It wasn't a big day. Not one of the ones you circle on a calendar or remember because someone took pictures. Just a Tuesday. Maybe March. Maybe not.
The cafeteria was too loud; the kind of loud that made your thoughts feel like static. I was wearing that gray hoodie—threadbare, thumb holes starting to tear. She always said it made me look like I'd given up.
But she was still there, tray in hand, eyes already rolling before I even sat down.
"You're late," she said. No smile. Not yet.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Was helping Mr. Lindstrom carry books."
"Wow. You really are the hero of broken-spined textbooks."
I smiled. Not much. Just enough for her to notice and look away like it didn't matter.
We ate fast. Didn't talk about classes. Didn't need to. Her boot tapped under the table. I matched it with mine. No reason. Just rhythm.
Then she said, out of nowhere, "Promise me something."
I looked up. Her fingers were fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. Not pulling, not tugging—just holding.
"Don't forget me," she said.
It hit too clean.
"What?" I asked, even though I'd heard her.
She shook her head like she wanted to laugh, like it was a joke, but her eyes didn't match. "I mean it. You're gonna leave this town eventually. Or it'll leave you. Either way… just don't forget this."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I wouldn't."
"Promise."
"I promise."
She held out her pinky. Like we were five. Like we hadn't already broken a thousand small things between us.
I linked it. Held on a second too long.
The cafeteria buzzed. Somewhere, someone dropped a tray.
And I remembered thinking: if this moment ever came back to me, I wanted it exactly like this. Not fixed. Not perfect. Just hers. Just mine.
I was still holding her pinky when the world cracked.
—————
Tears hit my collar before I realized I was crying.
Fast. No warning. Like the memory had ripped something open on its way out.
"Grab a hold of your emotions," Morana said sharply. Not cruel. Just close.
I shook my head. My voice came out thin.
"I can't… I don't…"
The light in the scar surged.
Then the bubble broke.
The air slammed back into place like a door too heavy to stay open. My chest heaved once.
Twice. Then I was on my knees.
Morana sat in front of me. Legs crossed.
Hands on her knees.
She didn't scold me. Didn't flinch.
Just looked at me. Quiet.
Her eyes weren't soft, but they weren't hard either. She was here.
And for a second, that mattered more than anything I'd remembered.
The wind passed around us, carrying nothing but the sound of someone trying not to fall apart.
Me.
And Morana—still watching—waited.
Not for me to stop crying.
Just for me to start seeing.
She didn't say anything at first. Just watched.
The way someone watches a fire they didn't light.
Not afraid of it. Just... waiting to see what it turns into.
I wiped at my face with the sleeve of the wrong hoodie. It didn't help. The tears weren't even warm anymore—just salt and regret and muscle memory.
Morana shifted, just enough to let me know she wasn't leaving.
"I didn't know it'd hurt like that," I said. My voice cracked. Didn't care.
"You remembered something real," she replied. "It always hurts."
I nodded. A little too fast. Tried to ground myself with breath, but it came shallow. Off-rhythm.
"She—uh. She said not to forget. I told her I wouldn't." I looked at my hands. They weren't shaking anymore, just tight. "I think I already did."
Morana didn't correct me. She let it sit there—ugly and true.
Then: "That promise stayed. Even if you didn't remember making it."
I looked at her. "So what does that mean? That she's stuck here too? Because I broke it?"
"No," she said. "Just means it mattered."
The wind moved through the grass behind her, soft and aimless. Like it was listening too.
I let the silence stretch. This one didn't feel dangerous. Just wide. Like it was leaving room for me to breathe again.
Morana tilted her head, studying me. "You're carrying too much."
"I don't know how to let go."
"Then learn how to hold it better," she said. "Start small."
She closed her eyes. Drew in a breath, slow and even. Held it. Let it go like she was exhaling more than air.
I mirrored her. Not well, but I tried. Breathed in through my nose. Let the shake come out with the exhale.
"Again," she said.
I did.
My heartbeat stopped clawing at my ribs. The world didn't tilt so hard. I could still feel the ache, but it wasn't trying to eat me from the inside out.
She opened her eyes. "Good."
I nodded, breath catching on the way down. "Can I go back?"
A pause. Barely noticeable.
Morana nodded once.
She reached into her coat. Pulled something small, familiar, wrong. Not the key. Not the cloth. Just a shape—memory-shaped.
She set it gently between us.
"Breathe in," she said. "Let it take you."
I did.
The world folded in, slow this time.
Like it had learned how to be kind.
The ground dimmed beneath me.
The air shifted again.
A ceiling fan.
Spinning.
Too slow for summer.
Someone was singing along to a half-working radio.
And I was twelve.
Still holding the phone I wasn't supposed to answer.
Still hearing the voice on the other end say my name like it was the last time.
"Katsunori?"
The voice on the other end was low. Not scratchy or rushed, just… unsure. Like it was testing the name before it said anything else.
I hesitated. The phone cord was wrapped tight around my wrist, too tight, like I needed to anchor myself to something.
"...Yes? My mommy is busy right now and she said she'll call you—"
There was a pause. One of those long ones that makes the silence feel heavier than the words.
"Son… it's your father. Ray."
My fingers curled tighter around the plastic. Not out of fear. Not exactly.
Just instinct.
"I thought you weren't calling anymore," I said. The sentence came out wrong. Too careful for a twelve-year-old. Too rehearsed.
