The path to the second seal wound through terrain that felt… older. The trees grew taller here, not in defiance of time but with it—bark creased like folded parchment, roots curled around stones that pulsed faintly with stardust.
They had walked for hours in silence, guided by Lumen and the occasional flicker of light through the canopy—lantern fungi, stars caught in branches, or perhaps… something watching.
The Guide led them without words, their steps soundless, even over twigs and fallen leaves. Only once did they pause—to press a hand to the trunk of a tree split down the center. No words. Just reverence.
Eventually, the trees thinned into a clearing. It was small, circular—unnaturally perfect. At the center stood a ruin, half-swallowed by ivy and fog. The shape of it seemed wrong—as if it had been built not with hands but with memory itself.
Cira stepped closer, her voice barely more than breath.
"This place… it hums."
Elian said nothing, but the mark on his chest had begun to burn again—faintly at first, then stronger. He pressed a hand to it as the Guide finally turned to face them.
"This is the second," they said. "But unlike the first, it does not give. It waits to be understood."
Cira tilted her head. "What does that mean?"
The Guide didn't answer directly. Instead, they approached a stone basin near the ruin's edge—circular, moss-lined, filled not with water… but with light. It shimmered and shifted like liquid memory.
"Long ago," the Guide said, "when the memory was sealed, pieces of truth were hidden. Not only to keep the pain away… but to test whether it was ever meant to return."
They reached into the basin—just a fingertip—and the light rippled. Symbols surfaced across the ruin's stones: spirals, crescents, and broken words in a language neither Elian nor Cira recognized.
"A puzzle?" Elian said flatly.
"A trial," the Guide corrected.
"Memory will not bloom in those who refuse to see. This seal will not open to force. You must look inward—and outward."
They turned to go—but paused.
"To remember more," they said softly, "you must first understand what you already hold."
A pause.
"What you've awakened… will only make sense when seen through the eyes of another."
And then they were gone—faded into the fog without even a sound. No goodbye. No direction. Just the echo of their words.
As evening sets in...
Cira and Elian remained in the clearing. The basin pulsed gently, like a heartbeat in stone. Neither of them spoke for a while.
"…What do you think it means?" Cira asked at last. "See through another's eyes?"
Elian knelt beside the basin, his reflection distorting in the liquid light.
"I don't know," he said. "But I think… we're supposed to feel something. Not just solve it. Remember through feeling."
Cira sat beside him, frowning thoughtfully. "Like… the bond between us is part of it?"
He didn't answer.
Because maybe it was.
They stayed a little longer—touching the stones, watching the shifting symbols, waiting for a pattern to emerge. But nothing stirred.
Not yet.
So they left. Quietly.
Lumen walked ahead, his glow soft and steady.
The forest was darker now. Not threatening—but hushed, as if it knew what had been left behind in the clearing. Cira walked beside Elian, arms loosely crossed, eyes lowered in thought.
They didn't speak for a long time. Only the soft crunch of earth beneath their boots and the occasional flick of Lumen's tail ahead broke the quiet.
But the silence was heavy. Not the kind that rested—it pressed, as though both of them were carrying something too fragile to speak aloud.
Finally, Cira broke it.
"Elian," she said quietly, "do you ever wish… we hadn't found any of this?"
He didn't answer right away. He kept his gaze forward, but she saw the way his fingers twitched slightly at his side—like they wanted to say something before his voice did.
"…Sometimes," he said at last, "I wish I could forget again. But then I remember… I already tried that. And it didn't save me."
She looked over at him. "Do you think remembering will?"
He slowed slightly. "I don't know. But it might save someone."
Cira's chest ached at that. There was something about the way he said it—quiet, like it wasn't meant to be heard. Like there was someone else trapped inside him… still screaming to be let out.
"I saw your pain," she whispered. "That child in the snow. The woman."
Elian finally turned to look at her.
"There was no warmth in that memory," she continued, voice shaking a little. "But I felt it anyway. The moment your eyes met hers. Even if she was afraid."
His eyes darkened—not with anger, but a shadow deeper than sorrow.
"She promised to protect me," he said. "But I think she was more afraid of what I was becoming than what might hurt me."
The words weren't meant to fall out. He hadn't meant to give that piece away. But he didn't take it back either.
The cottage came into view through the thinning trees—its windows glowing faintly, smoke curling from the chimney like a lullaby.
As they stepped onto the garden path, Cira glanced back at the trail behind them.
The forest had sealed the way again. As if the moment was done.
But not forgotten.
Just before she opened the cottage door, she turned to Elian once more.
"If we're going to do this," she said softly, "really do this… you have to let me see. Not just the memories. You."
And for a heartbeat, his guarded expression cracked—just slightly.
"I'm trying," he said.
Then the door opened, and they stepped inside.
And the seal remained waiting—like a locked memory watching them from behind its stone veil.
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