The sun barely touched the ruined horizon.
The Hollow Court behind them was nothing but scattered ash, a memory disintegrating with the breeze.
Fred limped forward, Mira supported against his side, Subject 0 trailing them like a silent ghost.
They crossed into the Forgotten District — a place no map dared record, no survivor spoke of.
The air changed instantly.
Thicker.
Heavier.
And utterly silent.
Even their footsteps made no sound on the cracked stone.
Fred glanced around uneasily.
The city here was wrong.
Buildings leaned at impossible angles.
Streets ended abruptly in jagged cliffs of nothingness.
Shadows moved without light.
Time seemed fractured — broken images flickering in the corners of their eyes: children laughing in empty windows, doors slamming without wind, figures hanging in the air like trapped memories.
---
At a bent signpost, an inscription barely clung to life:
> "All who enter here trade their names for silence."
Fred brushed the dust away, frowning.
He could feel it already.
A tugging at his mind.
As if the District itself wanted to erase him.
Wanted him to forget who he was.
Fred...
Even the thought of his own name seemed to drift farther from him the deeper they walked.
He squeezed Mira's hand tighter.
Subject 0 muttered something under his breath — the first words Fred had ever heard him speak.
"Don't let go. Not here."
Fred nodded grimly.
They had to stay together.
They had to stay real.
---
As night fell, they reached a narrow street flanked by tall, crumbling walls.
Hundreds of faces stared at them from the stone.
Carved.
Twisting.
Screaming.
Some smiled.
Some wept.
Some whispered things Fred couldn't understand.
Mira whimpered softly.
Fred fought down the shiver crawling up his spine.
This place was alive.
Not with people.
But with what people had left behind.
He caught sight of a face near the ground — young, desperate, familiar.
It looked like Mira.
Exactly like her.
Fred yanked his gaze away.
No.
Tricks.
Just tricks.
Keep moving.
Don't listen.
Don't remember.
---
At the center of the street, they found it:
A figure seated on a throne of broken dreams and forgotten prayers.
Its body was stitched together from countless limbs and faces, its head a swirling mass of hair and teeth.
It was weaving.
Threads of memory.
Threads of existence.
As they watched, it plucked a strand from the air — and somewhere, far away, Fred was sure a child cried out in terror.
The Weaver tilted its monstrous head toward them.
No eyes.
No mouth.
And yet Fred felt it smile.
Welcome.
---
Fred stepped forward.
The Weaver extended a hand, offering something:
A single thread.
Thin.
Fragile.
Flickering with images.
Fred's heart twisted.
He saw himself, Mira, Subject 0 — walking free under a clear sky, laughing, healed.
A life untouched by pain.
A life he had never lived.
"Take it," a voice whispered in his mind.
"Take it, and you can leave this place. Forget the hurt. Forget the fight."
Fred's fingers twitched.
Mira's hand tightened on his.
Subject 0 stepped closer, a deep rumble in his chest — warning, pleading.
Fred closed his eyes.
Breathed in the poisoned air.
And let the thread fall from his fingers.
"No."
He opened his eyes.
Met the Weaver's empty gaze.
"I choose the pain. I choose the fight."
The Weaver paused.
Then slowly withdrew.
The ground trembled.
The walls groaned.
Reality itself seemed to crack.
And somewhere deep inside the Forgotten District, a new path opened — jagged and dark.
Waiting.
--
Fred took the first step.
Mira and Subject 0 followed.
No hesitation.
No promises.
Only the certainty of the unknown.
They descended into the shadows, the light above shrinking into a pinprick.
Deeper into the place where memories died.
Deeper into the heart of the city.
Where something ancient was waiting for them.
Something that remembered everything.
Even them.
Even their sins.
--