were for.

I thought because I had been hurt by it, I could not also be responsible for it.

That was convenient.

There are parts of myself I have mistaken for wounds because it was easier than calling them choices.

You knew that, I think.

You never said it that way. You were kinder than the truth when you could afford to be. But there were moments when you looked at me, and I could feel the question sitting between us.

How long are you going to keep calling this survival?

I hated that question.

I hated it more because you never asked it out loud.

I told myself you did not understand. I told myself you saw too much light in things because you had not learned what the world could take from a person.

That was not true.

You saw the dark clearly.

You just refused to worship it with me.

That is what I could not forgive.

Because it is one thing to be loved by someone who accepts your ruins, it is another thing to be loved by someone who believes you do not have to keep living inside them.

You believed I could become someone else.

Not saved.

Not repaired.

Just less afraid.

Less cruel to myself.

Less willing to mistake numbness for strength.

And I made that belief your burden.

I see that now.

I did not only love you.

I used you.

I used the way you saw me as proof that I still existed. I called your warmth home before asking whether you had enough left for yourself.

And when being known by you started to ask me to stand upright in my own life, I called it pressure.

I called it fear.

I called it anything except what it was.

You were asking me to live.

And I resented you for it.

That is another truth.

Not the whole truth, but enough of one to make my hand slow down when I write it.

I knew enough.

I knew it would hurt.

And I loved you.

That was never the lie.

The lie was thinking love made me harmless.

I am trying to understand how someone can love another person and still become something they have to survive.

I called it love because I was too afraid to call it dependence.

I called it grief because guilt sounded too much like a door I would have to walk through.

I called it the dark because naming it after myself felt unbearable.

But I know better now.

Or I am beginning to.

I could only say it one way before.

You were my color, and I still chose the dark because it asked less of me.

That was true.

But it was not all of it.

The rest is uglier.

I made you my color.

I placed all the brightness I could not bear to claim inside you, and then blamed the world for going gray when you were gone.

That was not fair.

You were never supposed to be my proof that life could still be beautiful.

You were just supposed to be you.

You were someone I failed to protect from the dark I kept pretending was only mine.

𝕃𝔼𝕋𝕋𝔼ℝ 𝟛

𓂀𓂀𓂀

𝟙𝟙-𝟙𝟜-▅▅▅

I think I have been cruel to you in the way I remembered you.

Not on purpose.

That would have been easier to confess.

I mean, I made you too clean. Too bright. Too far from human hands. I took everything I could not bear to lose and placed it inside your shape, then called that love because grief made it sound kinder than possession.

I see that now.

Or I am trying to.

For a long time, I thought keeping the world gray meant you had mattered. I thought if nothing ever felt beautiful again, then at least my grief had stayed loyal. I thought joy would be a kind of betrayal, or worse, proof that I had not loved you as much as I said I did.

That was another lie.

A quieter one.

The kind that wears sadness well enough to be mistaken for devotion.

I do not think you would have wanted that from me.

I do not think you would have wanted to become the reason every good thing had to apologize before it reached me.

Still, it felt wrong at first.

The first time I noticed color again, I hated myself for it.

It was nothing important. Not a sunset. Not anything worth writing about. Just a piece of blue glass near the edge of a sidewalk, catching light in a way that made the whole street pause for half a second.

I looked at it and thought of you.

Then I looked away because I was afraid of what it meant.

I thought seeing beauty without you meant I was leaving you behind.

But I do not think that is true anymore.

Maybe the world did not go gray because you were gone.

Maybe it went gray because I could not forgive it for still being here.

There is a difference.

I have spent so much time making you into the only light I ever knew that I forgot you had shadows too. I forgot you were tired. I forgot you could be unfair. I forgot you had your own silences, your own little ways of disappearing while still standing in the room.

I forgot you weren’t made to save me.

You were a person.

That should have been enough.

I needed you in ways no one should be needed.

But the truth is, you also changed me.

Not because you fixed me.

You did not.

I still return to old darkness when I am tired.

But I do not believe it the same way anymore.

I thought if I let the world become beautiful again, then your absence would become ordinary.

It has not.

There are still days when I reach for you in ways I cannot explain. There are still moments when a room changes, and before I even understand why, something in me is looking for you.

I do not think that will ever leave completely.

Maybe it should not.

But I do not want to keep using pain as proof.

I do not want to keep making your memory live inside the worst thing that happened to me.

You were more than that.

You were more than my loss.

You were more than the color I could not keep.

So I am trying to remember you differently now.

Not as the light.

Not as the wound.

As someone who was here.

Someone who mattered.

Someone who touched the gray and showed me it was not the whole world.

I do not know if that is acceptance.

The word feels too calm for what this is.

I think it is closer to opening my hand.

Not because I want to let you go.

Because I am beginning to understand that holding on too tightly can become another way of taking.

You were my color.

That was the first truth.

I made you my color.

That was the harder one.

But maybe this is the truest thing I can say now:

You were not my color.

Not really.

