Dawn filtered through a sky that looked too perfect—painted rather than born. Kael felt it the moment his eyes opened: the world was off. Not broken, not shattered—just… rewritten.

Eira and Jorah walked ahead on the narrow forest path, talking quietly about something Kael should have known, something he should have been part of—but their voices carried no space for him. Not intentionally. More like the world itself refused to carve him in.

Eira paused first.

"Strange," she murmured, fingertips brushing the bark of a crooked oak. "I've passed this place a hundred times. But it feels like the first."

Jorah snorted. "Everything feels like the first to you. Last week you forgot my birthday."

She shot him a glare. "You don't have a birthday. You made it up because you wanted free food."

Kael should have laughed. He didn't. The humor slid past him, quiet and distant, as if cushioned by glass.

They weren't ignoring him—they simply didn't look his way.

Even when he stepped closer, even when he cleared his throat.

It wasn't until Eira nearly walked into him that she blinked and startled.

"Oh—Kael. Sorry, I didn't see you."

A simple sentence.

But the way she said it—softly unnerved—made something cold settle in his spine.

"You've been walking beside me the whole time," Kael said quietly.

Jorah frowned. "Have you? I swear I thought you were behind us."

"I was." Kael's voice was firmer this time. "And then I was beside you."

Jorah scratched the back of his neck. "Huh. Must be this weird air. My sense of direction's acting drunk."

Eira lingered on Kael a moment longer than usual, her eyes narrowing as though trying to pull a memory from beneath ice. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

There it was.

The first warning.

The first tear in reality's fabric.

Kael forced a smile. "I'm fine. Just… thinking."

Even that landed wrong. Like she expected something else from him—something she couldn't articulate.

They walked again, deeper into the village outskirts.

And that's when the world started remembering wrong.

The first villager they met—an elderly woman Kael had spoken to countless times—greeted Eira warmly, teased Jorah about his terrible aim, then looked right at Kael…

…with polite confusion.

"Oh. A traveler? You look pale, child. Come in if you need soup."

Kael's throat tightened. Eira stepped forward, puzzled.

"Kael isn't—he's not—" she paused, blinking hard. "I mean, he's with us."

"With you?" the woman asked kindly. "Well, I suppose everyone needs friends."

Not "Good to see you again, Kael."

Not even "Who are you?"

Just a stranger's courtesy.

Eira hesitated, a hand hovering near her chest as if something hurt. She looked back at Kael—truly looked—and her brows drew together as though she sensed something important was missing… but couldn't name it.

Jorah whispered under his breath, "Okay, that was creepy even for old woman Brina."

But things only worsened.

Every person Kael once knew walked past him like he was air.

The blacksmith's apprentice, who Kael once saved from a collapsing forge, glanced over the group, nodded at Eira and Jorah, then stared at Kael with the blankness of meeting a stranger in a crowd.

In the market, vendors gave Jorah extra food they "owed him," hugged Eira, praised her work—

But Kael?

Nothing.

No recognition.

No memory.

No name for him in their minds.

Reality had smoothed him out like an erased pencil line.

Eira's discomfort grew every time her gaze slid across him. She kept stealing small looks now—frowning, confused, almost worried. She didn't say anything, but her body stayed closer to him, like instinct clung to what memory had abandoned.

Jorah eventually snapped.

"Oh come on!" he barked at a merchant. "You know him! Tall, annoying, looks like he's carrying the weight of sixty prophecies?"

The merchant blinked. "You mean you two? I've never seen this third one before."

Jorah's jaw dropped. "WHAT—"

"Jorah," Eira murmured sharply.

Her voice was tight. Too tight.

She turned to Kael, stepping close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm. "Something is wrong. Very, very wrong. I don't understand it but… every time I look at you it feels like I… I'm supposed to remember something."

Her brows knit together.

"Something important."

Kael breathed out slowly. "It's not your fault."

Eira's eyes snapped to him, the frustration clear. "But it feels like it is."

Jorah jerked a thumb toward the village edge. "We should head to your old home. See if it's still… yours."

Kael nodded stiffly.

He wasn't prepared for what waited there.

The house was intact—same cracked stones, same warped wooden steps.

But the door opened before they reached it.

A woman Kael had never seen stepped out, wiping flour from her hands. She looked young, kind, peaceful.

And behind her—

A boy ran out. Twelve. Laughing. Dark hair. Dark eyes.

Kael's heart plummeted.

He knew that face.

A replacement version of himself.

"Careful!" the woman scolded lightly. "Your father will scold you if you ruin your boots again."

The boy grinned. "But I didn't! Not yet!"

Jorah whispered, "Kael… is that—"

Kael couldn't speak.

The mother noticed them then and smiled warmly. "Oh, travelers. Are you lost?"

Eira inhaled sharply as she subtly compared the boy's face to Kael's.

Jorah took a half step back, eyes wide.

Kael stood frozen, the world tilting around him.

He felt Eira's hand brush his—not grabbing, not holding, but trembling close enough to say I'm here. I'm trying to remember you.

The woman waited politely.

Kael finally managed four words:

"That… used to be me."

And the world felt it—

the lie it was trying to bury,

the truth it failed to overwrite.

The air rippled.

And from the far corner of the street—

a shadowy figure watched Kael from behind a lamppost.

Unmoving.

Silent.

Too still to be human.

Kael stepped forward—

But the figure vanished the moment he blinked.

A chill crawled up his spine.

Something, somewhere, remembered him.

Something the world was trying very hard to hide.

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