Ashes of reality

Chapter 1 - When Memory Looks Back

He woke up to the sound of silence — not a hum, not a crackle, not the wind — silence itself. Thick, sticky, like dust in the throat, it scratched at his ears and his soul. He didn’t know where he was — and worse, he didn’t know who he was. His eyes opened, and above him was a ceiling — cracked, as if someone had been hitting it from the inside. He sat up, reached for his head — blood, dry, like a memory.

— What’s my name? — he asked aloud.

Silence didn’t answer. He looked around. The walls were trembling, not from the wind — there was none. They trembled like a person who had suddenly become afraid. The ceiling began to crumble, and he realized — if he didn’t remember now, everything would disappear.

— My name... — he forced out, biting into memories like into a rotten crust of bread. — I...

A chunk of wall broke off with a c***k. Stones tumbled down, leaving behind a hole — emptiness, not darkness, not light — nothing. Reality — like parchment, scorched by the bonfire of oblivion. He closed his eyes. Inhale. Exhale.

— I’m alive, I... a human, I remember holding someone’s hand, I...

The floor beneath him trembled, but did not disappear. The room seemed to hold its breath. The world waited. He opened his eyes.

— I... don’t know my name — he whispered — But I don’t want to vanish.

He stood up — carefully, as if there was ice beneath him, not stone floor. But the floor didn’t c***k. It was as if it was waiting to hear what he’d say next.

— My name is... — he began again, but inside there was emptiness.

A name — is an anchor. If you don’t have a name — you’re not anchored. You’re like a shadow that forgot where it falls from. He walked along the wall. His fingers traced the dusty masonry, and... the stone crumbled like sand the moment he thought for a second: was it ever really here? He quickly pulled his hand back.

— Think only what’s alive. Only what’s real. But how do you think, if you don’t know what’s real?

He saw a mirror. Dirty, cracked, as if someone had punched out half the glass. He looked into it. No reflection. The room was there — but not him. Empty space. A blot. He stepped closer. And only then, when he clenched his fists and said out loud:

— I am human! I am here! I... am alive!...

The shadow appeared. Blurry. Smeared. But no longer empty. He sat down on a wooden bench. It creaked. His body trembled, as if every movement was a struggle with the unseen. There was a note on the floor. Burnt, with barely readable letters:

"Don’t forget. Not yourself. Not the pain. Not the warmth. The forgotten are devoured by the void."

He didn’t remember if he wrote that. He didn’t remember if he ever felt pain. But now — he felt it. He ran his hand over his forehead — there was no sweat. No heat, no cold. Just a strange dampness, as if someone else was breathing in the room. Something… unknown. He looked at the mirror again. Now the reflection was slightly clearer — a blurry face, as if from afar, like looking at himself through a dirty window of memory. In the reflection behind him, a shadow flickered. He turned sharply. No one. But something had changed in the corner of the room. A wall he hadn’t noticed was now open — a passage leading downward. He was sure it hadn’t been there.

— I didn’t believe there was anything there — he whispered. — That’s why I didn’t see it.

He stepped closer. Stairs leading into darkness. It smelled of damp wood and old thoughts. On the first step down, he heard a voice. Foreign. But as if from inside him:

— You are not alone. Memory is contagious. Where one remembers, another may see.

He froze. Not from fear. From recognition. He had heard that voice before. But when? He slowly descended the steps, feeling the air grow thicker, as if it breathed into his face. The stairs beneath his feet were different: stone, wood, metal — as if each step led through someone else’s memory. Or through fragments of different lives. On the fifth step he stopped. There lay a feather. White, dry, with a burnt tip. He didn’t know where it came from — but his heart clenched, as if it had lost something that once meant everything. On the sixth step the walls began to change. They were no longer just stones — drawings. Pencil sketches, black and white. Faded scenes:

“A woman embracing a child in a crumbling house, a man standing at the edge of a cliff, watching buildings collapse.”

And suddenly he heard footsteps behind him. He turned around. No one. Just a shadow, barely visible — not reflecting, but watching. He walked on. On the ninth step — a door. Ancient, without a handle. On it, a word scratched out with fingernails:

"Feeling"

He pulled at the door — it wouldn’t budge, dull, stone-silent.

— Feeling... — he whispered. — Which one?

And then something flared in his chest. Not a thought. A memory-in-the-skin. He was standing in the rain. Someone held his hand. He didn’t see the face, but he knew — there was warmth. And in that moment the world was alive. He closed his eyes.

— I remember. I... miss.

