The library shimmered, its edges softening like a dream slipping from memory. A faint, steady glow pulsed from the spiral-within-triangle sigil on Henry's door. Behind him, Canya and Allan watched, wary. The air hung thick with the scent of ink and something older—the dust of forgotten tombs.
Henry turned the handle. The door swung open, silent as a breath.
Inside, a circular chamber. Its walls, a dizzying mosaic of mirrors. Dozens of them, each silver-framed, each reflecting a different Henry. Some subtle—older, younger, tired, smiling. Others, grotesque—a face twisted in rage, eyes hollow, hands stained with ink that looked too much like blood.
Canya stepped to the threshold but didn't enter. "What is this place?"
Henry's voice was a quiet current. "A memory vault. My mentor told me about it. Said it's where the forest stores what we forget."
Allan frowned. "Why mirrors?"
"Because memory is reflection," Henry said. "And distortion."
He stepped inside.
The mirrors rippled as he passed. One showed him as a child, clutching a scroll, eyes wide with wonder. Another, an old man, seated at a desk, surrounded by glowing runes. A third, screaming, tearing pages from a book, fire licking at the edges.
He stopped before a mirror reflecting him as he was now—but with eyes that glowed faintly gold.
"This one," he whispered.
The mirror pulsed.
Then, he was gone. Swallowed by the reflection.
Canya gasped. "Henry!"
His body slumped to the floor, eyes open but unseeing. The teen—his younger self—materialized beside them. "He's not gone. He's remembering."
Allan drew his blade. "Bring him back."
"You can't bring back what never left," the teen said, calm as still water.
Canya grabbed his arm. "What does that mean?"
The teen turned to her. "You'll understand soon."
The mirrors cracked.
٭٭٭
Allan found himself on a small island, ocean water surrounding him. Nothing but a single palm tree stood at its center. Beneath it, a young boy sat on a four-legged stool, clad in a loose blue cotton robe. A pastel rested on his left arm, a brush on his right. Before him, an easel, and on the canvas, a painting was coming to life. Allan couldn't see his face, his back was turned, yet he felt a profound familiarity.
"You are here, at last." The boy stopped painting, stood, and turned. To Allan's surprise, it was him, at eleven years old.
"Why am I here?" Allan asked, mouth agape.
"You didn't grasp what they told you, did you? You're here to remember, and I'm here to remind you of a mistake you've made."
The boy's serious expression silenced further questions. Allan wondered what mistake could evoke such gravity from his past self. Curious, he nodded for the boy to continue.
With a casual wave, everything changed. This time, they stood in a field of lavender. The plantations stretched from horizon to horizon, making Allan gasp in amazement as the scent of the flowers filled his nostrils.
"The girl. You were supposed to forget about her."
The boy's voice came, nonchalant yet sharp, as Allan watched in wonder.
"Which girl are you talking about?" Allan frowned.
"You know, Allan. At this age, you met only one girl..."
"Lulu. I cannot forget about her."
"Exactly why you're here, with me, now. You see, you've been believing you're probably in love with her," the boy said, walking slowly among the lavender. The field shimmered, as if memory itself resisted being held too long. "But you're not."
Allan narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean? I loved her. I still do."
"No," the boy said gently. "You loved how you felt when you were with her. You loved the attention. The softness. The promise of something untouched by the pain you carry."
"I—" Allan stopped. The scent of lavender grew stronger, almost choking him.
"You love the memory, Allan. Not the girl. The moments you shared have fermented into illusions. And now, you're chasing them like they're real." The boy gestured toward the sky. There, drifting in the clouds, were scenes—Allan and Lulu laughing, dancing, whispering under starlight. Beautiful. Fleeting.
"They're just reflections. Shadows," the boy said. "You think they'll lead you back to who you were. But they won't."
"Then what do I do?" Allan's voice cracked.
"Let her go," the boy said. "Or you'll follow those illusions into your own end. That's what this path is leading to. Not redemption. Not reunion. Just ruin."
The clouds darkened. The lavender field began to wilt.
"You must remember who you were before the memory of her became your truth," the boy said, touching Allan's chest. "You were fire. You were will. You were more than longing."
Allan took a shaky breath.
"Say it," the boy urged.
"I…" Allan looked into the boy's eyes—his own eyes, fierce and young. "I was more than longing."
The words echoed, pulsing through the air like thunder.
The boy smiled, just faintly. "Then it's time to wake up."
The world exploded into white light.
٭٭٭
Allan gasped as he came to, breath catching in his throat. He was seated in the circle again, legs folded beneath him, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. Beside him sat Canya, eyes wide, hand hovering uncertainly over his arm.
He blinked.
Across the circle stood Henry—alive, eyes dark—but not alone.
Another figure loomed beside him, partly cloaked in shadow, but unmistakably human. Its face was hidden by a hood, but something about the stillness in its posture sent a chill down Allan's spine.
Canya leaned in, whispering, "Who is that?"
But Allan's gaze stayed fixed on the figure. His voice came low.
"I don't know. But it feels like we're not just remembering anymore..."