Another pause. Breathing, distant and shaky.
"I needed to hear your voice," he said finally.
I looked at the fridge. It was covered in magnets and post-its and one of those glitter-glue art projects I made in third grade that still hadn't peeled off all the way. The kitchen light flickered, faint. Like it knew something I didn't.
"Is Mom okay?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away.
"Is she sick?"
"No—no, she's not sick," he said, quickly. "She's just… tired. I'm sure she's been working a lot."
I waited. He didn't fill in the silence.
So I said, "She cries in the bathroom. I heard her."
A quiet inhale on the other end.
Then, softer, "She doesn't mean for you to hear that."
I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. "She talks to someone named Melissa. She says you broke things."
The line went quiet again. But not the good kind of quiet.
"I did," he said eventually. "I broke a lot."
My voice felt too small. "Did you break me?"
I don't know why I asked that. I don't think I knew what it meant yet. But the question came out anyway.
And he didn't answer.
I could hear something behind him—wind maybe, or traffic. A hum like distance.
"Katsunori," he said, firmer now. "I need you to listen to me."
I sat down on the floor. Pressed my back against the cabinets. "Okay."
"I'm not supposed to be calling. Your mom didn't want me to… and she's probably right. But I couldn't—"
He cut himself off.
I heard him swallow. Or maybe I imagined it.
"I miss you, kid," he said. "I miss your drawings. Your weird robot voice. The way you'd wait up for me, even when you were too tired to keep your eyes open."
My throat went tight. I tried to make my voice sound normal. "I still draw."
"I know."
"You don't."
"You're right. I don't. But I believe you."
I stared at the cracked tile beneath the kitchen table. One of the corners had chipped last winter. I used to pretend it was a portal if you stepped on it the right way.
"Are you ever coming back?"
The question sat there. Too raw. Too big for either of us.
He didn't lie. That hurt more than anything.
"I don't know," he said. "I want to. But wanting… it doesn't fix what I broke."
Something inside me curled up and didn't come out.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Anything."
"Why did you stop being my dad?"
A sharp breath on the other end. No words. No excuses.
Just breath.
I think I heard him cry. Not loudly. Not sobbing. Just… a leak in the voice. A sound like a tired window letting in rain.
"I never stopped," he said.
But he had.
And I think I already knew that.
"I gotta go," I whispered. I wasn't sure if I meant the phone or the whole thing.
"Katsu," he said quickly. "Wait—"
But I hung up before he could finish.
The dial tone hummed in the receiver. I didn't put it back. Just let it dangle.
Outside the window, a neighbor's porchlight blinked on.
I stared at the phone cord still wrapped around my wrist.
Didn't untangle it.
Didn't move.
Didn't cry.
Just sat there.
Until the world folded again—
And the scar remembered something I hadn't meant to give it.
I opened my eyes. My hand was already reaching before I realized it—closing around the memory like it was something solid.
It shifted against my palm, warm and restless.
Morana's breath caught. Not fear. Just… surprise.
"…Good," she said carefully. "Now shape it. Make it what you need. A dagger, a glider—something that pushes you forward."
I didn't answer. Just raised my other hand and pulled.
The memory stretched, thin and threadlike at first—then longer, heavier. I guided it downward, pulling mana with each breath. The end curved sharp as it formed, an edge folding out with a soft hum.
I shaped it into a polearm. Then a blade. Then a hook.
It didn't glow at first. Not until I let my eyes close, and the intent settled in my bones.
Light.
Green.
For a second, everything held still. Like the world was watching.
It dissolved.
Quiet.
Gone.
The scar didn't react right away.
Then slowly, from the broken center—the shape rebuilt itself. The scythe returned, forged not from memory, but by it.
It pulsed that same green again.
I never liked the color.
But maybe that's why it fits.
Morana watched it finish forming—watched the green light settle into something sharp and real. The scythe didn't hum, didn't burn. It just was, like it had always been waiting to exist.
She exhaled, almost like she'd been holding her breath without knowing.
"Good job," she said.
It wasn't praise, not exactly. Just… recognition. Like she'd seen a dozen Strays try and fail to do what I just did, and now she wasn't so sure I'd break the same way.
I looked at her. "That was real, right? It wasn't just in my head."
She nodded once. "Real enough to cut."
I let the scythe rest against the ground. It didn't fade. Didn't flicker. The green glow dulled to a low pulse, steady—like a heartbeat I could hold.
"It's not just a weapon," Morana said. "It's an anchor. You made it out of what tried to unmake you."
I turned the handle in my palm. It fit. Uncomfortably so.
"You said I was the first to do it on instinct," I said.
"You were," she replied. "That's not always a good thing."
I glanced at the scar. It hadn't closed. But it wasn't pulling anymore either. Just watching.
Waiting.
"Then what now?"
Morana's smile faded, but it didn't vanish. "Now we see how long it lets you keep it."
She stepped forward. Touched the flat of the blade with two fingers. Not afraid. Just familiar.
"Use it when the memory tries to drag you under," she said. "Not to fight it. To mark the way through."
I nodded.
Somewhere behind us, the wind started moving again. Not fast. Not loud. Just enough to carry the weight of something that had stayed still too long.
I looked at her one more time.
"Can we keep going?"
Morana tilted her head, gaze slipping back toward the scar.
"Yeah," she said. "But this time, you lead."
And I did.