And the door opened by itself. Beyond the door there was no light, not darkness — but the absence of light, as if it stayed behind the threshold, along with who he was. He stepped inside, and behind him the door slowly closed, without a sound. Now he couldn’t see, but he could feel, warmth, somewhere near, very close, like breath on his neck, but not a threat — a memory. Beneath his feet there was no floor — only the sensation of support. The space breathed, pulsed. And then a flash, he’s holding someone’s hand, soft, trembling. Words are spoken — but not in his ears, inside:

— As long as you remember, I exist.

He gripped the hand tighter, and then the world lit up. Around — an endless white room, no ceiling, no walls, just him — and in the center, a table, covered with cloth. On it — another note. He approached, unrolled it, the paper warm, as if someone had just held it.

"The first feeling you forgot — is attachment. You survived, but you lost. Remember: feelings are the glue of reality."

He looked at the words, and his chest tightened, not from pain, but from recognition.

— I loved someone... — he said.

And in that moment, someone sighed behind him. He froze.

The sigh wasn’t hostile, but there was no life in it either.

It was an echo — like a trace of a feeling locked away too long in a forgotten place.

He heard: a step, a single one, then silence again — not dead, but expectant.

He slowly laid the note on the table.

His fingers trembled — not from fear, but from confusion:

what is more terrifying — not remembering, or remembering too much?

Everything around became paler.

Walls, which weren’t really walls, began to disappear.

The space was dissolving, like a dream after waking.

Only him — and that feeling:

"You’re not alone. But who is here?"

He inhaled slowly, trying to hear anything else.

And in that moment — the rustle of cloth.

As if someone nearby adjusted a cloak.

Or spread their wings.

He clenched his fists.

He turned — slowly, as if behind him stood not a person,

but the truth itself, the one he didn’t want to know.

And he saw... a figure.

At first — just a silhouette.

Thin. Slightly hunched.

In a cloak or a robe — the fabric seemed to breathe shadows.

There was no face.

Instead — a blurred mask of light and ash, shifting like water.

But in the eyes — a clear, recognizable light.

Warm. Strangely familiar.

As if someone looked at him with love — and pain.

The figure didn’t move.

Just watched.

And a voice, like a whisper through the wall of memory,

sounded not outside, but within:

— You didn’t forget me. You just hid me.

Because pain — is alive.

He wanted to ask who it was, but his tongue wouldn’t obey.

And then she — yes, now he felt: it was a woman —

slowly raised her hand.

In her palm — a key, old, iron, covered in rust, wrapped in thread.

He didn’t know what this key opened.

But he knew for certain: he had lost it once.

He didn’t move.

She was still offering the key, but didn’t insist.

She only looked — and her gaze grew deeper.

Not sorrow, not pity — reflection.

And in that moment he understood:

she wasn’t giving him the key.

She — was the key.

— You want to know who I am? — her voice said. — Then look.

She disappeared, not dissolved, not walked away,

just became part of the space — and the space trembled.

He was no longer in the white room,

but in... his childhood room.

The very one — from the past, long forgotten.

A shelf of books, a battered plush bear, a chipped globe.

But everything was colorless — like a faded photograph.

And on the bed — a boy, about six years old,

looking out the window.

And he said:

— Why did you leave?

The man felt something stir inside him.

He wanted to answer right away — but didn’t know what exactly.

What did it mean — “leave”?

Leave the room? The memory? Himself?

He stepped closer.

The floor creaked — just like it did in childhood.

The boy didn’t move.

Only added:

— I waited. You said — you’d be back soon.

And then… you became a stranger.

He crouched down beside him.

— I… I didn’t know you were still here.

— And where else would I be? — the boy said quietly. — You left me here. With what you feared. And with what you loved.

The man looked away. The dust in the air felt heavier than air itself.

— I had to survive…

— And I had to stay? Alone?

He didn’t know what to say. Words rose to his throat, but got stuck — as if something inside wouldn’t let him admit it. Maybe fear. Or maybe shame. He looked down at his hands. On his palm was a scratch — thin, fresh. Curious… did he get hurt here? Or was it — from there, from that other world?

— I… thought that if I left, it would all go away, — he finally said, quietly, almost in a whisper.

— Nothing went away, — the boy replied. — Everything just got quieter. Without you.

He sighed. Inside, there was a strange feeling — as if something foreign and yet familiar was about to break through his chest.

— I’m here now. I came back.

— Then prove it, — the boy said. — Find what I lost.

He got up from the bed. And on the windowsill — where once a jar of dried chestnuts had stood — a new object had appeared. A small figurine. Thin. Almost transparent. It seemed to glow from within, but barely. Like a firefly in a glass capsule. The boy pointed to it:

— It’s a part of you. Take it — and remember. Just don’t lose it again.

