Ashes of reality

Chapter 4 - Dust Over Memory - Part 3

Ethan gently pressed — the door creaked open. Behind it was a narrow corridor, lit by faint light from a room somewhere deep in the house. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet. The house smelled of old firewood, dust, and something else — something strange, spicy. He took a few cautious steps forward, peering into the half-darkness. To the left — a closed door. To the right — a small kitchen: a rusty faucet, an old stove, a stack of unwashed dishes in the sink.

At the end of the corridor, a light flickered. Ethan froze, listening.

Where the light was, someone was moving — a figure, familiar in its heaviness: the man, the same one who had let him in last night. Ethan took a deep breath, cleared his throat to make his presence known. The man looked up from the table where he was sitting.

— You’re awake, — he said hoarsely, without getting up. His voice sounded tired, but not hostile. — Thought you'd be lying down for a while longer.

Ethan slowly walked closer.

On the table stood a tin kettle, two cracked glasses, and a few pieces of bread.

— Sit down, if your legs hold up, — the man muttered, nodding toward the chair across from him.

Ethan, feeling his stomach painfully tighten from the smell of bread and hot tea, sat down on the squeaky chair. The man silently stared at him for a few seconds, then spoke, still calm:

— So, kid... who are you and what are you doing here?

Ethan slowly reached for the glass, as if testing whether all this was real. The warmth of the glass slightly burned his palm — and he understood: yes, this is not a dream. Or, at least, it felt more real than anything that had happened to him lately. He took a difficult sip of the tea — sharp, almost tasteless, but strangely invigorating.

— I... — Ethan started, not knowing where to begin. His voice was hoarse. — I don’t remember how I got here. Everything’s like in a fog.

The man crossed his arms over his chest, in no hurry to drink his tea.

— You’re not local, that’s for sure, — he said, glancing sideways. — We don’t get faces like yours around here. We’ve got our own swamp, our own people. And you seem like you’ve strayed off the path.

Ethan nodded, feeling the increasing pressure in his chest.

— Maybe... — he muttered. — I was in a hospital. Then... I remember corridors, doors... Then just the forest. And... your house.

The man was silent for a long time, only tapping his fingers on the cracked table.

— In a hospital, you say? — he finally asked. — So your legs brought you here by themselves. Or someone helped.

Ethan stiffened.

— Someone?.. — That happens sometimes, — the man shrugged. — When someone gets stuck between things for too long. Sometimes the place finds the person. Sometimes the person finds the place.

He said this matter-of-factly, almost without any particular meaning in his voice, as if talking about rainy weather or the whims of an old stove.

Ethan gripped the glass with both hands.

— I don’t understand... — he whispered.

The man squinted, examining him, then suddenly changed the subject, as if deciding not to push further.

— Alright. I don’t have much to offer for food, but we’ll scrape together some breakfast. Then we’ll figure out what to do with you.

Ethan only nodded silently. He felt like he had been thrown into someone else’s life, into someone else’s morning, where even the smells seemed different — the bitter aroma of old wood, the faint mustiness of stove soot. John got up, stepping heavily, and shuffled over to the cupboard by the wall. After rummaging there, he pulled out some half-dried bread, a few eggs, and a tin can of beans.

— Don’t be picky, — he called over his shoulder.

Ethan watched as the man skillfully cracked the eggs into the battered frying pan, placing it on the old gas stove, which hissed in response. The smell of frying began to fill the room, warm, thick, enveloping. Ethan reached for the cup of tea. The glass was warm, the tea had already cooled, but it still felt like a salvation in this sticky uncertainty.

— You say you’re from the hospital, — John said quietly, not turning around. He stirred the eggs, as if continuing the conversation with himself. — So you’re a tough guy. Not everyone gets back on their feet after something like that.

Ethan didn’t respond. He didn’t understand how, by some miracle, he was still here, breathing, sitting at this table.

— After we eat, we’ll figure out, — John continued, — how to get you out of here. This place isn’t for long stays. You know that.

Ethan nodded again, more to himself than to him. Deep inside, he understood: he wouldn’t be able to stay here for long. But for now — for now, he was grateful for even this fragile, strange calm.

The frying pan sizzled louder, and for a moment, the small house seemed almost cozy.

