The fog tasted like old iron and forgotten promises. It clung low, a grey shroud swallowing the familiar contours of my town. Streets vanished. Buildings softened, their edges blurring into the milky expanse. I pushed myself up, my body intact, no aches or scrapes, but a hollowness echoed inside. My thoughts, usually a tangled mess, now felt… rearranged. Names, faces – they slipped away, like water through a sieve. Feelings arrived unbidden, ghosts without origins.
The ground beneath my worn sneakers felt uneven, each step a small jolt. My street, usually a neat row of brightly painted houses, now sagged.. Paint peeled in brittle flakes, revealing splintered wood beneath. The asphalt, once smooth, had cracked into a mosaic of grey shards. Old iron lamps, some shattered, others bent like broken teeth, flickered weakly, casting sickly yellow pools that the fog immediately devoured. A deep unease settled in my chest, a cold knot tightening with each breath.
"This isn't right,"
I heard myself whisper. My voice, thin and reedy, dissolved into the heavy silence. The town felt drained, an echo of what it should have been.
Then it struck me, a cold, terrifying claw in my gut. I didn't know who I was. My name, a phantom on the tip of my tongue, refused to form. I clawed at my mind, searching for memories, for a history, for anything. Only fog, thick and impenetrable. No home. No past. Just the chilling certainty that this place no longer belonged to me. Or perhaps, I no longer belonged to it.
"Who am I?"
I asked the empty street, yet no answer came back.
Beyond the rooftops, the forest loomed, a darker, denser mass than I remembered. It felt older, closer. And deep within its shadowy embrace, something waited. Not a stranger, but something that already knew me. Knew me in a way I no longer knew myself.
My feet, as if guided by an invisible thread, began to move. The cold seeped into my bones, a constant, dull ache. The air tasted metallic, like rain on rusted pipes. Each breath left a ghost of vapor in the frigid air. The fog seemed to thicken with every block, the visibility dropping to mere feet.
The houses I passed were all the same – faded, neglected, their windows dark, like vacant eyes.
A flicker of light, a persistent, sickly yellow, pierced the gloom ahead. It promised warmth, perhaps answers. I picked up my pace, my sneakers slapping softly on the cracked stone. The light belonged to a building, taller than the others, its facade crumbling like a forgotten monument. A faded sign, barely legible through the grime and cobwebs, declared it a "Hotel."
The letters were crooked, some missing entirely. A single bulb, caged in rusty wire, cast a weak glow over a chipped glass door. This place felt like a shipwreck, something long abandoned. Yet, it was the only source of light for miles.
I pushed the door open. A bell, rusted and creaky, jangled mournfully above. The air inside was thick with the scent of dust, stale tobacco, and something else… something metallic, like old blood. The lobby was small, dimly lit by a single bare bulb hanging from a frayed wire. A wooden counter, scarred and worn, dominated the space. Behind it, an old man sat hunched over a newspaper, his face obscured by shadow. The silence, broken only by the rhythmic tick of an unseen clock, felt heavy, suffocating.
My voice, when it came, felt foreign.
"Excuse me?"
The man didn't move. He might have been carved from the very wood of the counter.
"Hello?" I tried again, louder this time.
He slowly raised his head. His eyes, though shadowed, held a sharp, unnerving glint. They scanned me, a slow, deliberate assessment that made my skin prickle. He had a long, aquiline nose and thin lips pressed into a perpetual frown. A wispy mustache, the color of old snow, drooped over his mouth. He didn't smile.
"Lost?" he grunted, his voice a gravelly rasp.
I nodded, a quick, desperate motion. "I… I think so. I don't know where I am."
He let out a short, dry chuckle, like stones grinding together. "Everyone's lost in Silent Walker, boy. Some just take longer to admit it." He pushed his newspaper aside, revealing gnarled, age-spotted hands.
"What's your name?"
My heart pounded against my ribs. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My name. The one thing I needed most. Gone.
His gaze sharpened, boring into me.
"Cat got your tongue? Or the fog?"
"I… I don't know," I finally managed, the words catching in my throat. "I can't remember."
He leaned forward, his elbows on the counter, a faint smell of disinfectant and something acrid rising from his clothes. "Amnesia, eh? That's a new one. Or an old one, depends on how you look at it." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "You got money?"
"Money?" I fumbled in my pockets. Nothing. My pockets were empty, save for a few stray threads.
"No. I don't think so."
He sighed, a long, weary sound. "Figured. No one with money ends up here. No one with sense, either." He straightened up, his gaze sweeping over the empty lobby. "So, you're just… here. No memory, no coin. What's your plan, then?"
"I need to find out who I am," I said, the conviction surprising even myself. "And where I belong."
He snorted. "Belonging is a luxury in this town. And answers… answers here usually cost more than you're willing to pay." He picked up a tarnished brass key, its numbers worn smooth. "Room 3B. Top floor. Don't break anything. You can work it off in the morning." He tossed the key onto the counter with a clatter. It spun once, then lay still.
"Work what off?" I asked, picking up the heavy key.
"Your stay," he stated flatly. "There's always work to be done in a place like this. Dishes need scrubbing. Floors need mopping. And sometimes… sometimes you just sit and listen." He peered at me again, a strange glint in his eye. "You look like a listener, boy. Good for you. This town has plenty to say, if you know how to hear it."
I clutched the key, its cold metal a small comfort in my trembling hand. "What is this place? What happened here?"
His lips twitched, a hint of something that might have been a smile, or perhaps a grimace. "This, boy, is Silent Walker. And what happened here… that's a very long story. One you might not want to hear." He gestured vaguely towards the staircase, a dark maw in the corner of the lobby.
"Go on. Get some rest. The fog won't lift until it's ready."
"The fog…" I started, but he cut me off.
"It changes things," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"Always has. Always will. Just be careful what you look for in it. Some things are better left buried."
He returned to his newspaper, effectively dismissing me.
I turned towards the stairs, a chill creeping up my spine. The old man's words hung in the stale air, a promise of hidden dangers. Each step creaked under my weight, the wood groaning like a living thing. The hallway upstairs was even darker, the air colder. The silence felt oppressive, a heavy blanket muffling any sound. My fingers traced the raised numbers on the key: 3B. I found the door, its paint chipped, a dark stain spreading from the bottom.
I pushed the key into the lock. It turned with a reluctant click. The door swung inward, revealing a room plunged into absolute darkness. A faint, musty smell greeted me. I stepped inside, the door closing with a soft thud behind me, plunging me into the blackness. I stretched out my hand, searching for a light switch, my fingers brushing against cold, damp wallpaper. My heart hammered. This place, this town, this fog… it felt like a trap. But for what? And why was I the one caught in it?
A sudden, sharp sound from outside made me jump. A distant, metallic clang, followed by a low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. It wasn't human. It wasn't animal, not any I knew. It was something else entirely, something hidden in the swirling grey outside. The old man's words echoed in my mind:
*Some things are better left buried.*
I stood frozen in the dark, the growl fading into the oppressive silence. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. Whatever was out there, whatever had caused the town to change, whatever had stolen my memories… it was waiting. And I, without a name, without a past, was standing right in its path.