Forks did not have many options.
That became clear very quickly.
Charlie made calls. A lot of them. He spoke quietly at his desk while Mame sat on a bench near the wall, listening to the murmur of adult decisions being made about his life as if he were not there.
No foster placement available on short notice.No emergency housing open this late.The nearest group home was full.The next closest one was hours away.
Each answer tightened something in Mame's chest.
He did not want to be sent away.
The thought came with surprising intensity. He had no memory of Forks before today, yet the idea of leaving it made his stomach sink. Like missing a step in the dark.
Charlie hung up the phone and rubbed his face. "Well," he muttered, "that's about what I expected."
Mame shifted. "That bad?"
Charlie glanced over at him. "Not bad. Just inconvenient." He hesitated, then added, "For the system. Not you."
That helped. A little.
Charlie checked the clock. Late afternoon now. The rain outside had eased into a steady drizzle that painted the windows gray.
"I don't like the idea of putting you in a motel," Charlie said. "Especially not alone. And paperwork for anything official won't move until Monday."
Mame nodded slowly. "I can sleep on a bench," he offered. "I've been doing great with roads lately."
Charlie snorted despite himself. "Yeah. Not happening."
He leaned back in his chair, thinking. Mame watched him, suddenly aware of how strange this situation was. A few hours ago, he had been dying in a bed. Now he was sitting in a police station, discussing where he would live.
Charlie exhaled. "Alright."
Mame looked up.
"You can stay with me," Charlie said. "Just for now. Temporary. Until we figure something better out."
Mame froze.
"With you?" he asked.
Charlie nodded. "I've got a spare room. It's clean enough. You'll have food, heat, and a place to sleep." He paused, studying Mame's expression. "That okay with you?"
Okay was not the word for it.
The sense of rightness hit him so suddenly it almost hurt. Like something clicking into place that had been loose for a long time. He swallowed, unsure why his throat felt tight.
"I don't want to be a problem," he said.
Charlie waved a hand dismissively. "Kid, I live alone. The most trouble you can cause is eating all my cereal."
Mame hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."
Charlie stood. "Good. Let's get you out of here."
The drive was quiet.
Charlie's cruiser hummed steadily as they rolled through town. Forks passed by in muted colors. Small shops. Wet sidewalks. A diner with lights glowing warmly through fogged windows.
Mame watched it all with an odd sense of familiarity. Like seeing a place from a dream after waking up.
Charlie parked in front of a modest house at the edge of town. Two stories. White siding. A porch that looked like it had seen a lot of rain.
"This is it," Charlie said. "Home."
Home.
The word echoed strangely in Mame's head.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of coffee and wood polish. It was quiet. Lived in, but simple. Charlie gestured toward the stairs.
"Bathroom's upstairs. Spare room's on the right. You can shower if you want. Towels are clean."
Mame nodded, setting his backpack down carefully. "Thank you."
Charlie paused at the bottom of the stairs. "We'll talk more tomorrow," he said. "You've had enough for one day."
Mame managed a small smile. "Yeah. That sounds good."
As he climbed the stairs, exhaustion finally caught up to him. Not the crushing kind from the road, but something heavier and deeper. The kind that came after surviving something.
He closed the door to the spare room and sat on the bed.
For the first time since waking up on the asphalt, he felt safe.
Which somehow made the quiet worse.
Because whatever had planned his arrival in Forks had done a very good job.
And now, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
Sleep did not come easily.
Mame lay on his back, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, listening to the soft sounds of the house settling around him. Pipes clicked somewhere in the walls. The rain tapped gently against the window. Downstairs, Charlie moved about, the muted clink of dishes and the low murmur of a television barely audible.
It should have been comforting.
It was not.
Every time he closed his eyes, his body tensed, as if waiting for something it could not name. The bed was soft, clean, safe. His heart beat steadily. Nothing hurt.
And yet.
He rolled onto his side and exhaled slowly. "Just sleep," he whispered. "Nothing else is going to happen tonight."
The moment the words left his mouth, a sound echoed inside his head.
A soft ding.
Not loud. Not external. It did not come from the room or the house or anywhere his ears could trace. It rang directly through him, clean and precise, like a bell struck inside his bones.
His body froze.
Every muscle locked at once. His breath caught halfway in, chest tight, limbs refusing to move. Cold flooded his veins, sharp and absolute, as if his blood had turned to ice.
Then a voice spoke.
Not aloud.
Inside him.
"Sync complete. A host has now found living arrangements and a safe location."