You were the first person who made me believe I could see it.

“The earliest lessons are not taught. They are absorbed, unnoticed, until they become the only way a mind knows how to move.”

— Early Development Archive, unverified origin

Before absence, there was routine. Not the kind people speak about with comfort, not warm mornings or laughter carried through open windows, but something quieter, built out of repetition instead of intention, a structure that existed because nothing had interrupted it yet. Aeloria learned it without realizing.

The apartment was narrow, stretched longer than it was wide, pressed between two buildings that had not meant to leave space for it, the walls carrying old paint that had settled into uneven shades. She used to look at the walls when she was younger, not because they were interesting, but because they stayed the same.

The hallway always held a smell that did not belong to one thing, something that shifted between nights, sometimes sweet, sometimes burned, and Aeloria stopped trying to name it because naming it would mean deciding what it was, and she had already learned that things did not stay what you called them.

The kitchen light flickered in irregular intervals, never going out completely, dimming and returning in a rhythm that refused consistency, and she would sit beneath it sometimes, watching, counting how long it stayed bright, until she stopped counting because it did not lead anywhere.

Her mother moved through the apartment in patterns that changed with the hour. During the day, she sat at the edge of the couch, upright without purpose, the television filling the room with voices meant for someone else, and Aeloria would try to follow the stories until she realized no one in them stayed long enough to matter.

Sometimes her mother would brush her hair, not gentle and not rough, just brief, like she had remembered something she was supposed to do and forgotten it halfway through, and Aeloria never asked her to keep going.

Night changed her. Movement returned through the apartment in small, repeating sounds, water running, drawers opening, the quiet click of something closing, and there was always a pause before she left, a pause Aeloria used to watch until she learned it always ended the same way, the door opening, then closing, then staying closed.

Men came and went, some loud, some quiet, most forgettable, and Aeloria tried once to remember one of their names and could not, and after that she stopped trying because it made things easier.

Then Sera arrived.

The change did not announce itself. It settled. Aeloria noticed it first in the quiet, not less noise but different noise, softer, closer, Sera’s cries staying near her instead of filling the apartment, and Aeloria heard them even when she was not trying to. For the first time, something required attention that could not be delayed.

Her mother responded, not consistently, but enough, enough that Aeloria began to expect it, and that was new.

Then him.

Sera’s father.

Aeloria noticed him before she understood him, in the way things stopped shifting when he was in the room, in the way the apartment did not feel like it was waiting for something to go wrong. He entered rooms as if they had already made space for him, and things began to change. The cabinet stopped sagging, groceries came in full bags, the light flickered less.

He did not smile, did not lower himself, did not ask questions that led anywhere, but he stayed consistent, and consistency felt like something she could stand on, even if it was not meant for her.

He never called Aeloria his daughter, but he never ignored her either, and that was enough, or it was supposed to be.

She learned him by watching. He placed things back exactly where they belonged, did not interrupt silence, allowed it to exist, and over time she understood something she could not explain. Things worked better when he was there, not happier, not warmer, just less likely to fall apart.

She wondered once what would happen if he left. The thought came without warning, and she pushed it away just as quickly, but it stayed.

For a time, the apartment held, not stable, but not collapsing, enough that nothing felt immediate, enough that she stopped preparing for things to go wrong all the time.

That might have been the first mistake.

The change did not arrive all at once. It began quietly, in ways that were easy to miss if you were not already looking for them, in the spaces where something should have been and was not.

Her mother laughed less. Not suddenly, not in a way that could be pointed to and named, just less, until the absence of it became more noticeable than the sound itself had ever been. The television stayed on longer during the day, not for watching, but for noise, something to fill the room without asking anything in return.

Sometimes her mother would sit with Sera in her arms and look past the walls, not distracted, not thinking, but gone, and Aeloria would watch those moments longer than she should have, waiting for something to return to her that never did.

The man noticed. He never said it, but Aeloria could see it in the way he moved, the way he stayed in rooms longer than necessary, the way he fixed things that were not broken yet, making small corrections that felt like they were holding something in place.

Sera grew into the apartment easily. She followed Aeloria from room to room, her voice coming in fragments that became words, then sentences, then something that filled the space without effort. She laughed at things that did not require explanation, and Aeloria learned that sound before she understood anything else.

Afternoons softened the apartment. Light stretched across the floor, smoothing everything it touched, and those were Sera’s hours, when she moved more, sat on the floor, held objects that did not matter and made them matter anyway. Aeloria stayed close, not because she was told to, but because leaving did not make sense.

Their mother’s rhythm continued to loosen. Things were started and left unfinished, a plate on the counter, a drawer left open, water running longer than it should, and Aeloria began closing things before they became problems, not consciously, just earlier than before.

The man remained consistent, and that made everything else more visible. Aeloria began to understand that consistency did not mean nothing was changing, only that it made change easier to see.

He watched Sera differently now. Not with softness, but with attention, a kind that lingered longer than it needed to, as if he were measuring something that had not been explained.

