Even as he said it, fear crept in through the cracks. He tried to remember Erza's face, focusing on the details he loved most—her sharp violet eyes, the way she looked at him like the world might steal him away if she blinked.
The image wavered.
Her voice followed, distant now, like a memory heard through thick glass. His hand flew to his temple as panic surged.
"No, no," he muttered. "Don't do this. Don't take her from me."
His breathing grew ragged as realization hit him fully.
I'm forgetting her.
"I can't lose her," Yuuta whispered, his voice breaking as it scraped out of his throat. "I can't lose her face. I can't lose her voice."
The words barely reached the rain around him, but the terror behind them was real—raw and desperate. The thought of Erza fading completely, of her expression dissolving into nothing more than an empty ache, terrified him more than death ever could.
His body moved before his mind caught up.
Yuuta turned sharply toward the car and ran. His steps were uneven, frantic, splashing through mud and rain as though the ground itself were trying to slow him down. Behind him, Allen stood frozen, stunned by the sudden shift. He felt it clearly now—the instability in his master's presence, the way Yuuta's sanity was beginning to fracture under the pressure of rewritten reality.
Allen did not chase him.
He only watched silently, rain soaking through his clothes, as Yuuta slammed the car door shut and tore away from the graveyard.
The engine screamed as the vehicle surged forward, the speed climbing recklessly. One hundred. One ten. One twenty-five.
Yuuta's hands clenched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles burned. His vision blurred—not from the rain, but from the panic flooding his mind. He wasn't afraid of dying. Not anymore. Death felt distant, meaningless compared to what was happening inside his head.
Time was running out.
Memories slipped away with every passing second. Nova—gone. Names, places, promises Erza had once whispered to him—all erased as if they had never existed. He tried to cling to them, repeating fragments aloud, but even the sound of his own voice felt unreliable.
By the time Nyro City came into view, his chest felt hollow.
Yuuta slammed the brakes too late, parking crookedly in front of the house. He barely waited for the engine to die before throwing the door open and rushing toward the entrance. His hands fumbled at the handle, shaking violently.
Locked.
"I don't have time," he muttered, breath hitching.
Without hesitation, he smashed the window. Glass shattered inward, scattering across the floor as he climbed through, ignoring the cuts biting into his skin. Pain didn't matter. Nothing did—except reaching the bedroom before more of her disappeared.
He sprinted through the hall, footsteps echoing too loudly in the silent house, then burst into the bedroom.
The bedroom door slammed open as he rushed inside, nearly stumbling over his own feet. He dropped to the floor and pulled open the drawer beneath the bed, hands shaking as he searched frantically.
Notebooks.
Loose papers.
A pen.
Relief crashed into him so hard his body sagged with it. He remembered now. He had planned for this possibility, even if he hadn't truly believed he would ever need it.
Yuuta sat on the floor and began to write.
He didn't slow down. He didn't care about neatness. His hand moved as if his life depended on it—because it did.
Her name is Erza Konuari.
She is my wife.
She is real.
If you don't remember her, it means something was taken from you, Future Yuuta.
Yuuta wrote until his wrist ached and his vision blurred.
He wrote about dragons—about a world beyond this one, where the sky burned with unfamiliar stars and power flowed like breath when Erza realised Aura. He wrote about the Nova world, Her family, Grandpa, about laws that bent instead of breaking, and about Zani particles—how they were said to exist outside cause and effect, how they could rewrite destiny itself if mishandled.
He wrote about Erza.
About the way she spoke his name when she thought he was asleep. About the night she cried in his arms, trembling despite all her strength, whispering that she was afraid of losing him. About the way she looked at him then—not like a queen, not like a dragon, but like someone desperately clinging to a fragile future.
Page after page filled beneath his shaking hand.
Dates. Places. Fragmented memories. Half-formed theories. Anything that felt solid enough to anchor him to the truth. Anything that might survive whatever was eating away at his world.
Time slipped past him unnoticed.
Several Hours passed without him realizing it. The light outside the window shifted slowly, shadows stretching across the room, but Yuuta did not stop. He barely blinked. His fingers trembled violently, cramps crawling up his arm, yet he forced himself to continue.
This wasn't the first time he had written like this.
He remembered—vaguely—that he had once kept a diary before. A precaution. A lifeline for a future version of himself. But after Erza's rampage, after everything spiraled out of control, he had stopped. Now, with her gone and reality bending into something unrecognizable, he picked it up again as if his life depended on it.
Because it did.
The words began to blur near the end. His handwriting grew uneven, letters slanting sharply, ink bleeding into the paper as his grip tightened. Panic pressed against his chest, a suffocating weight that refused to ease.
And then the thought struck him.
What if the spell didn't stop at people?
What if it could rewrite objects too?
Yuuta froze mid-sentence.
His gaze dropped to the diary in his hands, dread creeping into his bones. If reality itself was being corrected, edited—then this book, these words, all this effort might vanish just as cleanly as Erza had. All of it could be erased as if it had never existed.
Fear clenched his heart.
Slowly, deliberately, Yuuta turned to the final page.
He set the pen down.
Then, pressing the paper flat, he carved words into it without ink, dragging the pen so hard that the page nearly tore. His hand burned with pain, but he welcomed it. Pain meant resistance. Pain meant permanence.
He pressed until the letters left deep grooves, marks that could not be washed away or rewritten easily.
A message—not for today, but for whoever he might become.
For his future self.
If you are reading this and nothing makes sense, then know this:
She existed.
Erza was real.
And I loved her.
