I stood alone.
My hand rose to my cheek. The cut was healing already—just a surface graze—but it still pulsed under my skin. Not from pain, exactly. More like memory. I pressed it gently, then dropped my hand, inhaling.
The gate loomed before me, wrought iron teeth in the dark.
I reached out, fingers brushing metal, then slowly pushed it open. The hinges creaked like a groan through old lungs.
I stepped inside the courtyard. Floof came bounding toward me with a low woof, his fur bouncing like a dandelion caught in wind. I crouched low.
"You smell like vinegar and disappointment," I said, arms outstretched.
Floof stopped and tilted his head.
"I didn't say you were disappointing," I clarified flatly. "Just the air around you. It's been near Joy."
Floof woofed in what he interpreted as agreement, then shoved his head under my palm. I stroked his fur slowly. My voice was different now—low and slow, like the whole day had scraped something raw inside me.
We walked back to the front door. The mansion loomed—tall, dark, silent.
No lights.
No humming.
No smells of spice or bread from the kitchen.
Just quiet.
Everyone was asleep.
The door gave way easily under my hand. I stepped inside, closing it behind her with the soft click of finality. Floof padded beside me as we crossed the marble foyer.
The hallways stretched like yawns. Every painting on the wall seemed to stare at me just slightly wrong, like they knew what had happened.
I moved up the staircase, barefoot steps brushing against the worn velvet runner. My room waited at the far end of the west wing, untouched, as though time paused there.
Once inside, I closed the door with care, sliding the lock.
My cheek still stung. I sat on the floor by the window, spine pressed to the cold wall, legs folded, arms wrapped around Floof.
"I was very composed," I murmured. "Even though I fell."
Floof whined softly, nuzzling her arm.
"I think the fall helped," I added. "Gave them something to criticize. They need that. If they can't pick, they can't feel superior. I... gave them a gift."
I reached for the small journal Ami had placed on my nightstand days ago. It still smelled like beeswax and the lavender sachets Ami tucked into drawers.
I opened it slowly.
My fingertips traced the crest again—oak tree, deeply embossed.
"…the song burned too bright…"
My finger paused on the old, ink-smeared line. The page crinkled faintly.
Then another:
"The Breath rebelled. The ritual failed."
I turned the page. The ripped one.
Still empty.
Still jagged.
Still sharp.
The whispers began faintly this time, like smoke curling under the doorframe. I tilted my head, listening. One whisper grew into many—layered, rising and falling like water over stones.
"…come…"
"…no time…"
"…the roots remember…"
I closed the book slowly.
Stood.
Floof shifted beside her, whining again.
I walked toward the window. My hands found the latch by memory. I opened it, and a soft breeze filtered in cool and musky with the scent of the forest.
From here, I could see the edge of the Perennial Forest. The trees swayed unnaturally, though no wind reached the ground.
The lights were back.
Soft, strange. Moving like lanterns without strings.
I knew I shouldn't.
The forest was forbidden. It had always been. I didn't know why. No one would say. Only warnings. Only consequences. Only secrets.
But tonight… something was pulling.
Something deeper.
My memory still ached. Some names had returned—Ami. Arnold. Even Elara.
But the center of my—the part where I should be—was still a hollow echo.
The wind blew again. One whisper rose above the others.
"…No Eyes…"
I didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Didn't answer.
Just listened.
And the breeze brushed against my glowing eyes like a caress.
I don't remember unlocking the window.
But I must have.
Because now I'm outside, barefoot, in the dew-soaked grass.
The gate squeaks behind me. I didn't push it. It just opens. Like it knows I'm coming.
Floof stays low at my side. He's quiet tonight. No cheerful barks. His ears twitch like antennae, picking up something I can't.
The wind brushes my braid back from my shoulder. I rewrap it. I always do when I'm scared. Keep my hands busy. Wrap. Tuck. Pull.
The forest hums.
That same low throb. Like the breath of something very old trying to remember its name.
I step through the tall grass at the edge of the garden. Beyond it — the Perennial Forest. I've stood here before. A hundred times. I never crossed.
