Elias followed the young woman down the quiet street, her pace brisk despite the heavy stillness in the air. Morning light washed the town in pale silver, revealing more details than the night had offered—none of them comforting.
Shops sat with their doors half-open, as if waiting for customers who never came. A newspaper lay in a gutter, the ink smeared, the date missing entirely from the header. A single crow perched on a lamppost watched them without blinking.
The girl didn't speak until they turned a corner and slipped behind an abandoned bakery where the smell of old flour lingered like a memory refusing to fade.
Only then did she face him, clutching her locket as though it were keeping her tethered to the earth.
"My name is Mara," she said, voice low. You also need to realize that the town forgot about you because that's what it does. It forgets people… until there's nothing left of them to remember."
Elias stared at her, trying to fit her words into a reasonable explanation. None came.
"The innkeeper spoke to me last night," he insisted. "She gave me a key. I slept there."
Mara shook her head. "No. You slept there, but she gave you nothing. The town sometimes lets you act unnoticed before it erases the moment." Her eyes narrowed. "Did you hear anything strange while you slept? Footsteps, maybe?"
A chill edged down his spine. "Yes."
Mara exhaled sharply, as if she had expected the answer and feared it. "Then it's already interested in you."
Elias ran a hand through his hair. "Interested? What is this place?"
Mara looked away, jaw tightening. "A mistake."
Silence settled between them, thick and uneasy.
Elias pulled out his journal and wrote:
The girl remembers me. The town doesn't. Why?
When he looked up, Mara was watching him. Not with suspicion—more like pity.
"You keep a journal," she said. "Good. Don't stop. It's the only way you'll know who you are when things start slipping."
"I'm not planning on forgetting myself," Elias replied, forcing a steadiness he didn't feel.
"No one plans to," Mara whispered.
A sudden movement caught Elias's eye. Across the street, Sheriff Alder stood by his patrol car, its lights off, his expression unreadable. He seemed to be studying them, though his gaze slid past Elias as if he were nothing more than a shadow.
Mara stiffened. "Don't talk to him."
"Why?"
"Because he'll forget the conversation anyway. And because he'll pretend he remembers you, even when he doesn't. The town uses him like a voice."
Elias looked again at the sheriff. Alder's posture was too still, too perfect—like a man waiting for a cue. The moment Elias took a step, the sheriff lifted a hand in a gesture that seemed polite… and oddly rehearsed.
"Let's go," Mara urged.
They walked away until Alder and his empty stare vanished behind the rows of buildings.
Mara led him through a narrow alley that twisted behind the town square. Weeds grew in perfect lines, as if arranged. The air felt colder here, heavier.
Finally, she stopped near a rusted bench beneath a tree with bark that peeled like old paper.
"You deserve an explanation," she said.
Elias crossed his arms. "That would help."
Mara sighed. "The town doesn't remember people who don't belong here. Visitors fade quickly. First from conversations. Then from faces. Then from existence." She swallowed hard. "I've watched it happen."
"You said they've already forgotten me," Elias said. "But you still remember."
Her grip on the locket tightened until her knuckles whitened. "I remember everyone. That's the problem."
He frowned. "Problem?"
"The town… avoids me. It doesn't use me. It doesn't erase me. And it never lets me leave." She stepped back, creating a small, fearful distance between them. "Seven years I've been stuck here, Elias."
His name sounded strange coming from her lips—like she was anchoring him to something invisible.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
""Because you arrived already broken," she whispered. "People like you—people carrying grief—are the ones the town keeps the longest. It likes minds that are already fraying at the edges."
Elias stiffened. "You don't know anything about me."
"I don't have to," Mara replied. "I've seen enough travelers like you come through here. Looking for quiet. Hoping to disappear." She paused. "And this place gives them exactly that."
Elias looked away, jaw tightening. She wasn't wrong. Not entirely.
"Tell me how to leave," he said.
Mara's expression collapsed—a mixture of regret and dread. "If I knew how, I'd be gone."
Before Elias could respond, a soft scraping sound rose behind them—metal dragging across pavement.
Both turned.
The bench they had just passed was shifting.
Not sliding. Not tipping.
Rearranging itself.
Its legs twisted a few inches to the left, then straightened. Like something beneath it had nudged it aside.
Elias felt cold seep through him.
Mara grabbed his wrist. "We need to move."
They hurried down the nearest path, their footsteps echoing unnaturally loud. The sky above dimmed, as though a cloud had passed—but the sky was clear.
When they finally reached an open stretch of road, Mara stopped, breath shaky.
"That's the first sign," she whispered. "When objects start noticing you." She looked directly into his eyes. "You need to understand: forgetting is only the beginning."
Elias swallowed hard. His reflection in a nearby shop window looked pale, stretched thinner somehow. The longer he stared, the less familiar it felt.
He turned away sharply.
"Mara," he said, voice low. "What happens if the town forgets me completely?"
She hesitated, locket trembling in her grip.
Then she whispered the words he didn't want to hear:
"You disappear… long before you realize you're gone.