Ryan woke with the taste of ash in his mouth and blood on his tongue. Not his own.
The ceiling above him flickered , not because of a faulty lightbulb, but because, for the briefest of moments, it wasn't his ceiling at all. It was a thatched roof scorched by fire, centuries old, collapsing inward as a woman screamed his name in a language no one spoke anymore.
He bolted upright, heart racing.
Again, he thought, rubbing his eyes.
The memory bleed had been getting worse for weeks. Sometimes it was just flashes: a sword sliding between his ribs, the smell of ocean salt as he drowned, the heat of a desert sun baking the sweat into his skin. But tonight, it had been complete. He'd felt the terror, the pain, the end of a man who had lived centuries ago and yet it had been him. Always him.
Ryan swung his legs off the bed and reached for the object on his nightstand: a battered leather bound diary. It was older than this life, older than most of his lives, yet somehow followed him through each rebirth. Pages yellowed with age were packed with cramped handwriting , his handwriting stretching back centuries.
He flipped to the newest entry.
[ENTRY #1001]
I died again. This time by fire. She called me Karesh, I think. I remember her face, though I've never seen her before. My thousandth life ended screaming.
It's getting harder to hold them all. I can feel the memories bleeding together. If I don't find the missing pages soon, I'll forget which one of me I am.
Ryan closed the diary, his hand trembling.
He got up, shuffled toward the sink, and splashed cold water on his face. The reflection that stared back was twenty-seven years old , short dark hair, tired green eyes, and a scar under his jaw that wasn't from this lifetime. He could never explain that to anyone.
The familiar buzz of his wall-screen snapped him from his thoughts. News reports screamed about the usual: protests in the streets, corporations tightening their grip, another surveillance law passed overnight. He barely heard it anymore. The future he lived in was a city of neon towers and choking smog. A place where memories could be stolen, bought, and rewritten.
For most people, their memories were sacred. For Ryan, they were a curse.
The diary pulsed faintly on his nightstand.
Ryan turned back toward it, freezing mid-step. A page , one he hadn't seen in centuries was laying open on the bed.
It wasn't possible. He had lost that page in his 302nd life, buried in a desert tomb beneath the ruins of Arak. Yet here it was, the ink fresh as if he'd written it yesterday:
[ENTRY #302]
The one who cursed me walks still. Find the Archivist. The Loom is the key.
Ryan's mouth went dry. He didn't remember writing that.
A sound soft, deliberate came from the hallway outside his apartment. A floorboard creaked.
Someone was here.
Ryan reached under the bed, fingers closing around the knife he kept hidden there, and whispered to himself, "Not again…"
The door handle turned.
...........