The bells tolled like mourning—three long, hollow chimes that trembled through the twilight-washed spires of Veladros. Elena exhaled slowly, the chill sinking into her bones, the day's weight clinging to her skin like soot that refused to wash off.
She lingered by the gate where the Drelm River split the city in two, watching the shimmer of magic skimming the water's surface like silver blood. Her fingers toyed with the locket at her collar—always that same small, unconscious motion. Not for luck. Just to remind herself she still felt.
Veladros sat on the blade's edge between realities—a border city pressed too close to the Veil, where the skin between life and death wore thin as breath. The people here walked with quiet purpose, their eyes flicking toward shadows that others ignored. They had grown used to the closeness of endings.
But life pulsed here, in its way. Steady. Weathered. Like a candle that refused to die, even in the wind.
And there—under the east tower's crooked arch—stood Jonas, arms crossed, that familiar smirk playing on his lips. Lily clung to one arm. Thomas waved at her. Her heart stuttered.
Gods, she'd missed them.
Jonas nodded toward the corner of the square. "See? Told you it'd still be open."
Nestled between a velvet-draped tailor and a flickering apothecary, the bakery looked like something conjured from a story half-remembered. Its windows glowed with honeyed light, fogged from within by warmth and sugar. A wooden sign creaked above the door, carved with the image of a coiled bun encircled by stars. The Sleeping Swirl.
The bell above the door chimed soft and silver as they stepped inside.
Inside, the shop was narrow, lined with crooked shelves and soft light. Preserves glimmered in thick glass jars. Wax-wrapped honeycomb. Charms spun lazily above the register—wards for freshness, protection, peace.
"Two cinnaswirls," Jonas said without hesitation, "and one of those cherry things you like."
Elena raised a brow. "You never remember what it's called."
"I remember it has cherries. That's enough."
Lily pressed her fingers to the glass. "Can I have a honey twist? Just one."
"Just one," Elena said, knowing she'd find two later. Thomas bounced beside her, his eyes bigger than his appetite.
They paid. The bell sang once more behind them.
They found a worn stone bench beside the old fountain. Lily sat cross-legged, sketchbook in her lap, humming under her breath. Thomas leaned into Jonas, devouring his swirl like he hadn't eaten in days. Elena took a bite of her tart—flaky, tart, alive. She closed her eyes.
The city wrapped around them like a cloak stitched from memory.
Veladros breathed: merchant voices softened by distance, the hiss of a relit rune, the murmur of tired priests arguing scripture. The sky held its endless twilight, stars blurred but never absent. A mist curled low to the ground, not menacing—familiar. It was always there.
For a heartbeat, for a breath, she forgot how to brace against the world.
Then she felt it.
That prickle at the base of her neck. The kind of sensation that meant you were not alone.
She turned her head, slowly.
A figure stood at the fountain's far edge.
Tall. Still. Watching.
Smiling.
His outline wavered—heat shimmered, unfocused. No face. Just the smile and that tilt of the head. Almost curious.
Elena blinked.
He was gone.
Her mouth dried.
"Mama, you dropped your pastry."
Thomas held it up, his fingers sticky with cinnamon.
She blinked. Her hand was empty.
"Thanks, baby." She took it. Warm. Intact. Uneaten.
She turned the tart over slowly. No bite marks.
Thomas leaned in again, identical smile curling his lips.
"Mama, you dropped your pastry."
Again. Same tone. Same cadence.
The sound clanged in her skull—wrong, like a bell tolling out of rhythm.
She stared at him. Then at her hand.
The pastry was there. Already. Still.
"I... "
Her voice broke off. Elena stood slowly. "We should head home."
Jonas stretched. "You tired already?"
"Just... ready to be home."
They turned onto the narrow street.
No bells.
Not from the tower. Not the stalls.
The bakery was dark.
The door was shut.
She didn't remember hearing it close.
The street pressed in quieter with each step. Vendors packing up. Shadows lengthening. Mist curling higher.
Jonas said something. She didn't hear. Her ears felt full of cotton.
Lily skipped ahead. Thomas clung to her coat.
The city was still there.
But not right.
Like it was holding its breath.
Her pace slowed. Her legs felt heavy, like moving through water thick with memory.
Each step cost more than the last.
Jonas, Lily, Thomas—just ahead, just beyond reach—faded with each blink.
Like names slipping from the tongue. Like a dream she'd already begun to forget.
"Wait—guys, wait up."
