The Institute's training rooms were designed to calm the mind.
Soft lighting. Pale walls. Subtle acoustic panels that made footsteps sound like whispers. Everything was meant to feel controlled. Safe.
Caelum sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on his knees.
Breathing in.
Breathing out.
Dr. Vireen Ashcroft paced the room slowly — not looming, not overbearing, just present. His dark coat moved behind him like a shadow that wasn't quite attached.
Tavian sat near Caelum, elbows on his knees, watching him with the tense worry of someone who wanted to help but didn't know how.
"Good," Dr. Ashcroft murmured. His voice was quiet enough that silence seemed to lean closer to hear him. "Don't force your thoughts into stillness. Simply observe them. Let them pass."
Caelum inhaled slowly.
The city noise outside faded.
The world felt softer.
Until something tapped the inside of his mind.
Not a voice.
A presence.
Let me see.
Caelum stiffened.
The air around him tightened — like pressure in the bones, not the lungs.
His heartbeat picked up.
The presence pressed again.
Not violent.Not loud.Just persistent.
Let me see.
Caelum shook his head once — barely noticeable — but Dr. Ashcroft noticed.
Always.
"Breathe," Ashcroft said softly. "Don't fight the experience. Simply acknowledge it."
Caelum tried.
He really did.
But the pressure didn't feel like something to acknowledge.
It felt like something that wanted to open.
Tavian leaned closer. "Hey. You okay?"
And that was the moment Caelum's concentration cracked.
A faint ripple of distortion flickered in the air beside him — like heat shimmer on asphalt.
Just one second.
Barely anything.
But in that second, something on the low table vanished.
Tavian blinked.
"…Cael?"
Caelum's eyes snapped open.
The photograph was gone.
The one he kept with him every day.
The one of him and Tavian and Selene at the riverside, laughing like life wasn't heavy.
A real moment.A true memory.Proof that he had once been light.
Gone.
Not burned.Not torn.Not teleported.
Erased.
Like it had never existed.
The table surface was smooth.
Dr. Ashcroft stopped pacing.
And the room felt very quiet.
Caelum's chest locked. His hands trembled. Not because of the power — but because of the loss.
Tavian swallowed and forced a shaky smile, pretending nothing was wrong.
"It's okay," he said softly. "We'll… get another picture. Right? We can just—"
"No."Caelum's voice came out flat. Hollow.The kind of hollow that echoed.
He stared at his empty hands.
"It wasn't the picture that disappeared."
Tavian's expression faltered.
Dr. Ashcroft stepped closer — slow, unthreatening — and knelt to Caelum's level, lowering himself deliberately, as if approaching a frightened animal.
"Tell me," he said gently, eyes calm and unblinking, "what else did you feel vanish?"
Caelum didn't look up.
He didn't have to.
He already knew the answer.
"The moment," he whispered.
The memory.The laughter.The warmth.
He could still see the scene.But now it felt like a story someone else told him once.Distant.Thin.Unreal.
Like it wasn't his anymore.
A quiet ache spread through his chest — heavy, slow, sinking.
Dr. Ashcroft didn't react with shock.
Or fear.
He just nodded once.
Soft. Understanding.
"Thank you for telling me."
No reprimand.No "you're dangerous."No "we have to lock you down."
Just acknowledgment.
Which was somehow worse.
Because it meant Ashcroft already knew this was coming.
Tavian placed a hand on Caelum's shoulder — gentle, steady, grounding.
"We'll make new memories," he murmured. "Even if it takes millions."
Caelum didn't answer.
Inside his mind, the presence finally spoke.
Not a whisper.
Not a command.
Just there.
You cannot lose what you are.
Caelum closed his eyes.
Trying not to drown in something that didn't have a shape.