There were nights Sera would not sleep. She would call out softly, not loud enough for their mother, but loud enough for Aeloria, who always heard. Aeloria would sit beside her, quiet, present, and sometimes Sera would say nothing at all, just reach for her sleeve and hold it lightly, certain it would be there.

The apartment held like this for a while.

Then it shifted.

The kitchen light stopped flickering. It stayed steady, bright, unmoving, and Aeloria stood beneath it, looking up, waiting for it to change, but it did not, and something about that felt wrong, not because it was broken, but because it was not.

That night, she did not sleep fully. Every sound felt separate. Every silence felt like it was waiting.

And beneath it all, a thought formed.

If something small could change, what else could?

It began before it happened, not in anything that was said or announced, but in the way things stopped returning to where they belonged, in the small misalignments that did not matter on their own but accumulated slowly until they could no longer be ignored without effort.

His shoes were still by the door, but not aligned the way they used to be, one turned slightly outward as if it had been left in motion rather than placed with intention. A jacket remained on the back of the chair longer than it should have, untouched, and a glass in the sink stayed there overnight without being rinsed or moved. These were small things, easy to overlook if you were not already paying attention, but Aeloria noticed them, and once she did, she could not stop noticing.

Sera was thirteen, old enough to ask questions, young enough to believe the answers she was given, and still at the point where the world had not yet taught her how often those answers could fail.

“Where is he,” she asked one morning, her voice steady but softer than usual, like the question had been waiting longer than she wanted to admit.

Aeloria stood at the counter, her hands moving without purpose over something that did not need to be cleaned.

“He will come back.”

Sera nodded, though not immediately, and when she did it was slower than it should have been, as if she were agreeing to something she had not fully accepted, her eyes lingering on the door a moment longer before she turned away.

She did not ask again.

That was how it worked. Questions were not followed, and answers were not tested, which kept things from breaking too quickly.

The day passed without interruption, the apartment settling into its usual shape, their mother remaining on the couch while the television spoke to no one, and Aeloria moved through the space the way she always did, adjusting small things before they became noticeable.

Sera stayed close, though not as close as before, her movements quieter, her presence more contained, like she was trying to take up less space without understanding why.

By evening, the light in the hallway dimmed, stretching shadows along the walls, and the apartment settled into that familiar pause, the one that always came before something happened.

The door opened, not loudly or carefully, just enough.

He stepped inside, and Aeloria knew immediately that something had already changed, not because of what he looked like, but because of what he did not do.

He did not set anything down. No keys, no jacket, no sign that he intended to stay.

Sera saw him first.

She moved toward him, not running, not hesitant, just certain, like she had been waiting without allowing herself to say it out loud.

She stopped in front of him, looking up, her expression open in a way that had not been there all day.

He placed a hand on her head.

A familiar motion, one that should have held.

It didn’t.

It ended too quickly, his hand dropping before the moment could settle, and Sera leaned forward slightly, as if the contact had continued in her mind even after it had ended, before she caught herself and stopped.

“Where were you,” she asked, and this time there was something else in her voice, something quieter, something that felt less like curiosity and more like something she needed him to answer.

He did not respond.

He moved past her.

Sera turned to follow him, but more slowly now, her steps losing that earlier certainty, her attention fixed on him in a way that felt like she was trying to understand something she could not yet see.

He walked to the table, sat, then stood again almost immediately, too soon.

The chair scraped softly against the floor, the sound carrying further than it should have in the quiet.

“Are you staying,” Sera asked, and this time she did not move closer or reach for him, as if something in her was already holding back.

He looked at her.

There was a pause, brief but enough.

“No.”

The word settled into the room slowly, not landing all at once, not fully understood the moment it was said.

Sera stood there, her expression unchanged at first, as if she were waiting for something else to follow, for the word to correct itself, for him to add something that would make it different.

Nothing came.

She looked at Aeloria then, her gaze searching, not for an explanation exactly, but for something to hold onto.

Aeloria did not move, did not translate.

Some things could not be made easier without changing them.

He moved toward the bedroom.

Sera hesitated before following, her steps quieter now, like she was unsure whether she should be there at all.

Aeloria followed at a distance, close enough to see, far enough not to interrupt.

Drawers opened and closed. Clothes were folded and placed. Everything was done with the same precision he used for everything else, nothing rushed, nothing uncertain, as if this had already been decided long before it was happening.

Sera stood near the doorway, not entering fully, her hand resting lightly against the frame, her fingers curling against the edge as if she needed something solid to hold onto.

“How long,” she asked, her voice lower now, less certain.

He paused briefly.

“I don’t know.”

Sera’s hand tightened slightly against the frame.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she said, not angrily, not sharply, but with a quiet weight that suggested she already knew that.

He did not respond.

He continued packing.

Sera stepped forward then, closing some of the distance, her movement hesitant in a way that did not belong to her before, her hand lifting slightly as if she might reach for him, then stopping halfway, suspended between intention and restraint.

