Chapter 2 - Folded Time

The sun rose over the valley not with light, but with a slow, deliberate pulse—a deep, amber glow that seeped through the mist like molten honey poured into still water. Lysander stood in the field of white roses, each bloom opening not with a sound, but with a faint, internal sigh, as if the petals themselves were breathing. The air hummed with a low frequency, a vibration that settled in the bones and made his teeth ache with a strange, familiar sensation—like the echo of a lullaby played on a harp long buried beneath stone. The stone in his hand now pulsed with a rhythm that matched the pulse of the earth, a slow, steady beat that resonated through his palm and up his arm, as if the world had found a new heartbeat and was now beating in time with his own. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there—perhaps minutes, perhaps hours—but time had become a river flowing backward, its surface rippling with forgotten moments. The roses trembled, and one by one, they began to shed their petals, not to the ground, but into the air, where they drifted like ashes caught in a breeze, spiraling upward into the sky. And as they ascended, they formed shapes—faint, fluid silhouettes—of hands, of faces, of children running through fields of fire. One shape looked like a girl with red hair, standing at the edge of a cliff, holding a glowing stone. Another was a woman with silver hair, standing beside a fountain of frozen tears, her face turned toward the horizon. Lysander's breath caught. The girl with red hair—was that the one from the city? The one who vanished? And the woman with silver hair—had she really died before he was born? The thought made his chest tighten, as if something deep within had cracked open. He looked down at the stone in his hand, and for the first time, he saw the symbols etched into its surface—not just a spiral, but a sequence: a spiral, a circle, a broken line, then a single dot. It pulsed once, and the pattern shifted. The dot moved to the center, and the stone warmed to the touch, like a living thing breathing. A voice—not in his ears, but in the marrow of his spine—spoke again. You were not born to survive. You were born to remember. The words weren't spoken. They were felt, like a memory that had been folded into his bones, like a song that had been sung in a language he didn't know but could still hum. He closed his eyes and tried to recall. He remembered the hospital. The silence. The way his father had pressed a cold hand to his forehead and whispered, Don't forget. He remembered the smell of antiseptic and old books. He remembered the red coat, the girl with red hair, the note left behind—For the one who remembers the dead. And now, in this world, the red coat was not just a memory. It was a symbol. A signpost. A bridge. The wind shifted, and from the eastern ridge, a shadow crept down the slope. Not a creature, not a beast, but something older—something that moved like smoke, like time itself folding. It had no form, yet it was unmistakably present. It stood at the edge of the field, silent, watching. Lysander felt it before he saw it. A presence. A weight. A deep, quiet sorrow. When it finally turned its face toward him, the air grew still. It wasn't a being of flesh or bone. It was made of twilight and silence, of the spaces between words, of the moments when a person stops speaking and simply is. Its form shifted—first a shape of a woman, then a child, then a tower of glass and fire. Each form passed through the air like a dream slipping through fingers. And then, it spoke—not with sound, but with a sensation that flooded Lysander's mind, like a wave crashing against the shore of his soul. You have seen her. You have seen the girl. You have seen the woman. You have seen what was lost. Lysander's hands trembled. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. The form hesitated. Then, with a softness that made his heart ache, it said—I am the memory of what you never knew. The wind rose again, carrying with it the scent of burnt paper and something sweet, like the inside of a forgotten lullaby. From the field behind him, the white roses began to fall faster, the petals swirling in slow spirals, forming a new image—a city rising from the earth, not built of stone, but of light and memory. The city had towers shaped like bones, bridges made of woven wind, and streets paved with glass that reflected not the sky, but the faces of people long gone. A child walked through the streets, barefoot, carrying a lantern that burned with a soft, golden flame. The lantern pulsed, and in its glow, Lysander saw his own face—older, wiser, with eyes full of sorrow. He recognized it. It was him, but not as he remembered. It was him as he would become. As he would have to become. The figure in twilight stepped forward, and this time, it did not speak. It simply reached out—its hand made of shadow and silence—and touched the edge of the city's tallest tower. The tower shuddered. A sound emerged—not loud, not harsh—but deep, resonant, like a bell struck in a forgotten temple. And from the tower, a single note rang out, not in air, but in the fabric of reality. It was the same note Lysander had heard when he first arrived. The one that had pulled him through time. The one that had felt like a memory from before birth. The tower cracked open, not from the outside, but from within. A spiral of light erupted, not from the top, but from the center, and from it emerged a figure—taller than the tower, wrapped in a cloak of shifting colors, its face half-hidden behind a veil of smoke. It stood motionless, watching Lysander with eyes that reflected no light, only the depth of a thousand forgotten years. Lysander took a step forward. "Who are you?" he asked again. The figure did not answer. Instead, it raised a hand, and from its fingertips, a thread of light unwound—not like a ribbon, but like a living vine—spreading across the ground. Where it touched, the earth cracked open, not in violence, but in tenderness, and from the cracks, small, glowing flowers emerged—each one shaped like a human face, each one with eyes that blinked slowly, as if they had just woken. One face looked directly at Lysander. It was the girl with red hair. She wore a red coat, and in her hand, she held a stone—identical to the one in his palm. Her lips moved, and though no sound came, a whisper passed through the air: You were not supposed to come back. You were supposed to stay. The wind howled, not in anger, but in sorrow. The sky darkened slightly, not with clouds, but with a deepening of color—like ink spilled across a canvas. The city in the distance flickered, as if it were breathing. And in that moment, Lysander realized: this world was not a place. It was a wound. A wound that had been open for centuries. A wound that had been fed by memory, by grief, by the act of being forgotten. And the girl in the red coat—she was not just a memory. She was a key. A key to a door that had been sealed behind a wall of silence. And the woman with silver hair—she had not died before Lysander was born. She had died because of him. Because he had never remembered. Because he had never asked. Because he had let silence win. The thread of light from the figure's hand pulsed once, and then stopped. The flowers dimmed. The girl with red hair stepped forward, her face now clear, her eyes filled with a quiet, ancient sorrow. "You were born to remember," she said, her voice soft as dust falling through a window. "But you have only just begun." And then, as if the world itself had shifted, the sky cracked again—not with light, but with a deep, resonant silence. A silence so vast it felt like the end of time. And in that silence, a single word formed in the air, glowing like embers in a dark room: Begin. Lysander did not move. He did not speak. He simply stood there, the stone in his hand pulsing, the girl's eyes locking onto his, and for the first time in his life, he did not feel alone. He felt seen. And in that moment, he knew—deep in the marrow of his bones—that the journey had already begun. That the girl in the red coat was not just a memory. She was a guide. A guardian. A sister. And that the woman with silver hair—she had not died before he was born. She had died for him. And the world, in all its silent, wounded beauty, was waiting for him to finally speak her name. And when he did, the storm would rise. And the wound would open. And the past would finally breathe. And somewhere, in the heart of the valley, a child began to cry—softly, quietly—like a memory waking up.