No one turned.
She ran.
Called their names.
No one looked back.
The mist swallowed her words. Swallowed their backs.
The streets twisted. Not visibly. Not all at once. But with every turn, every shadowed alley, something bent behind her, just out of sight.
She passed the spice vendor’s stall—a row of glass jars flickering with sigils of preservation. The shopkeeper stood behind them, apron stained with saffron and soot.
He smiled at her.
Or tried to.
There was no mouth. Just skin. Smooth and unbroken, stretched where lips should be. Still, he nodded politely. Bowed. Tried to speak.
A rasp emerged—dry, choked, meaningless.
Her stomach twisted. She turned away, fast, the image seared behind her eyelids.
She passed a stairwell. Wax-dripped railing. A crooked alcove window, candle flickering inside.
She didn't think much of it.
Until she passed it again.
Same window. Same candle.
She slowed. Looked back. The street behind her didn't match what she remembered.
A few more steps. Another corner.
The stairwell again.
Her breath caught. Her feet kept moving.
This time, she counted. One, two, three windows. A door with peeling paint. A sign reading Mire & Sons – Closed
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
She turned left. A different direction.
Still. The stairwell.
She stopped walking. Let the silence close in.
Her fingers found the locket at her throat—ice cold now.
Not for luck. Just to feel. Just to remember.
She closed her eyes. Whispered their names like a spell. Jonas. Lily. Thomas.
When she opened her eyes—
The stairwell was gone.
Ahead stood her home. The cracked stone steps. The iron railing. The warped door she always meant to fix.
Familiar. Too familiar.
She didn't remember the walk. Just the weight in her chest pulling her forward
The steps. The railing. The cracked third stone.
The door—ajar.
The handle—bloody.
And then she remembered.
Fear gripped her heart.
Elena froze at the threshold, hand outstretched, fingertips barely brushing the splintered wood. Her heart pounded in her ears—loud, uneven—drowning out everything but a quiet, unrelenting dread that coiled tighter with each passing second.
She swallowed, her mouth dry as ash.
The door was open enough for a line of pale, honeyed light to spill across her boots, thin and inviting—but somehow wrong. The light seemed colder than she remembered, drained of warmth like a false promise whispered sweetly in the dark.
She drew her hand back, fingers trembling.
Her eyes traced the familiar designs along the stone steps, followed the iron railing rusted in exactly the places she knew by heart. The wind hissed softly past her ears, colder now, carrying with it the faint scent of copper—blood, fresh and sharp, mixed with something else, something ancient.
You don't have to go in. The thought flickered, unbidden. Tempting.
She looked around, desperate for something to anchor her to this moment, to reality. The street behind was empty—shadows long, mist heavy, silence absolute. Her breath misted, white and thin, as her pulse quickened.
Elena pressed a palm flat against the door. It creaked softly under her touch, moving inward a breath's width.
She hesitated again, chest tightening. Her locket burned cold against her skin.
Her fingers tightened on the cold metal at her neck, feeling the tiny engraving she'd traced a thousand times. It had always comforted her. But tonight, it was just another piece of metal, meaningless, cold.
She inhaled slowly, summoned every fragment of courage, every memory still strong enough to feel real.
Then, finally, she pushed the door inward, praying for something familiar, something warm.
The door swung open with a quiet groan.
---------
The bells tolled like they had before—but slower this time. Like they didn't quite remember the rhythm.
Elena stood at the gate. The river shimmered beneath her, but there was no magic in it now. Just light playing tricks. Her fingers searched for the locket at her throat. It was there. But dull. Cold.
She stepped forward. The city looked the same—but not quite. The tailor's window was boarded. The apothecary gone. The streets too clean. The people too quiet.
Jonas waved to her from beneath the east tower's crooked arch. Thomas tugged at his sleeve, then ran to meet her.
But wasn't there someone missing?
Elena frowned. "Where's—?"
Jonas kissed her forehead. "You look tired. Come on. You'll feel better after."
The bakery waited. But the light inside was dimmer. The window fogged with something more like smoke than warmth. The sign above the door swung on rusted hinges. Still the coiled bun. Still the stars. But faded.
The bell chimed as they entered, but its sound was hollow.
Inside, the shelves were half-empty. The jars cloudy. The pastries fewer. Pale.
"Two cinnaswirls," Jonas said. "And the cherry thing."
Elena didn't correct him. She wasn't sure she could remember what it was called.
