Aila Coraline
It was slipping.
Piece by piece, like sand through my fingers, my memories kept falling away. At first, I thought it was exhaustion. Trauma, maybe. The fog in my head, the way faces blurred when I tried to hold on to them, the way names dissolved before I could speak them out loud. But this wasn’t normal forgetting.
This was being taken.
Every time I closed my eyes, the darkness reached further: tugging, pulling, stripping something from me. The more I tried to fight it, the faster it slipped.
I couldn’t remember the sound of my mother’s laugh anymore. Or the way my father—Greg… was it Greg?—looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. Their shapes, their warmth, their presence… all of it melted into nothing, replaced by static that scraped at the edges of my mind.
W
