Between what was remembered and what was dreamed, reality had begun to fray—and she was standing in the middle of it, the quiet hum of the museum fading beneath the pulse of something alive.
The museum stored its most delicate items here, in a dark area designed to prevent light damage, as everything was too fragile for public viewing. Hence, the Navy blue walls. The color had always reminded me of twilight—the hour when memories feel closest.
I wanted my space to match that stillness, to feel like I belonged to the past as much as I did to the present.
Maybe because the present never felt like mine—not since him.
I've seen a lot and never once thought anything was wrong or hidden from me. And now I wondered what more I had missed in the past.
My room was spacious and quiet, and my lab was conveniently located directly adjacent to my desk.
A glass wall separated the workstations, like a window with its truth on display. Everything is laid bare to anyone standing on either side.
Even after a year, my home away from home still felt new.
I suppose living in a state of mind that's a bit blurry can alter your perception of time, making it seem like it's been a week, yet also like it's been forever.
But somehow, it was an odd kind of home, built from stories and my own secrets I was still learning how to carry.
It was a place shaped for remembering, where even the dust seemed to know what had been lost if you moved it. And where lights flickered sometimes, and whispers of my name were just in my head.
However, remembering only matters if it remains unchanged to fit the narrative; still, I think most people do modify a memory to match what they believe occurred.
I wondered how much of my own past I'd rewritten just to survive it—and if I'd even recognize the truth anymore if I saw it.
Maybe that was why I avoided looking too closely. Some memories cut deeper than the day they were made.
How can you trust what's true if the person telling the story believed it to be that way?
You don't. People usually follow what makes the most sense or whom they're most loyal to.
But maybe some people just follow their hearts; they want to see something a certain way, so they do.
Here I am talking to myself again.
Answering my own questions in my mind.
I looked up from my work.
One of the paintings that hung opposite my desk showed a woman walking into a blur of stars, her silhouette unraveling into threads. The brushstrokes were soft but deliberate, fading into a haze of midnight blue and silver specks, like stardust dissolving into nothing.
I didn't know the artist, but it always made me pause.
I used to think it was about wonder.
About disappearing into something greater than yourself.
Or maybe it's about exhaustion, being tired of holding all the threads of life together, so she finally let them unravel.
But I wasn't sure what the artist was thinking.
There was a sense of loneliness in the way her body fell apart. Something final.
I wondered if that was what being Soul Woven meant.
Letting yourself unravel until you can no longer tell where you end and someone else begins.
Maybe it was beautiful—becoming one soul.
Or maybe it was just a quieter kind of vanishing.
Sometimes, I stared too long, wondering what it felt like—beautiful or terrifying, depending on where you stood.
I always tried to see things from everyone's point of view. Perhaps that's why I get lost in it; a new day means a new perspective.
Time had blurred into quiet discoveries, forgotten treasures, and love stories lingering in every corner of this place.
I picked up the following file from the stack—a pale, translucent folder, its surface smooth and unmarked, fresh from the archive intake.
Inside, a fragile photograph clung to a handwritten letter, the ink faded into a ghost of its former self.
I wondered what would happen if I were gone; would I become a relic in one of Thesira's museums, or would my life have been meaningful enough to be displayed? Or would I be a file digitized and then forgotten by most of the world?
As I gently turned the photo toward the scanner, a sharp and sweet scent, reminiscent of wet leaves after rain, caught me off guard.
It was the kind of scent that didn't belong here, sterile and climate-controlled, like something had slipped past the barrier and into my lungs.
I froze, instinctively glancing toward the small fire escape window.
There were no clouds.
No storms or even a hint of anything headed this way.
We usually have scheduled storms inside the Solence barrier, but today was not one of those days.
And yet the scent grew stronger, thickening the air around me. Heavy and earthy, as if I were playing outside in it.
I closed my eyes for just a moment, allowing the scent to flood my senses. My heartbeat slowed, then surged—like the air itself had shifted around me.
And when I opened them again, the museum was gone.
A trail unfurled before me, swallowed by dense, living greenery. The air was thick and humid, the scent of moss and warm earth clinging to my skin.
Insects clicked. Birds called. Their rhythms wove together with the quiet thrum of my heartbeat.
It must've been ninety degrees, much hotter than anything in Solence.
A leaf drifted down in front of me. I reached out, brushing its surface with my fingers.
It was smooth on one side, sharp on the other, like it could decide what to be depending on how you touched it.
A low rhythm began to rise in the distance, steady, resonant, like a pulse echoing through the roots beneath my feet.
It wasn't drums. It was deeper than that.
Mechanical, maybe. Or something alive.
Something deep and aching uncoiled in my chest: a fierce, overwhelming desire for movement. For more. Urging my steps forward.
It felt raw and bright, the sunlight bleeding through the trees and hitting me like a warm blanket.
I could sleep here, I thought. Take a nap under a sunlit tree. How exhausted I have been, the thought of an undisturbed sun nap felt too good to be true, but I'd take what I could get.
My boots were gone, and my feet were bare. The dirt beneath my toes was soft and warm, rich with the scent of life, as I stirred its aroma with every step.
Forest surrounded me every way I looked, spinning me in a complete circle as I tried to look for familiarity.
It was deep, vibrant, and breathing.
Thorny vines hung low, dripping with clusters of red berries so vivid they pulsed against the green. I reached out, half daring myself to see if they were real.
As I stepped closer to the nearest tree, I saw it: a symbol carved into the bark.
A golden eye, not quite human, with a swirling center. Its edges seemed to shift when I stared too long, like it was alive—or watching me back.
They say eyes are windows to the soul, maybe observing any soul that comes near enough to whatever was beyond.
It looked like something meant to watch for intruders, waiting for someone to make a move.
To protect. But what is it protecting?
The sight of it tugged at something deep inside me, not fear, but a sharp, aching recognition, like a forgotten name brushing the edge of my mind.
A shadow moved to my side, then slipped away.
But instead of fear, I felt a rush of gratitude, like the ground itself welcomed me home.
I didn't want to leave.
Find it.
The thought came so fast, so fiercely, it startled me.
I kept walking, cresting the top of a hill.
Below, a town stirred with movement, children running, voices weaving through the trees, laughter rising into the heavy, golden air.
A light rain began to fall, finally, and everyone knew it was coming. The drops are calm and sweet against my skin.
I stuck out my tongue, catching one, feeling suddenly, wonderfully, like a child again.
I wanted to join the people. I took another step, still catching the taste of silky warm raindrops.
The word home whispered through my mind, soft as a breath.
In Solence, even beauty was curated and contained—plants grown in glass towers, skies engineered to stay perfectly calm. But here, everything was wild and unrestrained, like the life I'd always wanted but never believed existed.
I almost forgot where I was, lost in the green and gold of the dream and the feeling that maybe I belonged here.
A voice cut through the air—sharp, jarring.
"What are you doing?"
My head snapped toward the sound, but it didn't belong here. The forest wavered, its edges smearing like wet paint beneath a storm.
The rain's sweetness turned cold, the sunlight too bright to bear. A chill swept through me, and the forest seemed to pull away, like it had never been real at all.
When I blinked, there was nothing left but sterile walls and the relentless hum of the museum.
The forest was gone, but its memory lingered—warm, wild, and whispering, as if it hadn't fully let me go.