"Even when the day forgets your name…
The night remembers everything."
That night, Lengaza lay in a bed that didn't feel like it belonged to anyone.
The house was old. Walls cracked with silence. Windows sighed when the wind brushed past. There was no photo of a family. No letters. No calendar. Just a bed, a chair, a teacup with no handle—and a quiet boy whose memories were slipping out of his own hands.
He turned on his side.
Then his back.
Then his side again.
Sleep didn't come easy to people like him.
Not when the world erased your footprints before you even took the next step.
But when he finally drifted off…
The dream didn't wait.
He stood beneath a violet sky. No stars. Only threads—silver strings dangling above him like a giant spider had tried to sew the heavens shut.
He didn't speak.
Because the dream already knew his name.
"Lengaza."
The voice came from behind.
He turned.
There she was again.
Nyra.
Same raven-black hair. Same strange calm in her eyes. She wore a dress that fluttered as though underwater, and her bare feet didn't touch the dream-grass below her.
"You remember me?" he asked.
She tilted her head, curious.
"You're the only one who keeps forgetting yourself."
"That's not true," he frowned. "They forget me."
"Because you keep speaking in a world that punishes your voice."
Lengaza looked down. His fists trembled. The dream-grass turned white where his tears touched them.
"Then why do I exist at all?" he whispered.
Nyra stepped closer, her voice low and sharp like a violin string.
"Because something in this world still wants to remember you."
"And you… you still want to be known."
Lengaza's breath caught.
For a moment, the wind returned to the dreamscape and formed a single word in the air:
Weaver.
The silver threads above shimmered.
Nyra pointed upward.
"You are not broken, Lengaza. You are hidden."
"And when the hidden speak… even silence listens."
Before he could respond, the dream began to crumble—like a painting soaked in rain.
She reached out, grabbed his wrist.
"When you wake… follow the echo."
"What echo?"
"The one that calls your name after the wind has passed."
Lengaza jolted awake.
The morning sun was already climbing. Birds chirped outside. But his room remained the same.
Except…
There was now a mark on his wrist. A faint silver line—glowing, then fading.
He sat up slowly. Heart pounding.
"Nyra…"
The name felt heavier now.
As if saying it meant something.
As if dreaming her meant remembering… something real.
He stood up, walked to the window, and whispered to no one:
"Maybe I'll find someone who remembers me… before I forget myself."