The mist in Glenraeth never burned off fully.
Even in morning, when the sun stretched over the valley and lit the moss-slick rooftops in amber, the fog clung to corners of streets and minds alike. Here, memory was a brittle thing. Names bent under the pressure of silence. Whole faces slipped from thought like dust through water.
In the orphanage behind the Weaving Temple, they called the morning bell "the stitcher's breath"—the sound that roused the bones of the house. Sage was always awake before it.
He moved like someone used to being alone in crowded rooms. His motions were small, efficient, kind. Bowls set out, tea poured, bread cut. He didn't hum or sigh. He just existed, softly.
His siblings arrived first. Always.
Meren, still wrapped in his blanket like a wandering ghost. Ilya, face pinched with focus, already counting how many pieces of bread were left.
"You boiled too much water again," she said, voice thick with sleep.
"It's for the others."
"They'll forget do did it anyways."
"They always do." Sage smiled gently. "It still helps."
Other children arrived one by one, barely alert enough to greet anyone. When they saw Sage, most hesitated, with a flicker of recognition trying to surface, like a name half-remembered from a dream. Then they moved on, greeting the others instead. One of them poured a second cup of tea, not knowing who it was for.
When the bread ran out, no one offered Sage a piece. He was used to it and smiled in the background.
Later, after the children dispersed, Sage swept the dining room floor and gathered dishes into the basin. The matron bustled in, a clipboard in one hand.
"Oh, thank you, uh…" she frowned, blinking. "Who are you again?"
Sage smiled "No one important"
"Sorry, were you one of the older helpers from town?"
Sage shook his head. "I live here."
Her brow furrowed, then smoothed. "Well, I'm sure you're doing good work, dear. Keep at it."
She left. Sage quietly rinsed his hands. He didn't sigh.
He had long since stopped taking it personally.
It's my birthday today. He thought to himself.
He took the back path to the chapel, an old trail past a grove of whisperwillows, trees that absorbed ambient thought. Their leaves shimmered slightly as he passed, curling in his direction like they remembered him. Spirits never forgot as easily as people did. Perhaps because they saw Will instead of face.
The Church stood at the crest of a hill, half-grown from stone, half-etched by the magic of old spirits. The stained-glass eye at its crown pulsed faintly in the light.
Sage liked it here. Magic collected in the church like dust in sunbeams. It was quiet, faint, easy to ignore unless you were looking.
He worked in silence, straightening prayer mats, relighting memory candles. Father Emon wandered in around third bell, squinting.
"Oh, hello there Sage, when did you get here?" the priest asked. Sage was grateful to him, as he were the only few who could remember his name.
"I was here two hours ago"
"Ah." Emon nodded politely. "The incense smells better today."
"I replaced the old charcoal."
"Good initiative!"
Sage just smiled.
At fourth bell, a small commotion broke the stillness. A boy-whose name he remembered as Rett-ran into the chapel clutching a jagged crystal, wide-eyed and breathless.
"Father! I found one, I found a shardstone!"
The crystal in his hands pulsed. A spirit fragment that was leaking weak resonance from the Underworld's seams, making it especially rare and valuable for people in a small city like Glenreath.
Sage watched from the back as Father Emon approached with gentle hands.
"Where did you find this, Rett?"
"Near the field wall! It just… just fell there, glowing!"
"Dangerous," Emon muttered. "Very. Such stones can bleed memory if disturbed."
Rett's grip tightened. "But I found it. I want to keep it. Can't you seal it?"
"Perhaps," the priest said, wary.
But Sage saw it first: the stone was already dimming. The resonance was unstable—Rett's emotional imprint was making it volatile. It would burst.
He stepped forward.
"Let me," he said quietly.
Everyone turned. The priest looked surprised to see him there at all. The young boy asked curously "Who are you again?"
Sage hesitated for a moment to ponder whether to give the boy his name or not.
"Sage,"
He approached Rett slowly. The boy flinched, uncertain.
"I can hold it," Sage said softly. "Just for a second."
Rett hesitated. Then gave it over.
The moment Sage touched it, the stone flared, but only for a breath.
And then stilled.
He whispered to it. Names, fragments of hymns he had heard but never sung. He remembered for it. Anchored it.
By the time he handed it back, it was no longer dangerous.
The priest took it carefully. "That… was very well done."
Sage bowed his head. "I just remembered how it was supposed to feel."
"Have you trained in resonance?"
"No," Sage said, honestly.
Rett blinked. "Wait, who are you again?"
Sage smiled. "No one important."
That night, he sat by the old window in the attic. Journal open, candle low.
He wrote a name in the corner of the page: Helped a boy today. His name is Rett. Sealed a broken shardstone for him.
He closed the journal and did his usual nightly prayer. He prayed to the gods he did not believe in: I wish to be remembered.