Lyra's POV
The scream tears from my throat before I'm even fully awake.
My body jerks upright in bed, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Sweat plasters my nightgown to my skin. My hands shake as I press them against my face, trying to catch my breath, trying to remember what I just saw.
Nothing. There's nothing there.
The dream is already gone, slipping through my fingers like water. I know I saw something terrifying—my racing pulse and the tears on my cheeks prove it—but I can't remember what. I never can.
"Not again," I whisper into the darkness.
Then the pain hits.
My left wrist explodes with burning heat. I gasp and clutch it to my chest, watching through watery eyes as the mark etched into my skin begins to glow. Silver light pulses beneath the strange symbols that circle my wrist like a bracelet made of stars and thorns.
This is my curse mark. My constant companion. My prison.
It always burns when I try too hard to remember. It's like my own body is punishing me for wanting to know who I was before I woke up three years ago with nothing but my name and this glowing brand.
I force myself to breathe slowly, counting each breath until the burning fades to a dull ache. The light dims but doesn't disappear completely. It never does anymore.
Three years. I've lived for three years without a past, without memories, without knowing if anyone out there is looking for me. For all I know, I could be someone's daughter, someone's sister, someone's best friend. Or I could be nobody at all.
Some days, not knowing feels worse than any nightmare.
I slide out of bed and cross to the small mirror hanging on my wall. The girl staring back looks tired. My silver-blonde hair is a tangled mess around my shoulders. My violet eyes are too wide, too haunted. I'm twenty-five, supposedly, but sometimes I feel ancient. Other times I feel like a newborn, only three years old—the age of my oldest memory.
The mark glows brighter when I stare at it too long, so I look away.
I need to get ready for work. People are counting on me.
That's the strangest part of all this—I might not remember my own life, but I can preserve everyone else's. I'm a memory keeper, someone who can pull precious moments from people's minds and trap them in crystals so they'll never fade. It's a gift, people tell me. A blessing.
It feels like a cruel joke.
I dress quickly in a simple blue dress and tie my hair back with a ribbon. My small cottage is quiet as I move through it, preparing tea and bread for breakfast. Everything here is mine—earned through three years of hard work—but nothing feels like it truly belongs to me. How can it, when I don't even belong to myself?
The walk to my shop takes ten minutes through Thornhaven's winding streets. The village is waking up around me. Merchants open their shutters. Children chase each other between houses. Mrs. Chen sweeps her front step and waves at me with a warm smile.
I wave back, forcing my own smile to match hers.
They all think they know me. Lyra the memory keeper. Lyra the helpful girl with the mysterious past. Lyra who arrived three years ago and never talks about where she came from.
None of them know how empty I feel inside.
My shop sits at the corner of Market Street, a cozy building with a painted sign showing a glowing crystal. I unlock the door and step inside, breathing in the familiar scent of candle wax and magic. Shelves line every wall, filled with crystals of different sizes. Each one holds someone's treasured memory—first kisses, wedding days, a child's first steps, final words from a dying parent.
I run my fingers along a shelf, feeling the warmth of the preserved moments. At least I can give people this. At least I can help them keep what I've lost.
The bell above my door chimes.
"You look terrible," my best friend Seris announces, breezing in with a basket. "When's the last time you actually slept?"
"Good morning to you too." I can't help but smile. Seris is the only person in the world who knows how bad things really are.
She sets the basket on my counter—fresh pastries, still warm. "Nightmares again?"
I nod, pulling up my sleeve to show her the mark. It's brighter than usual this morning, the silver light pulsing steadily like a heartbeat.
Seris's dark eyes narrow with concern. "That's spreading, Lyra. Look—there are new lines here and here." She traces the air above my wrist, not quite touching. "This isn't normal."
"Nothing about me is normal."
"True, but this is worse." She looks up at me, worry creasing her forehead. "What if the curse is growing? What if it takes more than just your old memories? What if it takes everything?"
The fear I've been pushing down all morning surges up my throat. "It won't. It can't. I won't let it."
But even as I say the words, I know I'm lying. I have no control over this curse. I never have.
Seris opens her mouth to respond, but the bell chimes again.
An old woman enters, clutching a handkerchief. I recognize her immediately—Mrs. Ashford, whose husband died last month. She's been putting off this visit, but I knew she'd come eventually.
"Hello, dear," she says softly. "I'm ready. I want to save them before they fade. All my memories of Thomas. Fifty-two years' worth."
My heart aches for her. "Of course. Please, sit."
Seris squeezes my shoulder and quietly leaves us alone.
I take Mrs. Ashford's weathered hand in mine, select a large crystal from my shelf, and close my eyes. Magic rises in my chest—the one thing I know how to do instinctively. I focus on her love for Thomas, and slowly, gently, I pull.
Memories flow from her mind into mine like warm honey. Thomas's laugh. The way he brought her flowers every Friday. Dancing in their kitchen. Growing old together. I guide each precious moment into the crystal, watching it fill with golden light.
When I'm finished, Mrs. Ashford is crying and smiling at the same time.
"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you for giving him back to me."
She leaves with her crystal clutched to her chest, and I'm alone again with the ghosts of someone else's happiness lingering in my mind.
This is my life. Surrounded by everyone's memories but my own.
I'm closing up the shop that evening when the feeling hits me.
It's like someone reached into my chest and yanked. Hard.
I stumble, catching myself against the doorframe. My curse mark explodes with light—brighter than it's ever been, so bright I have to shield my eyes. Heat races up my arm and across my chest.
But it's not just pain this time. It's something else.
Recognition.
My head snaps up, and I scan the darkening street. My heart knows something my mind doesn't. Someone is coming. Someone important. Someone who's going to change everything.
The feeling intensifies until I can barely breathe. My whole body trembles.
Then I see him.
A tall man steps around the corner at the far end of the street. Even from this distance, I can see he moves like a soldier—purposeful, dangerous, controlled. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. He's dressed for travel, weapons visible at his belt.
Our eyes meet across the empty street.
Time stops.
My curse mark burns so hot I cry out, dropping to my knees. But I can't look away from him. His face has gone completely white, like he's seen a ghost.
He takes one step toward me. Then another. His hand reaches out.
And suddenly, impossibly, a single word whispers through my mind—a voice I don't recognize but somehow know better than my own:
"Find me in every lifetime."
The world tilts. Darkness rushes in.
The last thing I see before I collapse is the stranger breaking into a run, his face twisted with emotions I can't name, his lips forming a single word I can't hear.
My name.
But not the name I know.