He didn’t touch the figurine. Just stepped closer. The light it gave off was weak, but warm — not like electricity, not like the sun. More like the memory of warmth, of something distant and nearly faded. He looked closer. And suddenly he understood — it wasn’t just a figurine. It was them. He and his brother. Small. Sitting on a swing made from a branch and twine — he remembered carving it. Clumsily, awkwardly, with a knife his mother had f*******n him to play with. One of the little figures had a broken leg. He had said then: “He’s not broken. He just sits differently.” His chest tightened. The pain wasn’t sharp — it was dense. The memory… didn’t just return. It came with questions.

— Do you remember? — the boy asked softly.

— I remember, — he replied, — we fought that day. I broke the toy. And he left.

— And you didn’t say sorry.

— No. I thought I’d have time later.

— But later never came.

He clenched his fists. Silence filled the air — and in that silence, the figurine began to fade. Very slowly, as if it was being devoured by the darkness inside him. The boy stepped closer:

— If you leave this place without taking it — you’ll forget. Forever.

He stood still, only staring at the figurine. Its light had already grown weaker — as if the uncertainty within him was fading inside it too. He reached out… and froze. For a moment. As if afraid that if he touched it — he wouldn’t be able to let go. Or… he wouldn’t feel anything at all. He touched it. The figurine was warm. Dry. Light, like ash. But within that warmth — something stirred. A flash. An image. A moment he had long buried within himself — surfaced, like a breath after a long dive. He remembered his brother’s voice. High, hurt, but still trusting. He remembered turning away. Thinking: “Let him apologize first.” All this time he hadn’t just forgotten — he had been hiding. From the boy. From himself. He clenched the figurine in his palm. The light seemed to grow slightly brighter. But the air around him grew heavier too. The boy nodded — not approvingly, not with joy. Just as a fact.

— You found a part. But it’s not all, — he said quietly. — If you want to get out of here — you’ll have to gather yourself. Piece by piece.

The room began to dissolve. Not into light. But into shadow. First the walls disappeared, then the floor, and only the bed remained, like an island in the inky void. The boy was already standing to the side, as if watching, not intervening. He wasn’t falling. He simply… flowed. Into a new space. Or an old one, forgotten. With the figurine in his hand — and a weight in his chest. He stood still, just looking at the figurine. It kept fading — not flaring, not twitching, just quietly dissolving into the air. Like a shadow forgotten. He reached out. Slowly, hesitantly.

Even the air seemed to resist — thick like water, pulling his fingers back. But he touched it. And in that moment — a brief, warm jolt in his chest. Not pain. Not fear. Memory. He closed his eyes. Before him flashed: a childhood day, swings creaking, his brother laughing — then sudden silence. A word, left unsaid. An apology, clenched between his teeth. And a step. One step — away, out of that room, out of that world. He opened his eyes. The figurine glowed again — a little brighter, but now not with cold light. As if it recognized him. Accepted him. The boy said nothing. Just watched as the man carefully tucked the figurine into his pocket — where everything he once hid from himself was stored.

— This is only the beginning, — the boy said softly. — It’ll get harder from here. — And you?.. — I’ll stay here. Until you remember everything.

The room suddenly shuddered. Not the walls — the air. As if reality itself exhaled. The books on the shelf swayed slightly. The globe turned slowly, its axis creaking. He looked at the door. It had been closed before. Now — it was ajar. There was still no light beyond it. But… there was no fear either. He took a step forward. The floor creaked again — like in childhood. The boy remained seated on the bed. Same gaze. Same window. Only now he was smiling. Before the door — a pause. One last look back. And a step into the shadow.

The door behind him didn’t close with a sound, but with a feeling — as if someone gently touched the back of his head, ran a hand through his hair… and disappeared. He found himself in a narrow corridor. The old wallpaper, once light, was now the color of yellowed bone. It had peeled in many places, exposing the walls beneath, like the ribs of a house. The ceiling was low, no lamps — only a diffused light, as if seeping from the walls themselves, cold and dim, like a memory no one calls. The old parquet creaked beneath his feet, swollen in places, as if something long ago had tried to break free from under the floor. He took a step. And another. It seemed the corridor was longer than it should be. Too long for a normal house. On the walls — old photographs. He stopped. In the photo — a woman in a black dress holding a boy’s hand. Neither had faces — just emptiness, like a spot rubbed out by time. He wanted to look away — but the next photo caught his eye. An old man by the fireplace. And in the corner of the frame — a shadow. A figure that seemed accidentally caught in the shot, but too sharp, too… alive. He walked on. It smelled of dust, damp wood, and something sweet, cloying — like syrup that had spilled and begun to rot. The corridor forked. One door on the left — slightly ajar. From it came a faint light and the scent of childhood: warm milk, fabric warmed by the sun, and a mother’s breath before a bedtime story. The other door — closed. Darkness seemed to have grown into it. It radiated cold. But not physical. The cold of something you don’t want to remember.

He stands between two paths… and the silence around him seems to wait for a decision…