At first—
Cael didn't notice.
Because forgetting—
Is silent.
No sound.
No fracture.
No warning.
Just absence.
They walked without speaking.
The city had returned to its rhythm.
People moved.
Lights flickered.
Life continued—
As if nothing had shifted.
But something had.
The girl stayed close beside him.
Not out of fear.
Out of instinct.
Like standing near something unstable—
Even when it looked calm.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly.
Cael nodded.
Too quickly.
Because something felt wrong.
Not pain.
Not weakness.
Space.
Like a word on the tip of his tongue—
That refused to exist.
He stopped walking.
"Do you hear that?" he asked.
She frowned.
"Hear what?"
He listened.
Nothing.
And that was the problem.
There used to be something there.
A sound.
A memory.
A presence.
Warm.
Important.
Gone.
His chest tightened.
"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.
The girl blinked.
"What?"
He looked at her.
Really looked.
And for the first time—
He realized—
He didn't know.
Not because she hadn't told him.
But because he had forgotten.
The silence stretched.
"You… don't remember?" she asked.
Her voice wasn't angry.
It was afraid.
Cael opened his mouth—
Closed it again.
He searched.
There should have been a moment.
A first meeting.
A reason he trusted her.
But there was nothing.
Just now.
"I…" he hesitated.
The fractured light pulsed faintly.
Balance.
Price.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
She stepped back.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
"I told you," she whispered.
"I told you the first day."
He believed her.
And that was worse.
Because it meant—
The cost had begun.
"I still know you matter," he said.
Truth.
But incomplete.
Her eyes shimmered.
"That's not the same."
No.
It wasn't.
Because memory is what gives meaning to choice.
And without it—
Choice becomes instinct.
Or obligation.
Or nothing at all.
"Will it keep happening?" she asked.
He didn't lie.
"I think so."
Above—
The observers watched in silence.
Because this—
Was the true test.
Not survival.
Not power.
Identity.
Could something choose—
If it no longer remembered why?
Cael looked at his wrist.
The fractured light dimmed.
Not calmer.
Satisfied.
A payment made.
He clenched his hand.
"I won't let it take everything."
But the problem wasn't time.
It was balance.
And balance—
Never stopped at one.
The girl turned away slightly.
"What was it?" he asked quietly.
She hesitated.
Then answered.
"My name."
A simple thing.
But to her—
It was proof she existed in his world.
And now—
That proof was gone.
He nodded slowly.
"I'll remember again."
But neither of them knew—
If remembering was something choice could restore.
Or if some things—
Once paid—
Were gone forever.