Wind led me down a narrow path, where the soil crunched beneath our feet like old paper.
The fog grew thicker. The air was cold and still. No birds. No insects.
Only the sound of our breathing.
“Where are we?” I asked quietly.
“We’re near the edge of memory,” Wind replied.
“This is where fragments drift. But they don’t wake unless someone has touched them before.”
“Touched them?”
“You’ll understand soon.”
We stopped at a massive tree with a hollow in its trunk. It looked almost like a door.
Wind stepped in first. I hesitated, then followed.
Inside was not dirt or roots. It was a room — dark, cold, and echoing with dripping water.
The walls were covered with small mirrors, in all shapes and sizes.
Each one reflected something different:
— an old classroom
— a kitchen with flickering lights
— a sky without ground beneath it
“This is the Reflection Room,” she said.
“Stand in front of one. If it links to your memory—or your son’s—it will react.”
I approached a mirror tucked in a corner. Oval-shaped. Cracked along one side.
As I stepped closer, the surface rippled like disturbed water.
Then an image appeared:
Long — my son — sitting in a classroom.
But not the one from his usual school.
This room was old, colored in faded light. The blackboard showed symbols I couldn’t read — not letters, not numbers, but… memory code?
I couldn’t speak. My heart ached.
Wind touched my arm.
“This memory isn’t complete,” she whispered. “It’s still blocked.”
“How do we unlock it?” I asked.
Before she could answer, a sharp metal sound echoed in the room.
The air grew colder.
All the mirrors started to flicker. Images wobbled, as if afraid.
Wind froze. “They’ve found us.”
I turned around. The doorway we came through was gone.
And from the dark corner, shapes emerged.
Tall. Silent. Human-like.
They wore rounded bronze helmets that covered their eyes.
Folded metal wings hung on their backs, ticking softly like old machines.
They said nothing. Just walked toward us — steady and slow.
Wind grabbed my hand. “Run!”
We rushed to the far end of the room, where a triangular doorway had just begun to glow.
Wind touched a nearby mirror — not to look, but to remove it.
She held it like something precious.
One of the bronze-helmed figures raised an arm.
A wave of invisible force slammed into us.
I fell. My ears rang. My vision went black.
In that moment, I saw something — a flash, a broken memory:
I was standing on a balcony.
The sea stretched below.
Long ran up behind me, laughing.
Then… the scene shattered.
I woke to Wind dragging me through the glowing door.
We fell onto wet soil, gasping for air.
“Are you okay?” she asked, worried.
I nodded, still dizzy.
“What… what were those things?”
“The Watchers,” she said.
“They don’t want the past to be remembered. Especially not when… it’s been altered.”
I looked up. “Altered? What do you mean?”
Wind didn’t answer right away. She stared at me — and this time, her eyes were full of doubt.
Not toward the world.
But toward me.
“Are you sure… you’ve never been here before?”
I froze.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the mirror she had taken.
A fragment — small, sharp, and glowing faintly.
“This is a piece of your memory,” she said.
I looked into it.And for the first time, I saw myself…
not searching for my son —
but walking away.
Leaving him behind a closed door.
