Ash Ketchum had forgotten how to breathe.
Not because his lungs were failing—but because the air had stopped feeling real.
He stood at the edge of what used to be Pallet Town, boots buried in ash, the wind carrying the last whispers of a place the world had chosen to forget.
No trees.
No buildings.
Not even rubble.
Just a flat plain of white-grey dust, stretching beyond the horizon like the bones of a memory.
His gloved fingers trembled as he reached into his coat. The fabric was worn thin—stitched a hundred times over—but still held together by something stronger than thread.
A small, spherical object rested in his palm.
Red. White. Cracked.
A Poké Ball.
The last one.
Unopened. Unused. Untouched—for years.
And inside it—Pikachu.
Or at least… the echo of him.
> "They told me I imagined you.
That Pokémon were myths.
That I was sick.
But I still remember how you looked at me… when the world turned its back on us."
Ash closed his eyes.
There was no thunder anymore.
No sparks.
No warmth.
Only silence.
---
He wandered alone, across broken roads and empty cities. Once-glorious arenas stood like skeletons, collapsed under the weight of forgotten battles. Graffiti marked walls with twisted slogans:
> "Monsters never existed."
"Memory is the first virus."
"The Act will correct us all."
He passed through a checkpoint without resistance. The guards were long gone. Or perhaps they never existed.
The world didn't feel like a world anymore.
It felt like a stage after the play had ended.
---
Somewhere in the distance, a child screamed.
Ash's boots stopped mid-step.
His body moved before his mind caught up, cutting through an alley of crumbling steel and shadow.
He found her near a pile of burnt dolls—no older than six, coughing, sobbing. Her eyes were swollen. Her hand was bleeding.
He knelt down.
> "Are you hurt?"
"They took my brother…" she sobbed. "They said he remembered too much…"
Ash froze.
He recognized the mark on her wrist: a faint black stamp of a Poké Ball crossed out by a blade.
She was one of them.
One of the few who could still see—who hadn't let the world rewrite her.
He tore a strip from his coat and wrapped her wound. His voice was quiet.
> "You're going to live. That's your rebellion."
"Why did they take him?"
"Because he dreamed," Ash said. "And because dreamers are dangerous now."
She stared up at him. "Who are you?"
Ash hesitated.
Then, for the first time in years, he said it aloud.
> "I'm Ash Ketchum. From Pallet Town.
And I remember everything."
---
That night, he lit a fire.
Not for warmth. Not even for survival.
But for a ritual.
He placed the Poké Ball on the ground before him. The cracked red surface caught the firelight like an eye trying to open.
> "If you can hear me, buddy… I need you to wait a little longer."
"I think I found it. The last place."
"They call it The Theatre of Memory. Buried beneath Mt. Silver."
"They say it holds the last script. The true one."
"And I'm going to finish it."
---
Far above, the stars flickered. Not like lights—but like dying embers.
Ash sat alone, fire flickering, world fading.
But inside the Poké Ball, for just a moment—
A single spark blinked.
Like static.
Like a heartbeat.
Like thunder remembering how to breathe.
---