They paid then went outside to sit.
They found a worn stone bench beside the old fountain.
Elena moved to sit—then paused.
A piece of paper lay on the stone, half-curled at the edges, held down by a smooth pebble. She picked it up carefully.
A painting. Crayon and watercolor. Four figures stood beneath a crooked sun, their hands linked, their smiles lopsided and wide. The lines were clumsy, the colors too bright. A child’s work.
Two tall shapes. Two small.
A family of four.
She stared at it.
Something about the way the smallest figure clung to the one beside it made her throat tighten.
She folded the paper gently and tucked it into her coat without speaking. Then she sat down
Thomas pulled her hand.
"Mama, you dropped your pastry."
She looked down.
Empty fingers.
A second passed.
She didn't reply. Just took the pastry from him.
The fountain no longer sang. The water didn't move.
Elena took a bite. The tart was dry. Ashy.
The mist curled higher.
A girl walked past them on the cobbled path—barefoot, arms full of kindling. Her head was tilted back too far, like she was listening for thunder.
Then again.
Same girl. Same bundle. Same crooked tilt.
Walking backward.
Exactly backward.
Her feet landed in the same prints she had just left, in perfect reverse.
Elena blinked.
The girl passed again. Smiling this time.
Still backward.
She looked to Jonas.
He didn't look back.
The whispers came again.
Not from outside.
Inside.
“Thou rememberest too much.”
--------
The bells tolled—but not like before.
Each note arrived bent, submerged, warped by something beneath the surface. A heartbeat underwater. A memory smothered in sleep.
Elena stood at the gate. The Drelm River didn't shimmer anymore. It didn't move. It lay still and black as ink, reflecting only a sky that hadn't changed in days or decades.
The towers around her leaned closer. Watching.
She looked for Jonas.
She thought she looked for someone else, too—but the thought passed too quickly to catch.
No one waited under the arch.
So she walked.
She turned a corner into a narrow street lit by dim lanterns.
A man stood at the end of the alley, alone, applauding.
Slow. Methodical.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
At first, she thought he was watching a performance. But there was nothing—just cracked stones and a boarded door.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
She passed him cautiously. His gaze never met hers.
But his clapping didn’t stop.
Even after she turned the next corner, she could still hear it. Still steady. Still slow.
Near the edge of the market, a woman sat cross-legged on the cobblestones, driving a needle through the soft meat of her inner thigh. Then into the street. Then back through the skin just above her knee. Then into the stone again.
Elena slowed.
The silver thread shimmered wetly, dragging bits of sinew and blood with it. It vanished into the cracks between the cobblestones like roots taking hold. With each stitch, the woman anchored herself tighter to the street—muscle to mortar, tendon to stone.
Her hands were slick with blood, her fingertips flayed to the bone, trembling with every thrust of the needle. But she didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Her lips moved in a lullaby with no melody—just a rasp of breath, too cracked and wet to be called singing.
Elena stared.
The thread had reached her boot.
She hurried away.
At the edge of the square, a man stood completely still.
His eyes never blinked.
He watched her with quiet intensity. Not malice. Not fear. Just... recognition.
She didn’t know him.
She was sure she didn’t.
But he mouthed her name anyway.
Once.
Twice.
Then smiled like it was the saddest thing he’d ever done.
The bakery came into view, leaning crooked on its foundation like a tired sentinel. The sign above it had faded entirely. No coiled bun. No stars. Just wood, weathered blank by time or intention.
The windows were cracked.
The door hung open.
Inside: silence.
Shelves, bare. Dust thick in the corners. The charm above the counter spun slowly, like it had been turning forever. The jars were empty. A single tart sat behind the glass.
Then—in her hand.
She didn't remember reaching for it. Didn't remember moving at all.
The tart was warm. The paper wrap clean.
She walked out, and the city blurred behind her.
At the fountain—dry now, filled with ash—she sat. Alone.
She took a bite.
It tasted like nothing.
Like texture without flavor. Memory without weight.
Across the square, a child laughed.
She looked.
He passed—a quick blur of motion.
She looked away.
He passed again.
Same path.
Same laugh.
She stood.
Turned a corner.
The stairwell. Wax-dripped railing. A crooked window above it, candle flickering behind warped glass.
She turned again.
The stairwell.
She blinked. Her skin prickled.
A third turn.
Still the stairwell.
Every angle different. Every detail the same.
She pressed her fingers to the locket.
It didn't move.
She didn't feel it.
