"Some memories are not meant to be found.
Some should remain buried in the dark."
Lengaza didn't wake up.
He was awake—but his body refused to move.
His mind was trapped in the flood of voices and faces and stories he wasn't sure were his.
The village. The boy. The name.
It wasn't real.
Except it felt real.
Every pulse of light that moved through his mind brought a new vision. A new memory.
"I was… someone else," he whispered. "I was…"
A room appeared.
Not the broken ruins or the forgotten village.
A real room.
In it, a mirror.
And in the mirror, a man.
His face was unfamiliar—but his eyes were unmistakable.
"Who… are you?" Lengaza asked, voice trembling.
The man smiled, though there was no warmth in his expression. His skin was cracked like dry clay. His hands were made of feathers—wild and untamed.
"I am you.
And I am the reason you forgot."
Lengaza's heart beat harder.
"You erased me. You—"
"No," the man interrupted. "I didn't erase you. I created you. But you were never meant to exist."
The world around Lengaza shuddered. The ground cracked open.
"You weren't supposed to wake up," the man continued. "But you did. And now the world will remember you, whether it's ready or not."
Suddenly, the mirror shattered.
A new scene erupted:
A dark room.
Cold stone.
A flickering candlelight.
Lengaza felt his breath against the stone floor, but his body was bound by invisible chains.
A figure entered, cloaked in robes.
The candlelight flickered—casting shadows over the figure's face.
"He's finally waking up," the figure muttered, lifting their hood.
It was Nyra—but not.
Her face was older. Her eyes, weary. And on her hand—an ancient ring of feathers.
"Nyra, what's going on? What are you doing?" Lengaza asked, panic rising.
Nyra looked down at him, sorrow in her eyes. "You were never meant to be this way, Lengaza."
She placed her hands over his heart. The ground rumbled. The air grew heavy.
"You shouldn't have remembered."
The mirror cracked again, and Lengaza was pulled back.
To the Present
But this time, the world around him was different.
The Collector stood at the center of the storm.
His mask was cracked. His glowing eyes were dimming.
"Lengaza," the Collector whispered, voice ragged. "You're not supposed to be here. You're not supposed to exist."
Lengaza stepped forward.
His chest burned with the truth he didn't want to face.
"I was never supposed to be erased," he whispered. "I was never meant to be a ghost. And I'm not the boy you think I am."