Tonight I don't stop.
Floof whines.
"I know," I whisper. "We're not supposed to. But…"
t's darker now.
Not just the sky — but the ground. The trees. The spaces in between.
Even the air feels thicker.
Like the forest is holding its breath.
I don't know how long I've been walking. Could be minutes. Could be hours.
My dress is snagged at the hem. My braid is unraveling. I keep rewrapping it. Over and over.
It's the only thing I can feel that's mine.
Floof was just beside me. I heard him panting a minute ago.
"Floof," I whisper.
No response.
I stop.
Nothing moves. Not even the wind.
The trees are silent and the shadows are listening.
"Floof?" I call again, a little louder.
Still nothing.
I crouch low and touch the dirt. It's damp — soft with moss and something else… sticky. My fingers come away darker than they should be.
I sniff.
Sap. Or… blood?
I don't know.
"Floof," I say again. It comes out smaller. Like the word's shrinking in my throat.
I turn around.
But there's no behind anymore. Just more trees. The same ones.
Or maybe different ones that look the same.
My chest tightens.
I keep walking.
I think I'm walking.
The ground keeps moving under my feet but nothing's changing.
Everything looks the same.
I call again. "Floof!"
My voice hits the trees and bounces back — wrong. Slower. Stretched.
"Flooooo—oof."
Like it got stuck on something.
I start to run.
The forest moves sideways.
I trip.
I fall forward, scraping my knees and catching myself on my hands.
Silence again.
Only the sound of my breath and the hammering in my chest.
My fingers shake. I press them into the dirt to still them.
And that's when I realize I've forgotten something else.
Something important.
I try to say my name.
But my tongue won't move the right way.
Puh…?
Puh-kuh…
It's gone.
I sit back on my heels.
Why can't I say it?
Why is my head so loud?
Why does it feel like someone's pressed a warm hand against the back of my skull and is squeezing gently — just enough to loosen things?
"Floof?" I try one more time.
No answer.
Then something else.
A sound.
No — not a sound.
A voice.
But not real.
It's like it's inside the trees.
Inside the dirt.
Inside me.
"Pecola…"
It says it like it's tasting the word.
I blink.
That name…
That's mine?
I say it out loud. "Pecola."
It doesn't feel real.
Another voice.
Lower. Older. Familiar.
"You left us…"
"No," I whisper.
"You did."
"You always run."
"You couldn't even look him in the face."
"You're the reason he died."
My fingers grip the soil.
"You think you're better than us," a new voice hisses. "Just because you read books."
That's Joy.
Joy's voice. I remember that tone. That same venom.
My breath catches. "I didn't say that."
"You thought it."
Then Mary's voice. Cold. Controlled.
"Don't speak unless spoken to, Pecola."
Each voice slices something.
Each syllable feels like it's peeling me open.
Ami's voice is the last.
Soft. Sad.
"You don't see what they do, Pecola. You never have. You never will."
I curl in on myself.
My name is Pecola.
My name was Pecola.
Was it?
I'm not sure anymore.
My knees press into something wet. My fingers curl around roots.
The world is spinning and I'm still somehow not moving.
Then I hear it.
Floof.
A bark — faint.
Distant.
But real.
I don't remember why I came this far.
I remember leaving.
I remember Floof barking once and then… nothing.
But I don't remember what made my feet keep going.
They're muddy now. The ground's softer here. Cold. Damp in places that never see the sun.
The trees in this part of the forest don't grow like normal trees. They twist, like they were told to reach upward but decided to argue about it halfway through. Thick vines drape between their limbs like ribs made of rope.
There's light, but it isn't from the sky. It comes from under things. From mushrooms glowing blue near the roots. From puddles with colors I've never touched before. One ripples when I get too close — as if sensing me.
Everything here feels alive. And not in a nice way.
I haven't heard Floof in a long time.
I should turn back.
But I don't.
I step into a clearing, wide and wrong.
The grass is soft and velvet-black. The air smells of wet moss and boiled bark.
I kneel.