“You’re coming back,” she said, and this time it was not a question.

It was something she was trying to make true by saying it.

He did not answer.

Her hand lowered slowly, her fingers curling inward as if holding onto something that was no longer there.

Aeloria felt it then, not the leaving itself, but the moment it became real.

He closed the bag.

The sound settled.

When he stepped back into the hallway, Sera was already there again, though she had not been called.

“Take care of things,” he said.

It was not directed, but it landed.

Sera did not move. She stood in front of the door, her body angled slightly as if she were unsure whether to block it or step aside, her hand lifting once more before stopping again, hovering briefly before falling back to her side.

He stepped past her.

The door opened.

The hallway beyond looked the same as it always had, narrow, dim, unchanged.

He left.

The door closed.

Sera remained there, her eyes fixed on the door, not moving, not speaking, as if she were waiting for something to correct itself.

It did not.

The silence stretched.

No footsteps returned.

No hand reached for the door.

No sound followed.

Sera’s shoulders lowered slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if something inside her had settled into a place she could not move it from.

She turned.

Slowly.

Walked back into the apartment without looking at Aeloria.

That was new.

That night, she did not ask where he was.

She did not ask anything.

And when she lay in bed, her hands rested close to her body, still, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric as if remembering something they had held before.

She closed her eyes, not because she was ready to sleep, but because there was nothing left to look at that would change what had already happened.

Evenings had a shape then, something that repeated often enough that it stopped feeling like a pattern and began to feel like something permanent, not because it was stable or secure, but because nothing had interrupted it yet in a way that forced it to change.

Sera sat on the floor in the living room with paper spread in front of her, the surface worn with faint impressions from previous drawings, shallow grooves pressed into it that caught the pencil as it moved and guided her hand in ways she did not fully understand but trusted anyway, as if the page already knew what it was supposed to become before she did. She held the pencil too tightly, her fingers pressed close to the graphite, her movements uneven as she dragged the line downward, pressing harder when it did not behave the way she wanted it to, as if force might correct what she could not yet control.

“Nikolai.”

She said his name without turning, without checking if he was there, because she had learned that he would be, that he would answer simply by existing in the space she expected him to fill.

There was a pause, just long enough to register, and then the sound of movement behind her, steady, unhurried, familiar in a way that made her shoulders settle before she even looked.

“It is wrong,” she said, her voice quieter now, not frustrated yet but close to it, her eyes fixed on the page as if looking away might make it worse.

“Show me.”

She shifted the paper slightly, angling it toward him without lifting it, her hand lingering near the line as though she might still fix it before he saw it.

“The door,” she added, her voice softening in a way that carried more than the word itself.

The line bent inward halfway down, losing its direction before it reached the bottom, stopping just short of where it should have connected, and she pressed over it again, harder this time, the paper dipping slightly beneath the pressure until she stopped and looked at it as if waiting for it to correct itself.

He crouched beside her, close enough that she felt the shift in space before she felt anything else, and he reached for the pencil, taking it from her hand only long enough to adjust her grip before placing it back.

“Do not press so hard.”

“It won’t stay if I don’t,” she said, her voice carrying a small, uncertain insistence, like she was trying to convince both of them at once.

“It will,” he said, and there was something steady in the way he said it, not soft, not warm, but certain in a way she leaned toward without realizing it.

His hand moved over hers, guiding without forcing, steadying without holding, and for a moment the movement felt shared, like the line belonged to both of them instead of just her.

“Again.”

She drew more slowly this time, her hand hesitating as it moved downward, the line wavering before finding its direction, and when it began to bend again she stopped halfway, her breath catching slightly.

“It’s not working,” she said, quieter now, the frustration fading into something closer to doubt.

“Finish it.”

She hesitated, then continued, pulling the line down until it reached the bottom, not straight, not clean, but complete.

He looked at it longer than she expected him to.

“Again.”

She looked at him briefly, searching for something she could not name, then back at the paper, and began again, moving slower, more careful, as if the line might respond differently if she treated it differently.

This time it held.

Not perfectly.

But enough.

Without thinking, she leaned into him, her shoulder resting lightly against his side, her weight settling there as if it belonged, her hand lifting from the floor and finding his sleeve, her fingers curling into the fabric with a familiarity she had never been taught.

He did not move her away.

He adjusted slightly, just enough to make space for her to stay.

She did not look at him.

She did not need to.

Because he stayed, the moment stayed too, stretching longer than most things did, long enough that it stopped feeling temporary and started to feel like something she could rely on.

The paper was clean this time.

No grooves.

No guidance.

Nothing left behind to help her.

Sera sat in the same place, but she held herself differently now, her posture steadier, her movements more controlled, the pencil resting naturally in her hand instead of being forced into position. She did not press as hard anymore, did not need to, and the line began at the top of the page and moved downward in one continuous motion, straight enough that she did not stop to correct it, steady enough that it reached the bottom without hesitation.

She looked at it for a moment, not surprised, not relieved, just confirming what she already knew.

