Chapter 8: A Hand as Light as Wind

I returned to the street where I had seen the figure with the bronze mask. But the trace was gone, swallowed by the evening mist. The bakery had closed. The glass window looked dull, as if it had never reflected anything at all.

I stood there, unsure, until I felt a strange breeze slipping through the alleys.
This wind didn’t carry dust or dry leaves — it carried sound.
Whispers from forgotten years.
Laughter of children lost between layers of space.

I followed it.

My steps led me away from town, along a narrow dirt path climbing a low hill. The ground was covered in white shrubs and thin fog.

Halfway up the hill, I saw her.

She sat on a flat rock, her head bowed over her hands. Her long hair swayed slightly in the breeze.
Her clothes were not like the townspeople’s — they were faded, patchy, and draped like they had seen many places.
She didn’t look up, but she spoke first.

“You shouldn’t stay here long. The Watchers are coming.”

I blinked. “Who are you? How do you know me?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out a small hand toward me.

“Your hand,” she said softly. “Let me borrow it for a moment.”

I hesitated, then offered it.
Her fingers brushed my wrist — a touch as light as wind.

Instantly, an image flared before me.

A dim room. Books floating in midair.
And Long — my son — sitting in the center, eyes closed, still.

I gasped and pulled away.

“What was that? How… did you do that?”

She still didn’t lift her head.
“Memory is never truly lost. Only hidden. You’re carrying a piece of him without knowing.”

“You could see him?”

“I only unlock. The memory is inside you.”

I stepped closer. “Can you help me? Help me find what’s left of him?”

She looked up.

Her eyes had no pupils. Just a misty white glow, like frozen glass.
But within that glow, I saw something moving — slow, flickering images, like a memory trying to wake.

“I can help,” she said. “But we must hurry. The Watchers don’t like memories being opened.”

I nodded. “What’s your name?”

“People call me Wind,” she said. “Because I never stay in one place for long.”

She turned and walked down the slope.

I followed.

Ahead of us, the path faded into a dusky forest, where the branches hung like curtains.
And from above, something began to fall —
not rain, not dust —
but droplets of memory, drifting quietly into the mist.

We didn’t look back.