His eyes were wide, unblinking, staring into the darkness.
"What," he tried to say.
No sound came out.
The voice continued, calm and emotionless.
"Syncing system to soul now. Uploading."
Something pressed against his awareness.
Not pain. Not exactly. It felt like information sliding into place, like invisible threads weaving themselves through his thoughts, anchoring to something deeper than memory.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
"I'm not dreaming," he thought desperately. "I'm not dreaming."
"Synchronization at sixty percent," the voice said. "Memory instability detected. Gradual restoration protocol engaged."
Images flickered at the edges of his mind. Not memories he recognized, but impressions. Symbols. A sense of rules waiting to be learned.
"System integration will complete during rest," the voice continued. "Do not resist."
Terror surged.
"I didn't agree to this," he thought. "I didn't ask for any of this."
There was no response.
The pressure eased just enough for his lungs to work again. He gasped, dragging in air, his body still trembling as sensation slowly returned to his fingers and toes.
The room was silent.
The house was quiet.
Nothing had changed.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, afraid to move, afraid that if he spoke again the voice would return.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
Not natural sleep, but something heavier, pulling him under whether he wanted it or not.
As his consciousness slipped away, a final message surfaced gently, almost kindly.
"Welcome, host."
Darkness closed in.
And far below the surface of his soul, something finished locking into place.
Mame dreamed.
But it was not the kind of dream with images or stories or faces.
It was weight.
He felt suspended, neither falling nor standing, aware of himself only as something present. Not a body. Not a thought. Just existence, stretched thin and held in place.
Lines of sensation passed through him. Faint pulses. A sense of alignment, like joints settling back into their proper sockets after being out of place for too long.
There was no voice this time.
Only structure.
Something deep inside him shifted, not violently, but decisively. As if a lock had finally found its key.
When he woke, it was morning.
Gray light filtered through the curtains, soft and muted, matching the steady drizzle tapping against the window. For a moment, he did not move. He did not breathe deeply. He simply lay there, cataloging sensations.
Warm blankets.A solid bed beneath him.A body that responded when he willed his fingers to twitch.
Good.
Very slowly, he sat up.
Nothing happened.
No voice. No freezing. No pressure in his skull.
"Okay," he whispered. "That's… good."
His heart was beating calmly. Too calmly, maybe, considering what he remembered. The word system lingered uncomfortably in his thoughts, like a splinter he could not quite reach.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The room was small but tidy. A dresser. A desk. Pale walls. A faint smell of detergent and old books. Someone had lived here once, long enough for the space to remember them.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror.
Black purple hair, dark as obsidian, still damp at the ends, with faint streaks of crimson and silver catching the low light. His eyes were the same shade, deep and reflective, unfamiliar in a way that made his stomach tighten.
"You look real," he told his reflection.
The reflection did not argue.
Downstairs, a sound drifted up. The clink of a spoon against a mug. The low murmur of a television.
Charlie was awake.
Mame hesitated, then forced himself to move. Each step down the stairs felt tentative, like he was testing whether the world would hold. It did.
The kitchen was warm. Charlie stood at the counter in a flannel shirt, back turned, stirring something that smelled like coffee.
"You sleep at all?" Charlie asked without turning around.
"I think so," Mame said. His voice sounded steadier than he felt. "Hard to tell lately."
Charlie snorted softly. "Fair."
He turned and glanced at Mame, then paused. "You look better than you did yesterday."
"I feel better," Mame admitted. He hesitated, then added, "Physically, at least."
Charlie nodded, accepting that without comment. "Coffee?"
"Please."
Charlie poured him a mug and slid it across the counter. Mame wrapped his hands around it, grateful for the warmth.
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then Charlie spoke again, casual but not careless. "We'll head into town later. School office opens this morning. We'll get you sorted."
Sorted.
The word landed with more weight than it should have.
"Charlie," Mame said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"If I start acting… strange," he paused, choosing his words carefully, "will you tell me?"
Charlie studied him over the rim of his mug. Not suspicious. Just thoughtful.
"Kid," he said, "you walked seventeen miles in the rain with no phone and no memory and didn't punch anyone. Strange is already on the list."
That earned a weak smile.
Charlie set his mug down. "I'll tell you. You tell me too, if something feels off."
Mame nodded. "Deal."
As he took another sip of coffee, a faint sensation stirred deep inside him.
Not a voice.
Not yet.
Just awareness.
Like something had opened its eyes.
And was waiting.