“Nikolai.”

This time, she turned when she said his name, her eyes finding him immediately, as if she needed to see him hear it.

“I did it,” she said, and there was something in her voice that had not been there before, something quieter but heavier, like the words carried more than the action itself.

He looked down at the paper.

“You remembered.”

The words landed differently now, not instruction, not correction, but something finished, something that did not require anything further.

She shifted slightly, moving the paper just enough to leave space beside her, a small, unconscious invitation.

“Again?” she asked, and there was something in it this time, not just habit, not just repetition, but a request for something more than the task itself.

He crouched beside her, the motion familiar, expected, and for a moment everything aligned with what she remembered, the space, the distance, the pattern of how things were supposed to happen.

His hand moved toward hers.

Then stopped.

“You know how.”

The words settled into the space between them.

She did not move.

Her hand remained where it was, still shaped for his guidance, still waiting for the weight of his hand to return.

It did not.

The space stayed empty.

“Wait,” she said, softer now, the word slipping out before she could stop it, carrying more weight than she intended, more than she understood.

He paused.

Only for a moment.

“You are fine.”

The words were measured, controlled, and in that control there was something final that did not need to be emphasized to be understood.

Her hand remained where it was for a second longer, as if it had not yet understood that nothing was coming back to meet it.

Then it lowered.

Slowly.

She looked down at the paper again, at the line she had started but not finished, and without hesitation this time she completed it, her hand steady, controlled, exact.

It was better than before.

Cleaner.

More precise.

It did not feel the same.

She folded the paper once, then again, her fingers aligning the edges as closely as she could without correcting them further, and she set it beside her without looking at it again.

That night, she did not bring anything to him.

She did not ask for help.

And when she lay in bed, her hand rested at her side, still and empty, her fingers curling slightly as if remembering something they no longer had, and when she noticed it she did not move it, did not reach for anything, did not try to replace what was missing.

She turned onto her side.

Closed her eyes.

And let the space remain empty.

The streets pulsed with frantic energy.

Cars abandoned, sirens wailing in the distance, the occasional scream piercing the humid evening air. Something was coming. Something inevitable.

Something final.

1. The Watcher

Gabriel stood at the window of his twenty-third-floor apartment, fingers twitching against the cool glass. His breathing was shallow, his pupils dilated as he scanned the streets below. They were moving now. Fast. Twisting through the shadows. He had known this day would come. He had seen them before.

Faceless figures lurking at the edge of his vision, waiting for him to slip, to leave himself vulnerable.

But now? Now they were out in the open.

The city was screaming, but no one saw what he saw. They moved in sync, jerking like marionettes, a silent army closing in. They had been patient, waiting for the perfect moment, and now the veil between their world and his had worn too thin.

Gabriel stumbled back, tripping over discarded newspapers and empty takeout containers. He reached for the bat by his door, gripping it so tight his knuckles went white. He could barricade himself in. Maybe if he stayed perfectly still, they wouldn’t notice. Maybe if he held his breath, he could disappear.

But then, a tap against the glass. Just a single, deliberate knock.

His heart seized. His hands shook.

They were here.

And when he finally found the courage to turn, to look up—he saw his own reflection staring back at him. But the eyes weren’t his.

And it smiled.

2. Forgotten June

June ran barefoot through the streets, past abandoned cars and flickering neon signs. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. The city had already erased her.

Her hands trembled as she clutched the crumpled paper in her grip. A faded flyer, torn at the edges. MISSING - JUNE KIM, AGE 29. Her own face, staring back at her in grainy black and white.

It had started subtly. Her name disappearing from emails. Her phone number coming up as "disconnected." Friends forgetting lunch plans they had made just the day before. It wasn’t until she had walked into her own apartment only to find another woman living there, a woman who had never heard of her.

June had begun to understand.

She had been erased.

No one saw her. No one remembered her. She screamed at strangers, grabbed them by the shoulders, begged them to tell her she was real—but their eyes glazed over, their bodies tensed, and they walked away as if she were nothing more than a shadow flickering in the corner of their vision.

She stumbled into a quiet alley, pressing herself against the cold brick wall, clutching the flyer to her chest. If she was gone, then why was she still here?

Then, a sound above her. A deep, groaning shift in the sky itself, like the universe exhaling. She looked up.

And for the first time, the city looked back.

3. Daniel - The Vessel

Daniel sat at the edge of Pier 57, staring at the black water beneath him. It had been whispering to him all day, and now the voices were clearer than ever.

It was time.

He had always known he was different. There had always been something else inside of him, something that didn’t belong to this world. He had felt it his whole life, slithering beneath his skin, curling around his bones, whispering in a voice that wasn’t his own.

And now, the city was finally crumbling, just as it had always promised. The sky was bruised, the air electric. The water had called for him, and he had come.

He slipped off his shoes, his movements eerily calm. Behind him, the city was unraveling, sirens blaring, people running—but none of that mattered now. The tide pulled back, revealing something dark and pulsing beneath the surface. Something that had been waiting for him.

