The first thing I lost was my mother’s voice.
I didn’t realize it at the time. The memories were still there—the image of her laughing, the warmth of her embrace. But when I tried to recall the sound of her voice, it was gone. Like a tape that had been erased.
Then came the missing streets. The ones I swore existed, where I used to walk home from school. Places I knew, yet when I returned, they weren’t there. No one else remembered them.
And now—
I didn’t know my brother’s name.
Because I had a brother. I knew that much.
But when I tried to picture him, I saw only a silhouette.
A hollow space where he used to be.
And with every use of this power—every moment I defied them—more pieces of my past slipped away.
I sat in the dimly lit hideout, gripping the edges of the rickety metal t