She opened her mouth. The name she meant to say had no shape anymore.
Fog swallowed the street.
Footsteps, muffled by mist.
The walls of Veladros bent slightly inward.
The world was forgetting itself.
And forgetting her with it.
---------
White.
Endless and absolute.
Not light—just the absence of everything else. A vast, hollow expanse stretching in every direction. No sky. No ground. No breath. No self.
And yet—she walked.
Each step left no mark. Each motion felt like it belonged to someone else.
She didn't know who she was. Didn't know why she was moving. Didn't know what she was searching for.
But the motion was something she remembered how to do.
Far ahead, something drifted past her. A blur. Faint. Familiar.
A wooden sign, rotting at the edges, turning slowly in the pale. She could almost read it. A swirl of bread. Stars carved around it.
The Sleeping Swirl.
It spun once.
Then vanished.
Another shape followed.
A bell. Hanging from nothing. Swinging gently, tolling a sound that could not reach her ears.
The tower of Veladros. Untethered. Lost.
It faded like the memory of a face she once knew.
A piece of paper drifted down through the void. Turning. Spinning. Unmoored.
It landed at her feet.
There was no wind. No gravity. And yet it moved—twitching softly, like something alive breathed beneath it.
She knelt.
A child’s painting.
Four figures beneath a crooked sun.
Two tall. Two small.
One of the smaller ones held a yellow flower, smiling up at the others.
The paint shimmered faintly, as if still drying.
Or refusing to fade.
She reached out to touch it.
It slipped away on a wind that didn’t exist.
She walked.
She walked.
Nothing but silence.
Until—
a flicker of movement ahead.
A figure.
Still. Back turned. Pale as the void.
At first, she thought it might be someone else—another lost soul adrift in the white.
But as she neared, the shape clarified.
It was her.
Same coat. Same locket. Same slight tremor in the right hand.
The figure did not move.
Did not breathe.
Did not acknowledge her.
Elena veered around it, refusing to look back.
A hundred steps later, another figure stood ahead.
Still her.
Still unmoving.
But this time, the head tilted—just slightly—like it had heard her coming.
Her breath hitched.
She passed again.
And on the third time—
the figure turned to face her.
Her own eyes stared back.
Empty. Unblinking.
A mouth that didn’t open, but somehow whispered:
“You're the memory now.”
Then
Nothing but silence.
Until stone rose beneath her feet. Cold. Familiar.
The path appeared without warning. Worn steps. Bent railing. A door she could never quite bring herself to repair.
Home.
Though she didn't know how she knew it.
She reached for the handle.
The door opened at her touch.
Inside, golden light flickered from the kitchen. Soft. Warm. Untrustworthy.
Jonas sat at the table.
His back straight. His hands folded. His gaze fixed forward.
She stared.
Something twisted deep inside her. A tension she couldn't name.
"Where are…?" she whispered.
But the names dissolved on her tongue. There had been others. She was sure of it.
Her fingers found the folded paper in her coat.
She unfolded it slowly, breath catching in her throat.
The painting.
Four figures beneath a crooked sun.
But something was wrong.
The two smaller ones—the children—were no longer whole. Their heads were smeared with dull gray, as if the color had been scrubbed out. Limbs twisted, spindly and malformed, bending the wrong way. One figure had no face at all—just a yawning blank smear where the smile should’ve been. The yellow flower was shriveled black.
The space beside Jonas remained empty.
But not like someone had stepped away. Not like someone was coming back.
It was the kind of empty that felt scrubbed clean. Like something had once filled that space but had been erased with too much pressure. The wood held no warmth, no imprint, no trace. Just blankness.
Elena stared at it, breath hitching.
She knew it wasn’t supposed to be empty.
And she began to unravel. She couldn't take it anymore.
Her breathing turned ragged. Her chest rising too fast, too shallow. Hands rising to her head, fingers burying into her hair.
She pulled. Clutched. Sobbed.
"I—" She couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't remember.
A figure stood in the corner.
Tall. Still. Watching.
Hair like molten white. Eyes like dimmed suns.
He stepped forward.
"Shed not thy tears," he said. "For to forget is the kinder fate."
His voice dropped to a whisper, soft as final breath:
"What would I not have given… to forget her, Like she did me"
She didn't answer.
Couldn't.
He reached out.
A single finger touched her brow.
It was cold. Not like winter. Like the end of a dream.
Elena screamed.
And the world shattered.