John took the frying pan off the stove and skillfully transferred the food onto two tin plates. The eggs with a crispy crust, the bread — slightly burnt on the edges. It looked like food made from leftovers, but it smelled surprisingly appetizing. He silently placed one plate in front of Ethan, the other in front of himself, then sat down with a grunt. There was a sense of eternity in those movements — nothing extra, no rush, no emotion. Just fatigue and the everyday.

— Eat while it’s hot, — he threw.

Ethan nodded, but first just brought a piece of bread to his mouth, listening to his body. No pain. Just a dull cotton inside his head. As if he were the shadow of himself.

— Thanks, — he exhaled almost silently.

They ate in silence. Only the hum of the stove, the occasional creaks of the old house, and the scratching of branches against the walls interrupted the quiet. Ethan could feel that something unsaid was boiling inside John, but he wasn’t rushing to shake it loose. Finally, after finishing, John set his plate aside and stared out the window, where the gray morning light danced.

— The forest doesn’t let go just like that, — he said quietly, not looking at Ethan. — Only those come here who have something to run from. Or those who are being led by something.

He suddenly turned to Ethan.

— So tell me honestly: what are you running from?

The pause hung in the air like a film of smoke. The answer was somewhere on the tip of his tongue, but Ethan didn’t know whose it would be — his true one, or the one he had become in this strange place. Ethan lowered his gaze. The crumbs on the tin plate looked like ash. He ran his finger along the edge, as if gathering them — or maybe gathering himself.

— I... killed my wife, — he exhaled. The words seemed to tear from his throat with rust.

John didn’t move. His face just froze, like an old tree — neither condemnation nor sympathy.

— I was drunk, — Ethan continued, unable to stop. — We had a fight. A big one. Our son… was home. He saw everything. Or heard it. I even... — his voice trembled, — I don’t even remember how I ended up behind the wheel. Just a moment — and the headlights, and the crash.

The silence grew thick, almost palpable. The house seemed to freeze, listening along with John.

— I thought I was dead, — Ethan said. — But I woke up. In some corridor. Everything was foreign. Like... punishment.

John nodded slowly, looking past him. His gaze fixed on the emptiness — the place where, perhaps, someone else’s ghost also lived.

— Not punishment, — he said at last. — A transition.

Ethan flinched.

— Between what and what?

John took the cup, brought it to his lips, but didn’t drink. He just stared at the murky surface of the tea, as if something more could be seen in it than in words.

— Between you... the real you, — he said, — and who you’re ready to become. If you’re ready.

He stood up and walked toward the door.

— Let’s go. The forest doesn’t like those who stay silent when they should speak. And it’s time for you — to move on.

Ethan slowly stood up.

He didn’t know where this path led. But for the first time since that day when reality shattered, he felt: he was walking toward a place where there was still a chance to get something back... or at least understand what had been lost.

They stepped out of the house — the air greeted them with coolness and the smell of wet leaves. The forest stood grim, gray-green, as if it itself chose whom to let in and whom to leave wandering at the edge. Broken branches rustled underfoot, and every step echoed in Ethan’s chest.

John walked ahead, not looking back. He knew the way — not with his eyes, but with his skin. The forest seemed to part for him, recognizing him as its own.

— Listen carefully, — he spoke, without slowing his pace. — Things here aren’t always as they seem. You’ll see things. Hear them. Maybe even remember. But if you turn away — you’ll be lost. You can’t run from the truth here, even if it rots.

Ethan followed him, catching every word. The branches whipped at his hands, but he didn’t notice the pain.

— And where are we going? — he finally asked.

— To a place, — John replied. — It shows you what you’re hiding. Even from yourself.

He stopped in a small clearing, overgrown with moss and tangled with roots, like a net. In the center — an old wooden bench, almost sunken into the earth. A bench that Ethan recognized immediately. He didn’t know from where — but he knew.

— Sit down, — John said. — I'll wait. This is your path.

Ethan looked at the bench like it was a trap. But everything inside him told him: he was already inside. Only the truth could open the way out. Ethan approached the bench, and his legs felt a strange heaviness, as if they were being pulled down into the earth. He slowly lowered himself onto the edge, trying not to look at the cracked tree that still silently sat among the grass. Everything around was frozen, in some ancient and inevitable rhythm. John remained in the meadow, not sitting down. He stood, leaning against the tree trunk, watching Ethan but not intervening. His silence was decisive, as if saying:

“You are here alone.”