A gift. A return. A completion.

Daniel stood. He closed his eyes.

And when he stepped forward, the water did not take him. It opened for him.

Seattle’s End

Somewhere in the chaos, Gabriel stood in his shattered apartment, blood pooling at his feet. Somewhere, June fell to her knees, her body flickering in and out of existence as she reached toward a sky that had never known her name. Somewhere, Daniel drifted in the arms of something vast and ancient beneath the waves, his lips parting in silent reverence.

And then,

A light.

Not fire. Not destruction. Not salvation.

But something else.

They all looked up, breath stolen, words failing.

And above Seattle, something moved across the sky.

A final,

Witness.

A silent farewell.

PALM

“In a world where sun never shone,

Lies a door of the unknown.

Aria brave, with hope in hand,

Opens wide to unseen land.”

“Knocking stops, the silence rings,

In their hearts, new freedom sings.

Beyond the door, a brighter morn,

Where dreams take flight and life's rebor...”

“Old man….” A sound of a book closing startled her making her chains clink softly against the cold, rough surface of the stone walls “Please shut up.” The old man let’s out a chuckle while placing the book next to Lyla.

Lyla's wrists bore the marks of her restraints, a stark testament to the hours she had spent in captivity. Her once young vibrant eyes, now dulled by fatigue, scanned the shadows for a glimpse of a man she once knew. Thirty years had passed since she was last among a member of The Community, yet on her features, only twenty had etched their tale.

Across from her, the old man shuffled into the dim light, his gait burdened by age and a sorrow that seemed to occupy the very air between them. The lines on his face had deepened, and his eyes held the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. He settled into the chair opposite her, a small table bearing the remnants of their sparse meal separating them.

"Lyla," he began, his voice a mixture of stern authority and concealed anguish, "you must understand why you're here. You've been gone for three decades, but look no older than when you left. You came through that door and attacked a young man!” The old man takes a moment to compose himself “The Community... we have fears, questions.”

She met his gaze, defiance etched into her exhaustion. "I wish I could fill in the gaps," she said, her voice hoarse, "but my memories are like shards of glass—sharp, fragmented, and confusing."

“Oh love.” the old man sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. "I need to know where you've been, what's happened to you. We must be certain you're not..." Lyla interrupts with a whisper “A monster?..”

There was a vulnerability in Lyla that hadn't been there before, a worn thinness to her spirit that made her seem both stubborn and fragile. She looked away, a myriad of lost moments flashing behind her eyes. A universe of experiences had lapsed in her absence, and yet here she was, a puzzle missing its centerpiece.

"I remember lights," she murmured, almost to herself. "Colors that don't exist here, voices speaking in a symphony of thoughts. There was a war, a purpose, and then... nothing. A void." A vision of a face She’s familiar with passed by, a dead lover.

The old man observed her with a pained expression, his heart aching as he recognized the toll the missing years had taken on her. It was difficult to reconcile the little 6 year old girl who had once stood before him with the ghostly fierce figure now chained to the past. He had assumed the role of her guardian, her jailer, but every question, every confirmation of her wellbeing, felt like a betrayal.

"Was there anyone else with you?" he asked gently, his question probing, seeking a hint of the Lyla he once knew.

Her eyes snapped back to his, fierce despite her weariness. "I can't remember," she said, but the flicker of loss that crossed her face suggested otherwise.

The old man leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly together to hide their trembling. "You must try, Lyla. The Community is afraid. They fear what you might have become, what dangers could have followed you back." “What about the Red Woman”

In that moment Lyla felt rage. Her chains rattled as she kick the chair from under her, a spark of her old fire rekindling within her. "I am still me," she insisted, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her uncertainty. "You know as much about her as I do." She was lying, she knew more about that woman. She thought maybe it was best to not say anything in that moment, maybe so that she could find peace for a moment or to save this man she loved as a father from despair.

The old man's features softened, a fatherly concern breaking through his official demeanor. "We will help you recover your memories, Lyla. But until we do, until we understand, I must keep you here."

Slumping to her knees she nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the necessity of her confinement. As the old man rose to leave, she called out to him, her voice cracking with a mixture of resolve and desperation.

"Please Dagny," she said, "don't give up on me."

He paused, looking back at this woman who for the first time in 4 hours of being in this room said his name. The woman who bore the face of someone he once considered a daughter. "Never, Lyla," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "Never."

With those parting words, the old man exited the chamber, leaving Lyla alone with her fragmented past and the chains that bound her not just to the wall, but to an uncertain future.

The silence that filled the chamber after Dagny's departure was stifling, a tangible presence that seemed to press against Lyla's temples, prodding her to remember. The cold stone beneath her knees seeped through her clothes, a chill reminder of the harsh reality she now faced. She had spoken his name for the first time in hours, and the gravity of that simple act weighed heavily on her.