When he finished, Yuuta slumped back in the chair, breath shallow, chest tight. He stared at the diary, unsure whether he had just saved the truth—or buried it deeper.
Outside, the house remained silent.
And somewhere, unseen, the spell continued its quiet work.
At some point, he became aware of something terribly wrong—not through pain or fear, but through absence. Thoughts slipped away mid-sentence. Familiar feelings surfaced, only to dissolve before he could grasp them.
One by one, his memories were vanishing.
It wasn't sudden. It wasn't merciful. Each loss was deliberate, as if something unseen was carefully erasing his life, stroke by stroke. He tried to remember her face, but the image blurred. He tried to recall her voice, and all that remained was a hollow echo.
His chest tightened.
Deep down, Yuuta understood why this was happening. That knowledge hurt more than the forgetting itself. Still, he clung to a fragile belief—that no matter what spell had been cast, he wouldn't lose her so easily.
He searched the room as if answers might appear out of thin air. His phone. His desk. The shelves. Nothing. Not a single message. Not a single trace that proved she had ever been there.
Yuuta shut his eyes.
He replayed their moments together again and again—forcing himself to remember, believing that if he held on tightly enough, the memories would remain. But the harder he tried, the faster they slipped through his fingers.
Slowly. Unstoppably.
When he opened his eyes, his gaze fell on the bed.
The bed they had shared.
After a long moment, Yuuta stood and walked toward it. He lay down, pulling a pillow close to his chest, pressing his face into the fabric as silent tears soaked through. He didn't want anyone to hear him. He didn't even want to acknowledge his own sobs.
That was when his fingers brushed against something unfamiliar.
A strand of hair.
Long. Silvery.
His breath hitched.
Yuuta lifted the pillow carefully, and beneath it, tied delicately with that single strand of hair, was something thin and rectangular.
A letter.
He stared at it, unmoving.
This wasn't an ordinary letter. Even without touching it, he could sense it—magic sealed deep within, quiet but undeniable. His heart began to race.
Hope, small and fragile, flickered back to life.
She left this, he thought.
Yuuta reached for it, trying to open the folded paper, but it wouldn't budge. No matter how hard he tried, the seal refused to break. The letter remained stubbornly intact, as if rejecting him.
He stopped.
Then, carefully, he placed the strand of hair against the paper.
For a brief moment, nothing happened.
Then the letter began to glow.
Soft light spread across its surface, the magic responding as if it had finally recognized its owner. The seal loosened, dissolving quietly.
With trembling hands, Yuuta unfolded the letter and began to read.
A soft light spread across the surface of the letter.
It was faint at first, barely more than a shimmer, but unmistakably real. The magic stirred as though it had finally recognized him—his touch, his presence, his despair. The seal loosened, dissolving without sound, like frost melting under a quiet sun.
Yuuta's hands trembled as he unfolded the letter.
It was blank.
He stared at it, unmoving. Seconds passed. Then a minute. Then more. Nothing appeared. No words. No symbols. Not even a trace of ink or magic.
His chest tightened.
"No…," he whispered, as if the letter might hear him and change its mind.
He examined it desperately, turning it over, holding it closer to the light, brushing his fingers across the surface as though hidden letters might rise beneath his touch. He checked the edges, the folds, the paper itself—thicker than normal, faintly warm, but otherwise empty.
Nothing.
The last thread of hope snapped quietly inside him.
Yuuta's shoulders sagged. His grip loosened, and the letter slipped from his fingers onto the side table beside the bed. He didn't bother to pick it up again.
The room felt unbearably quiet.
He sat there, head bowed, tears falling freely now. Not loud sobs—just silent, broken breaths, the kind that came from exhaustion rather than release. His chest hurt. His head throbbed. Everything he had fought to hold onto was slipping through his fingers, one memory at a time.
He had lost her.
Again.
Then—
Moonlight spilled through the window.
It crept across the floor, pale and gentle, climbing the side of the bed, brushing against the edge of the table.
And the letter reacted.
Yuuta noticed it only because the paper shifted slightly, as if stirred by a breath of air that didn't exist. A faint ripple passed across its surface.
His head snapped up.
The letter shimmered once—then stilled.
Yuuta's heart began to race.
"…The moon," he murmured.
Erza loved the moon.
She had always watched it in silence, eyes softened, as though it reminded her of something she never spoke aloud. Of a place far away. Of nights that never truly ended.
With sudden urgency, Yuuta grabbed the letter and moved it fully into the moonlight, holding it carefully, reverently, as if afraid to break whatever fragile condition he had just fulfilled.
The reaction was immediate.
The paper began to glow softly, drinking in the moonlight as though it were starving. The glow pulsed—slow at first, then faster—violet threads weaving through pale white light. Yuuta held his breath as the letter absorbed something unseen, something ancient.
Minutes passed.
The glow intensified.
Suddenly, the room flooded with light.
Violet brilliance clashed with silver moonlight, filling the bedroom, washing over the walls, the ceiling, the bed. The air vibrated, humming with restrained power. Yuuta shielded his eyes, heart pounding so violently he thought it might burst.
And then the light began to take shape.
First, a silhouette.
Then form.
Hair like flowing night. A familiar posture—straight, proud, unmistakable. The glow condensed, refined, until a figure stood before him, suspended just above the floor, composed of moonlight and magic.
Yuuta's breath hitched painfully.
"Erza…"
She stood there like a mirage, like a memory given shape—a violet-and-white hologram, beautiful and distant, yet undeniably her.
And for the first time since the world began to erase her, Erza appeared again before his eyes.
To be continue....