An Unnamed Feeling
In the City of Shadows, morning slid in gentle and gray—mist hanging along gutters and windowpanes, merchants muttering with sleepy hope, the daily symphony beginning afresh. But this dawn, something was wrong. Not dangerous, just fundamentally… uncertain.
Alex Lin awoke without alarm, but as he stretched and yawned, he realized a peculiar emptiness hovered between eyelids and thoughts. Gramps, usually first with a quip, was silent. Alex rolled out of bed, padded to the bath, and faced the mirror. The mask rested in his hand, but the face looking back was not entirely his.
He tried to say his own name aloud.
"A… Al… X?"
It caught in his throat, fizzling, as if the name itself had dissolved from memory. He tried thinking the names of his friends. Nothing came. For the first time since he'd woken in the City of Shadows, he couldn't call himself—or anyone—anything at all.
He texted the team a message as best he could:
"Morning all. Is anyone… missing something today?"
A flurry of replies, each more fragmented than the last.
"Is it me or can't… remember who… you here?"
"Coffee helps but not… what was I…"
"Red scarf… something… who am I to you?"
The city itself, it seemed, was losing its names.
The Case of the Vanishing Names
At the Department, chaos reigned—only this time it was soft, bewildered, almost gentle. Ms. Paperworth bustled in, her usual precise authority blunted. She waved a folder labeled "????" in the air, frowning.
"It's all gone peculiar," she said, the lines of worry unfamiliar on her face. "All case files are blank where the names should be. I tried calling… the one who brings tea every morning. I blanked the name. Even my own. Help."
The team assembled around the board—Alex, Sam, Mina, Marcus, Logan, Oliver—though the comfort of calling each other by name was missing, replaced with curious silence and worried glances.
"I… feel like I know all of you," said the one with a detective's eyes, "but my words won't… connect to your names. Even my own family."
Mina (though no one could think the name) touched her scarf. "Names are anchors for identity. Without them, what's left?"
The Fool's mask, in Alex's hand, shimmered as if fighting to hold onto its owner.
Oliver, scribbling on a notepad, wrote and erased the word "Identity" over and over, unable to stop his pen hand.
On the noticeboard, a single new message flickered in shifting script:
To the ones-who-forgot:
If the world cannot call you, what will answer for you?
— The Nameless
Tracking the Unnaming
They made their way out into the city, the world eerily quiet—people waved across the street, but found only the empty "you" in their voices. Shop signs shimmered between labels, cabs rolled by without decals. The only names left were placeholders: "the baker," "the friend," "the stranger."
It wasn't just inconvenience; it was dislocation. Couples hesitated in cafes. Children clung to mothers, whispering "mama" as if testing if it still worked. Statues in the squares lost their commemorative plaques, plaques became smooth as river stones.
Sam tugged at Alex's sleeve. "What if… names are more than memory? What if they're the way the world holds us in place?"
Logan, holding his logic detector (which now read only static), muttered, "The city's structure depends on knowing, on distinguishing. If naming is the act that makes a thing real and separate, then what happens when all that disappears?"
A slip of folded white paper floated from a fountain—Alex caught it midair.
"Meet me where names are given and taken away. I may not remember myself, but I will help you know again."
— Signed, the First Forgotten
They looked at one another, wordless agreement pulling them east toward the city's oldest square: The Temple of Naming.
The Temple of Naming
The Temple was little more than an ancient archway of marble, scrawled with carvings that shifted as one tried to look at them. In the mist, an unassuming figure sat below the arch, hands clasped, face unreadable.
"Are you the one who called us?" Alex tried (the word "Alex" itself falling away, leaving only a sense of self asking).
The figure nodded. "I was. Once. I don't know if I am anymore. But I remember one thing: Names are not given. They are discovered—drawn forth by need, love, fear, defiance, hope. When a city forgets its names, it risks forgetting its own heart."
Marcus (whose own name barely glimmered in his thoughts) knelt. "Why is this happening?"
The figure smiled, wistful. "Every lifetime, old names sink. New ones surface. A city heart must be restored every hundred years, or else the sea of forgetting drowns all who live above."
Mina asked, "Can you teach us to remember?"
"Yes," the figure said. "But you must name yourselves anew—not as you were named by others, but as you are."
"Is that why no one's name will stick?" Logan asked. "We're stuck waiting for someone to redefine themselves?"
The figure gazed at Alex. "You were Fool—because you refused all names but the one that said 'Free.' Are you ready to become something more?"
The Ritual of Renaming
Inside the Temple, a ring of empty stones circled a shallow pool. A single candle burned at the heart, its flame flickering in ten thousand colors.
The guide beckoned each of them forward:
Sam, hand over heart:
"I name myself Seeker-of-Truth—because even when words fail, truth finds a way."
Mina, scarf glimmering:
"I name myself Weaver-of-Histories—because I hold the stories, and the stories hold me."
Logan, voice anchoring:
"I name myself Paradox-Scribe—because my logic's beauty is found in mystery."
Marcus, hand trembling:
"I name myself Healer-in-Laughter—because forgiveness is my strongest medicine."
Oliver, glasses foggy:
"I name myself Witness-to-Growth—because all of us deserve a second chance."
Alex, mask in palm, face unhidden to the flickering candle:
"I name myself Dream-Called—the one who says 'Yes' to every impossible tomorrow."
As each spoke, their names glowed in the candle's light, casting real shadow and echo. Beyond the arch, reality began to settle—shopkeepers blinked and whispered, "Oh, yes, that's my name—of course."
Then the guide, voice now strong: "In naming, you restore. In naming, you become story and storyteller, fact and fate. Now—the city will remember itself. And as for me…"
The guide rose, becoming insubstantial, ghost and memory swirling together. "I was the First Forgotten. I now become… the city's next heart—a wordless guardian who waits for those who lose themselves."
Aftermath: The Return of the Names
As the sun rose, the city's fog lifted. Names flooded back like the tide—shouts on street corners, laughter in alleyways, kisses exchanged by name. The Fool's team spilled into the light of day stronger for their chosen titles, each feeling a fresh sense of wholeness and clarity.
At the Department, Ms. Paperworth scribbled the names of every staff member and every client on the caseboard:
"The Record of Being, Kept for the Next Forgetting."
All over town, people greeted each other warmly, as if seeing one another anew. Awnings were painted with fresh signs; children played the "Name Game" in the park without fear. Even the city's statues seemed to stand a little taller.
Oliver quietly asked, "What happens the next time we lose the words?"
Alex—Dream-Called—replied, "We'll find them. That's what stories do. That's what we do. Over and over."
Epilogue: What's in a Name?
That night, after celebration and songs, Alex stood on the rooftop with his mask in hand, feeling the power of his new name.
A hush settled, as if the city himself was holding its breath.
"Gramps," he murmured, "am I still just a Fool, now that I've chosen another name?"
Gramps's voice, a warmth behind his eyes: "A name's a door, kid—not a prison. Today you're Dream-Called. Tomorrow… who knows? As long as you name yourself truly, you're always real."
Below, the city glowed—no longer merely the City of Shadows, but a city of selves found, names spoken, stories beginning anew.
And so the Fools, now awakened by their chosen names, stepped into a future that would remember them—impossible, unrepeatable, and ever-changing.