Arin stepped inside his apartment building. The faint hum of the old elevator seemed louder tonight, almost accusing. He passed the familiar rows of doors, but something felt… wrong.
He found his mother in the kitchen, staring blankly at the stove. A kettle was whistling, but the sound was muted, as if muffled by some invisible hand.
"Mom?" Arin called.
She turned slowly, confusion clouding her eyes.
"Arin… who is… who are you?"
He froze. Her voice trembled with uncertainty. His own mother… didn't recognize him.
"Mom, it's me. Arin Vale. Your son."
She blinked repeatedly, her lips moving but no words came out. Then she shook her head violently. "No… no… you… you're… I don't…"
Arin's chest tightened. He reached out, gripping her shoulders. "Mom, listen to me! Something's wrong with the city. Names… they're disappearing!"
Her gaze softened briefly, but then she recoiled. "Names… vanish… forget… I… I can't… remember…"
A cold dread crept up Arin's spine. If even his mother could forget him, what chance did anyone else have?
He grabbed his coat. "We need to leave. Now."
Outside, the streets were worse. Shops had signs with nothing but blank spaces. Passersby moved like shadows, expressions vacant, murmuring fragmented words no one could understand.
A girl crouched on the curb caught his eye. Her hair fell over her face, and when she looked up, Arin noticed her eyes—sharp, aware, but empty of recognition.
"Mira?" he asked, though he barely knew the name.
She looked at him, lips quivering. "Do you… remember me?"
Arin swallowed hard. He did. Somehow, in this city of forgetting, he remembered everything about her.
Then the wind shifted, carrying a whisper through the street:
"Hold on… or be erased."
Arin clenched his fists. He didn't know what force ruled this city, but he understood one thing clearly:
If he didn't act, everyone he loved would vanish. And one by one, he would be forgotten too.