In the solitude, her mind wandered, grasping at the strands of her fractured memories. She saw flashes of the Red Woman, a silhouette against a backdrop of flames, her features obscured by the dance of light and shadow. There was power there, and fear. Lyla felt it in her bones, a shudder that crept up her spine and whispered warnings in her ear.

What did she know of the Red Woman? The question lingered, a specter in the dark. She had lied to Dagny, but not out of malice. She feared what the truth might unravel, the consequences it could bring upon them all. If the Red Woman was tied to her own lost years, then understanding that connection could be the key to unlocking her past—or unleashing something far worse.

Lyla's breaths came in shallow gasps as she pushed against the chains, her body aching from the prolonged restraint. The marks on her wrists burned, a constant reminder of her captivity. The chains were not just physical; they were the doubts, the fears, the unknown that shackled her.

As the hours passed, her eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion finally claiming her. In the realm between wakefulness and sleep, she heard a voice—a whisper that seemed to rise from the depths of her own subconscious.

“Find her," it urged, a susurration that was felt more than heard. "The Red Woman is everywhere."

Lyla's heart raced, her pulse throbbing in her ears. Was this a fragment of a memory or a dream coaxing her towards a path she was uncertain she should tread? The whisper offered no answers, only an enigmatic directive that reverberated through her core.

She awoke with a start, the remnants of the voice still echoing in her mind. The room was as she had left it, the chains, the cold, the emptiness. But something had shifted within her, a subtle change that left her restless.

The door creaked open, and a sliver of light announced the return of Dagny. He entered with a tray of food, his expression unreadable. Setting it down, he finally spoke, his voice cautious. “Eat… once your done we’re gonna let you out.”

Lyla looks into Dagny’s eyes, the same eyes that brought her comfort when she was young and let out an intense howl of pain that startled both Dagny and herself. Tears streamed down her face, a floodgate of emotions bursting open.

Dagny reaches out, gently palming Lyla's left cheek, his eyes filled with concern. Wiping away tears that have no end he says, “Lyla, whatever you're feeling, I'm here for you. I have always been here for you.” Lyla clung to his words, soaking up the warmth of his hands and the reassurance in his voice. She nodded, silently acknowledging his support.

Dagny's words echoed in the dimly lit room, creating a sense of comfort she hadn't felt in a long time. Dagny grabs the chair she had kicked earlier placing Lyla gently on it and pulling the table to her. Memories of him having to wrestle his little girl to even consider the meals in front her flood in. Now after 30 years that little girl was in front of him, a woman with no fight left in her. That broke him, bringing him to silent tears.

He tucks her hair behind her ear and heads for the door trying to conceal his desolate face. Catching her breath for a moment Lyla let’s out a word, “wait..” it was raspy and wet. Almost like a salmon trying to swim up stream pushed against rocks by the current. “Will you wait?… Stay with me…please," she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to be alone.” Dagny turned back to face Lyla, his eyes filled with tenderness as he nodded silently, taking a seat on the floor beside her.

The weight of years of separation caused tears and silence to fill the room, and in that heavy silence, they found a moment of solace in each other's presence. But they both knew that once it was time to go through that door, things would go back to being different. 30 years had past for Dagny. He was 24 when Lyla had disappeared at the age of 6, yet somehow she only looked to be in her 20s. She’s hiding something Dagny thought, and it was only a matter of time until she would have to tell me. But for now he just wants to sit with his little girl he lost so many years ago. His Lyla and her Dagny.

The weight of his experiences had pressed lines of maturity on his young face, but he wanted for a fresh start, a new beginning in his small town. Which led him to a group of newcomers, five years his senior, who were eager to discover the town's secrets.

As they gathered at the heart of the town, J found himself guiding his newfound friends through familiar streets and beloved hangouts. He showed them the diner where he had shared countless late-night conversations, the park where he had his first taste of MDMA, and the hidden path along the river where he had strolled in moments of solitude. Each place carried a piece of his past, a fragment of his vulnerability.

The group soaked in the sights and stories, J couldn't help but relive the small moments of his life that had unfolded at these locations. He remembered the joy of a shared milkshake and the comfort of the park bench where he'd once poured his heart out to a friend. Golden garden’s gentle whispers reminded him of the solace he'd sought in quiet contemplation.

When he came back to reality he found himself dragging behind the group he was leading, next to a man he didn’t know, maybe he was just walking the same way J thought. With his eyes to the floor J noticed the man’s shoes. “I used to wear those every day" and kept walking. Not take a second to acknowledge the man’s face.

As the day came to an end, J's friends shared stories of their own, the laughter and struggles that had defined their lives. Their tales of resilience and growth touched J deeply, reminding him that life was a tapestry woven from an abundance of experiences.

With the night coming, the group returned to their starting point, where they'd first met. As they were saying their goodbyes a familiar pair of shoes were noticed by J but this time he looks up at the man. "I've been here too," he said, with a knowing look in his eyes. "I've walked these streets, shared these moments." The building cave in around J leaving him feeling suffocated on a small street. Leaving only a man similar to him locked in his gaze.