Ethan took a deep breath, trying to steady his breathing, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a forest around him, but something hidden, something watching, something waiting. This forest, it seemed, knew him better than he knew himself. He closed his eyes, but the image of his wife, Allison, immediately appeared before him. As if she were standing right next to him, at that moment, in that place. He saw her gaze — tired but resolute. Her face was inexplicably calm, as though she knew what would happen. Ethan pushed the image away, opening his eyes. The forest greeted him with silence again. A thought arose that this place wasn’t just endowed with the power to remember; it itself was memory.

He tilted his head back, looking at the sky, dotted with clouds, almost fading into twilight.

“What am I hiding?” — that thought crept in again. What does the one who has become hide? Why is he here? And what has he lost?

The eclipse of thought disappeared, and he refocused on himself, in the moment when it was time to face the truth. It was time to go back to the beginning. It was time to find the moment that changed everything.

— I’m ready, — Ethan said, not understanding who he was saying it to — himself or John. — Let it show.

John nodded quietly and stepped back into the shadow of the trees. Ethan felt again that something invisible, elusive, yet persistent was beginning to grow around him. Suddenly, the air grew denser, and the shadows deepened. The forest seemed to speak. Ethan felt his inner world begin to tremble, as if the earth itself was swaying beneath him to take revenge for something long forgotten. He looked back at John, but he stood aside and seemed not to see what was beginning to happen to him.

And then the forest began to speak softly.

Ethan heard a rustle that at first seemed like the wind, but soon it became more meaningful, as if someone was whispering his name. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate, but the sounds grew louder, and finally, he realized it wasn’t just the wind. The forest had begun to speak to him.

Thin voices — unknown, yet familiar, like echoes of old memories — broke through the silence. He tried to recognize them, to understand what these voices were. A feeling appeared in his chest that something long hidden was about to be revealed, and Ethan didn’t know if he was ready for it.

— You’ve lost everything, Ethan, — said one of the voices, and it sounded like this person knew him better than he knew himself. — You thought you could forget everything. But you only forget what you don’t need to remember.

Ethan went cold, but couldn’t tear his eyes away from the emptiness before him. It wasn’t just a feeling — he sensed memory crashing down on him, like flashes of past days bursting out without permission. He remembered her — Allison. He remembered how they fought, how her words cut straight through his heart. She had said something about his brother, about how he couldn’t cope with what happened. But what did happen? Why was there still emptiness in his mind?

— You killed her, — the voice said again, and this time it was clearer, sharper, like a knife piercing through fog.

Ethan flinched and clenched his fists. He couldn’t let these memories take control again. He couldn’t.

— I don’t know... what happened, — he whispered to himself, but it didn’t help. Everything that was happening felt like a nightmare that wouldn’t let go. This whole forest, all these shadows, these voices — all of it seemed to be reaching for what he had carefully hidden.

Suddenly, a shadow appeared in front of him. He looked up and saw a silhouette standing right on the edge of the clearing. It was John, but he was looking at him strangely — there was neither sympathy nor judgment, only emptiness in his eyes.

— You won’t get far, Ethan, — John said. — The forest will show everything that’s hidden. And if you don’t face it, you’ll stay here. In this place, in this time. You’ll never leave.

Ethan stood up, his body heavy, as if he was standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to fall, but unable to find the strength for the final step. He understood: he couldn’t run from what was hidden inside. He couldn’t.

— You have to go through this, Ethan, — John said softly, but his words brought no comfort. — Only then can you move on.

Ethan looked again at the bench, at that old, moss-covered piece of wood. He knew he needed to sit. He needed to look himself in the eyes. Only then would he be able to understand what remained, and what was gone forever.

He took a step forward.

A moment — and everything vanished. A scene flashed through his mind that he didn’t want to remember: his hand gripping a knife, his gaze filled with rage and madness when he saw her… Allison. He remembered how the words burst from her lips, how her voice echoed in his mind when he said he couldn’t hold back anymore. But her face, her eyes, when she looked at him for the last time, were not filled with forgiveness, but with despair. She knew. She understood.

And he killed her.

Ethan felt the ground beneath him shift. Everything around became unstable, as if he were standing at the edge of an abyss. And then he understood that he could no longer run. He couldn’t go back and change what he’d done. But he could understand what had caused it. Everything turned dark, and time stopped again. In that silence and emptiness, there was nothing but the final step he had to take. He looked again at John. But he was no longer there. Then Ethan rose from the bench and walked. Step by step.

This was his path, the path through darkness, toward himself.