Fragments of Oblivion: Lost Memories

Damp wind slipped through the rusted window seal sending chills down the spine of the man sitting alone in the dark, his hands trembling against the cooler steel of the device in his lap.

The faint light from his wrist interface flickered weakly, barely cutting through the shadows that clung to his workshop. Outside, the city buzzed with life—or whatever passed for it these days. Above the distant hum of machinery and hollow laughter, a storm rumbled, low and ominous, shaking the thin walls of his hideout.

He didn't care.

Let the storm come. Let the whole damn city fall. Nothing it took from him could be replaced. Not anymore.

His fingers tightened around the skeletal frame of his invention, a half-finished amalgam of wires, gears, and broken dreams. It didn't work. Of course, it didn't. Nothing he touched ever worked.

His mind wandered—not for the first time—to the memory he never wanted but couldn't forget. A child's laughter. A single, fleeting sound, bright and pure, so fragile it could shatter under the weight of silence.

He let the frame slip from his hands, the clang of metal on the concrete floor snapping him back to the present. The man rubbed at his face, exhaustion settling into his bones like a parasite.

Another failure. Another day. Another storm.

The air shifted, sudden and heavy, like the storm outside had found a way in. He turned, slowly, his gaze falling to the sliver of light creeping beneath the workshop door. A shadow passed, and then came the knock.

It wasn't loud—just three measured taps—but it carried a weight that made his chest tighten. He stared at the door, unmoving, as if his stillness could make it disappear.

"Elias Verdan," a voice called from the other side. Calm. Too calm.

He didn't answer.

"You're harder to find than I expected," the voice continued. "But not impossible."

The storm outside growled, the wind rattling the loose boards of his windows. Elias felt it like a challenge, the world itself daring him to open the door.

He stayed where he was, his body tense, his mind racing. Whoever was out there knew his name. That was more than anyone should have known.

"I don't want to hurt you," the voice said, softer now. Almost kind. "But you and I both know that's not up to me."

The door creaked open before he realized he'd moved, his hand gripping the edge like it might break.

The figure standing there was a stranger, cloaked in the dim light of the storm. They didn't step inside—just stood there, dripping rain onto the threshold, face obscured by a hood.

"I know what you're looking for," they said. No introduction. No hesitation.

Elias didn't speak.

"And I know who took it."

His chest tightened, anger and something else—something darker—coiling in his gut.

The stranger reached into their cloak and pulled something out. A small, black device, no larger than a coin, its surface smooth and polished. They held it out, but Elias didn't take it.

"This will get you into Sector Twelve," the stranger said. "Tomorrow night. Midnight."

Elias stared at the device, his mind a thousand steps ahead and yet nowhere at all. The storm raged behind the stranger, the wind tearing at their hood and revealing nothing of their features.

"Why?" he asked finally, his voice hoarse.

"Because I need you," the stranger said, turning to leave. "And because you've already decided what you're willing to lose."

The door closed, leaving Elias in the suffocating silence of his workshop.

He stared at the device on the floor where the stranger had dropped it, its black surface reflecting the storm's fractured light. Slowly, he bent down, picking it up with fingers that no longer trembled.

The laughter echoed in his mind again, soft and fleeting. Fragile.

He crushed the thought as quickly as it came. There was no room for it. Not anymore.

Elias's fingers brushed against the cold, smooth surface of the device, his mind unraveling the stranger's parting words. What you're willing to lose. The phrase clung to him like oil, sinking into the cracks of his resolve. What did they know about loss? About what had already been taken?

The storm outside howled louder, the wind driving rain against the thin walls of his hideout. Somewhere in the distance, the faint, distorted cries of people echoed—caught in the chaos of the memory storm. It wasn't uncommon for fragments of lost lives to escape during storms like this, memories seeking owners who no longer existed.

He turned the device in his hands, its polished surface catching the pale light of his flickering interface. It was nothing more than a coin-sized tool, unassuming and silent. And yet, it felt heavier than anything he'd ever held.

His hand tightened around it.

A knock, sharp and sudden, shattered the quiet.

Not at the door this time. It came from the boarded-up window behind him.

Elias froze, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he turned, his pulse pounding in his ears. The boards rattled as something heavy pressed against them. Then came the sound—a voice, muffled and wrong.

"Elias," it said, stretching the syllables like they were trying to remember how to speak.

His blood ran cold.

It wasn't the stranger. It wasn't anyone he knew. And yet, the voice…

The boards creaked again, the pressure growing, until a sliver of light broke through. The faint outline of a hand—a small hand—pressed against the gap.

"Let me in," the voice whispered, trembling with something too close to laughter.

He stumbled back, his mind reeling. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be. The laughter echoed again, soft and fleeting, a haunting imitation of the sound etched into his soul.

A memory.

The storm outside surged, rattling the workshop as though it might tear the building apart. He moved without thinking, grabbing a long wrench from the workbench. His grip was white-knuckled, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.

The voice came again, louder this time. "Elias. Don't you remember?"

The wrench slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor.

He did remember.

The hand vanished from the gap, and for a moment, there was only silence. Then, with a deafening crash, the boards splintered inward, and the window shattered, flooding the workshop with rain and wind. Elias shielded his face as shards of glass scattered across the floor.

When he looked up, the figure standing in the broken frame was…

Her.

The air left his lungs. His knees buckled, but he didn't fall, his body locked in place by the sheer impossibility of what he was seeing.

She was smaller than he remembered, her frame fragile and thin, but her face was unmistakable. The same wide eyes, the same hesitant smile. Her hair clung to her face, soaked from the rain, and her voice…

"Why did you forget me?" she asked, her words cutting through him like a blade.

He couldn't speak. Couldn't move.

She stepped forward, her bare feet crunching over the broken glass. "You let them take me," she said, her voice cracking. "You let them erase me."

"No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "No, I—"

She stopped inches from him, her head tilting to one side. And then, just as suddenly, her face shifted. The soft smile twisted into something sharp and cruel. Her eyes darkened, empty voids where life had once been.

"You let them take me," she hissed, her voice no longer her own.

The storm surged again, and Elias stumbled back, his heart racing. He blinked, and she was gone. The workshop was empty, save for the wind and rain spilling through the broken window.

His chest heaved, his mind a chaotic spiral of confusion and fear. The device in his hand felt impossibly heavy now, as if it bore the weight of everything he couldn't carry.

He turned it over, his thumb brushing the edge. It clicked, and a faint projection shimmered into existence—a map, glowing faintly in the darkness.

Sector Twelve. Midnight.

The storm roared outside, and for the first time in years, Elias felt something more than grief.

It wasn't hope.

It was rage.

And this time, he wouldn't let them take anything more.