My braid sticks to the back of my neck. My dress is ripped at the knee.
I press my palm to the earth and whisper, "Where did you go, Floof?"
No answer.
No sound.
Except—
A melody.
High. Playful. Unfamiliar.
A flute.
It comes from above. To the left.
I freeze.
The tune lilts and loops like a leaf being spun in circles by wind.
I don't move, but my eyes — or what's left of them — drift toward the sound.
Up. Past the bark.
There, in the branches of a dead-bent willow, sits a boy.
At least I think it's a boy.
He's barefoot. Shirtless. His chest streaked with mud and something glittering — maybe mica or crushed beetle shell. He's wearing dark green short-overalls made of something leafy, frayed at the edges. His hair is jet black and chaos — short on one side, long and spiked on the other, like it lost a bet with lightning. His eyes —
His eyes are wrong.
Not human.
A green that isn't found in nature — or maybe only here. Iridescent and sharp, like cracked jade underwater.
His lips are curved slightly around the flute. His fingers dance over the wood like they're flirting with it.
And then —
He stops playing.
He sees me.
"AYE—?" he squawks, mid-note, voice echoing through the trees.
I flinch.
He topples off the branch.
"Wh-HOH—!"
I hear a crash. Then another.
Then something breaking.
Then: "She saw me playin'! I wasn't supposed to be playin'!"
He's muttering. To himself? To someone else?
I back away slowly.
"Wait—WAIT!" the voice calls.
Too late.
I'm already running.
The forest spins.
I feel him behind me.
Not close. Tripping over things. Swearing. "Ow—! Sluggut—roots! WHO PUT THESE ROOTS HERE—?!"
I duck beneath low vines. My feet slap mud.
I don't know why I'm running.
He doesn't feel dangerous.
But I don't feel safe, either.
Something in me is slipping.
And not just memory.
It's like… my edges.
My name.
I don't know it anymore.
It's there — on the edge of my tongue — and then not.
I skid to a stop near a wide stream.
The water flows strange.
Clear, but thick. Like glass that forgot how to solidify.
I kneel.
I cup it in my hands.
It's cold. Bitter.
I drink anyway.
Behind me, something crashes.
I look up.
He's there.
Mud on his knees.
Grass in his hair.
He's panting like he just wrestled a tornado and lost politely.
"You—!" he gasps, pointing at me with one muddy finger. "You can't—just—wander into sacred woods and drink riverwater like it's free soup! There are rules, ya know!"
I blink. "There weren't any signs."
"Signs?!" He throws his hands up. "It's the Perennial Forest! If ya don't feel the danger, you are the danger!"
He stalks closer, then stops suddenly. His eyes widen.
He's looking at my face.
More specifically—my eyes.
My no-eyes.
The glow must be brighter than usual.
"Ohhh no," he mutters.
And then—
His nose bleeds.
Right on cue.
"WHOA-WHOA-OKAY—" He tips his head back. "You can't just be glowing and mysterious and silent like that, girl—I just had lunch!"
I squint at him.
"You're bleeding from the face."
"Yeah! Because you're doing something to me with your… your whole thing! I mean—look at you!"
He gestures wildly.
"No pupils! Floatin' around all barefoot in the sacred grove like a lost poem! It's—it's RUDE!"
I stay silent.
He's flustered.
It's funny.
But I don't laugh.
Instead I say: "I don't remember my name."
He stops.
Looks at me.
His hand drops from his nose.
"…You serious?"
I nod.
He stares for a moment.
Then sighs.
"Well… damn. That's rough."
A pause.
Then a spark returns to his face.
He grins.
"Guess that makes you a blank slate. A mystery. A project."
He points again, dramatically.
"I'm gonna call you—No Eyes."
I nod once. "Okay."
He blinks.
"No, like, it was a joke—"
"It's accurate," I say. "I don't have any."
"…You're weird."
"I know."
Another nosebleed.
He groans. "Why do I always fall for the weird ones…"
"What?"
"NOTHING." He's already grabbing another leaf.
We sit there for a minute.