KING ALCHIE MONISTER

The weight of the world

The bus ride home dragged like something didn’t want her to arrive.

Sophie rested her forehead against the cold glass, but she wasn’t seeing the city lights.

She was seeing gold eyes.

​They had been so intense. The way that man, the famous Alchie Monister had looked at her... it wasn't how a celebrity looks at a worker. It was the way a man looks at a ghost.

​"Ophelia," she whispered. The name felt heavy on her tongue. Familiar, yet like a word from a language she couldn’t remember.

​She shook her head, trying to clear the fog. She had more important things to worry about than a rockstar with a dramatic mask.

​Sophie climbed the creaky stairs to her small, cramped apartment. As she opened the door, the smell of cheap soup and medicine met her. Her father, a man whose hair had turned grey almost overnight, was sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of bills.

​"You're late, Soph," he said, giving her a tired smile. "How was the show?"

​"Tiring," she said, dropping her bag. "The power went out. It was a mess."

​She walked over to the small bedroom at the end of the hall. Her mother lay there, pale and thin, hooked up to an oxygen machine. She was sleeping, her breath shallow.

​Her mother had been sick for as long as Sophie could remember. Or at least, as long as Sophie’s new memory went.

The oxygen machine made a thin, broken rhythm that followed Sophie into her sleep every night.

According to her parents, Sophie had been in a horrific car accident three years ago.

When she woke up in the hospital, there was nothing.

No faces, no childhood memories, no favourite song and not even the sound of her own laughter.

Just a name written on a white board at the foot of her bed.

Sophie.

Her father said the doctors called it trauma-induced amnesia. Her mother cried and said God had spared her life.

Sophie only knew that her head felt like a room someone had emptied in a hurry.

​Immediately after she was discharged, her father had moved them to this new city. He told her their old house had burnt to the ground in a freak fire, taking everything they owned with it. Every childhood photo, every trophy, every piece of her past had turned to ash.

Sophie had never seen a single picture of that house.

​But she never questioned it. Why would she? Her parents loved her, and the trauma of the accident was enough to make her want to look forward, not back. Now, only two people from her "past" knew where they lived: her boyfriend, Max, and her best friend, Uriel.

​"The doctor called today," her father said, his voice trembling as he joined her in the hallway.

​Sophie felt her stomach drop. "And?"

​"The bone marrow transplant... it's the only way, Sophie. But it’s one of the most expensive procedures they offer. I've spent everything we have. Every penny of my savings, the insurance money... it’s all gone."

​Sophie took a deep breath, forcing back the tears. "I’ll pick up more shifts at the lighting company. I’ll find another part-time job. We’ll find a way, Dad. I won't let her go."

​Later that night, the doorbell rang. It was Max.

​Max was the "safe" choice. He was nerdy, wore thick glasses, and talked about things most people laughed at legends, hidden histories, places that didn’t exist on any map.. He had been her "best friend" before the accident, and he told her they had started dating three months before her crash.

​Max has been nothing but kind to her. He brought her flowers and helped her father with the medical bills. He would make a good life partner stable, loyal, and sweet. But as he sat on her couch, Sophie felt... nothing.

​"I’m telling you, Sophie," Max said, leaning in. He was reading a book about local legends. "The Vordstarwood forest isn't normal. The myths say it’s home to shapeshifters. Werewolves! They say the Alpha of the pack is like a king."

​Sophie let out a tired laugh. "Max, you read too much. Werewolves? That’s just stories for kids. I work in the real world, where the only 'magic' is a backup generator that actually works."

​"Maybe," Max said, reaching out to take her hand.

​When his skin touched hers, it was just... warm. Normal. There was no lightning. No pressure in her skull. No visions of fire and blood. She didn't feel any spark, but she didn't pull away. She couldn't bring herself to tell him she didn't feel anything. It felt like holding onto the present.

He had been too good to her to deserve the truth… yet every time she looked at him, it felt like staring at a stranger.

​"I'm just tired, Max," she said softly.

​"I know. Get some sleep, Soph. I’ll check on you tomorrow."

​After he left, Sophie stood in the dark kitchen. She looked at the medical bills piled on the table. She felt like a stranger in her own life, trapped in a story that didn't quite fit her.

​She was Sophie, the girl with no memory of her past. The girl who worked two jobs to save her mother.

​But as she closed her eyes, her chest ached strangely, as if something inside it had been tugged across the, gold eyes through a mask, and a voice she didn’t know she remembered.