The first thing he felt was cold grit between his teeth.
He spat, coughed, opened his eyes.
Gray light. Wind. Something sharp tugged at his cheek. A brittle branch swayed just above his face, its blackened twigs clawing at the sky like fingers long since stripped of flesh. Around him, trees stood in broken rows, their trunks twisted and charred, their roots drinking nothing but dust. An orchard, or what had once been one. It smelled of old smoke and dry earth.
He sat up slowly.
Pain bloomed behind his eyes like ink in water. His head throbbed, but not from injury—it was emptier than that. Hollow. He looked down at his hands. Pale. Callused. There were scratches on his arms, like he'd run through brambles. His clothes were plain, patched, and unfamiliar. He checked his pockets—nothing.
He couldn't remember who he was.
Not just his name. Everything. Every scrap of memory that made up the shape of a life—gone.
He stood, unsteady. The wind tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling him forward. Somewhere in the distance, a low bell tolled. He turned toward it.
The village rose behind a ridge of dead trees, low stone buildings nestled like bones beneath a shroud of ash. Thin trails of smoke curled from crooked chimneys. A scattering of figures moved between houses—gray smudges in the haze. As he approached, the path changed: smooth stone worn by time, patterned with symbols he couldn't read. They pulsed faintly beneath his feet. Familiar and not.
A dog barked once. Then silence.
The first villager he saw was an old man, hunched beneath a stack of firewood. The man paused mid-step, stared. His eyes narrowed.
"Another one," the man muttered. Then louder: "Hey! Boy! You from the south? Did you cross the Veil?"
He opened his mouth to answer—and realized he had no voice to give.
The man scowled. "Figures."
Others appeared—drawn to the sight of him like crows to meat. A woman with a pale scarf over her mouth. Two boys with tools in their belts. A girl with a slingshot in her hand. They formed a loose ring around him, not close enough to touch, but close enough to see.
"He's clean," said one.
"Too clean. No burns."
"No name, either," someone whispered.
He shook his head. "I don't… I don't know."
They flinched. Not at his words, but at the way he said them. As if the voice alone was dangerous.
From the back of the crowd, someone stepped forward.
A girl—maybe his age, maybe a little older. Dark hair braided over one shoulder, strange golden thread woven through it. Her eyes were sharp. Not unkind. But sharp, like she'd already guessed something the others hadn't.
She looked at him like she knew him.
"Let him breathe," she said. "He's just come through."
The villagers hesitated, then backed off, grumbling.
She walked up to him. "Do you remember your name?"
He opened his mouth again, but nothing came.
She nodded. "That's all right. Most don't."
He stared at her. "What is this place?"
Her answer was quiet.
"This is Merrow's Edge. The last village before the Oblivion Zone. People like you... wash up here sometimes."
"People like me?"
"Forgotten. Scrubbed clean. Like chalk after rain."
He swallowed.
"Can you help me?"
She didn't smile. But she didn't look away.
"I might."
And just like that, she turned and started walking.
"Come on," she said over her shoulder. "Before someone decides to burn you."
He followed.