J's heart raced as he realized that the stranger who resembled him had been a silent witness to his past, a mirror reflecting his own journey. The encounter had unnerved him, but it had also brought forth a profound realization.

Life was a cycle of beginnings and endings, of shared moments and personal vulnerability. J had come to terms with his past, and in doing so, he had opened the door to new friendships and the promise of a brighter future. As they parted ways, he couldn't help but feel that perhaps, in the presence of himself, he had found a reflection of his own growth and resilience, a silent acknowledgment of the journey that had brought him to this point.

The realization that I was a cat had yet to dawn on me, and my mind was a blank slate, eager for adventure.

My journey began in the bewitching glow of Amsterdam's Red-Light District. Neon lights painted the night, and humans danced and laughed, beckoning me with curious expressions. I approached one group and meowed, "Who am I?" Their laughter and attempts at conversation in a foreign tongue only left me perplexed, a feline lost in translation.

“Hey bud, you enjoying yourself out here.” “I think you forgot your clothes in there” “You got a regular little buddy?”

As I continued my explorations wondering what the fuck those humans were saying, I encountered a cast of cats, each with its own peculiar quirks. Some hissed and spat, defending their turf with fervor, while others simply stared with an air of regal indifference. I couldn't help but ponder the absurdity of feline behavior, and whether I was destined to be an enigma in a world of enigmas.

Amsterdam's rivers, like liquid mirrors, reflected the mysteries of existence. I perched beside the Amstel River, contemplating its gentle flow and the secrets it concealed. I meowed profound thoughts to humans who passed by, who in turn, looked at me as if I held the answers to the universe's questions.

“What am I?” “Have I always been this… naked?” “Where’s all my hair? Am I naked bro?”

Vondelpark, a verdant oasis, hosted comic encounters with local wildlife. A squirrel, evidently disgruntled by my presence, chattered away in exasperation. I found it difficult not to chuckle, contemplating the intricate comedy of life.

“Where is your clothes dude...?” “I don’t want your naked ass near me, I already have enough nuts I gotta deal with.”

As the day wore on, I reveled in the whimsical absurdity of human life, my furry existence, and the eccentricity of the world around me. I posed questions to passersby, leaving them amused, bemused, or just slightly bewildered.

“MEOW!”

As night descended, I sought refuge in a quiet corner, ready to embrace the mysteries of sleep. Little did I know that this was merely the beginning of another day, another adventure. As I stirred from slumber, an eerie vision overcame me—a cat deity counting down from nine to eight in an ethereal chant.

The deity's image and the eerie countdown left me with an unsettling sense of foreboding. Life's enigmas remained shrouded, but I was ready to embrace each new day, each new adventure, and to find the answers to questions I hadn't yet learned to ask.

Share

Share Complacent’s Substack

Memories dance as shadows near,

Past and present entwined,

Lost in despair's cruel embrace,

Gaslighted mind, pain persists.

As Michael delved into the eerie forest, his heart grew heavier with every step. He felt like the trees themselves were closing in on him, their branches whispering haunting secrets that sent shivers down his spine.

The closer he came to the heart of the village, the more vividly he began to remember Emily—her laughter, her innocence, the way her eyes sparkled with life. Her presence seemed to manifest in the rustling leaves and the dancing shadows, guiding him deeper into the woods.

Memories of her growing up played like a movie in his mind. He saw her first steps, her excitement on the first day of school, and the way she had painted their modest home with her vibrant artwork. Each memory intensified his determination to find her, but also deepened his sense of foreboding.

As the moon cast an eerie pallor over the village, Michael arrived at the town square. There, standing in the dim light, he found Emily. But it was not his daughter; it was a grotesque, distorted doppelganger. It turned to face him with hollow, lifeless eyes.

Confusion overwhelmed him. His heart pounded as he watched the creature that had taken his daughter step closer. It wore Emily's face like a mask, a twisted and unsettling mockery.

As the creature approached, it began to whisper disturbing thoughts into Michael's mind, memories of past mistakes and regrets. The more he listened, the more he doubted himself, his own sanity, and his ability to protect his daughter.

In a chilling moment, the creature's true form manifested—a shadowy, nightmarish entity that oozed despair and represented the overwhelming grip of depression. It moved with malevolent intent, and as it enveloped Emily's visage, her face contorted into an expression of profound sadness.

In that heart-wrenching instant, Michael watched his daughter die for a second time, this time at the hands of the creature that embodied his own inner torment. It was as if the very essence of his depression had devoured the last remnants of hope, leaving him in a state of unbearable agony.

The forest itself seemed to taunt him, as if nature itself had turned against him, and his very existence had been gaslighted by his own despair. The world grew distorted and unreal, and Michael felt himself spiraling into an abyss of darkness.

What was her name? Was this all I can give?

As the forest swallowed him whole, Michael's mind crumbled, and he descended into the depths of his own psychological horror. In the end, he was left with nothing but the haunting echo of his daughter's laughter and the ever-encroaching shadows of his own inner demons.