I used to think memories died if you starved them long enough.
Turns out they just come flooding back—hungry.
This is what came back when the light touched me. When it dragged the dust out of my bones.
We lived in a shack that leaned like it had already given up. The roof leaked. The walls were mold. The rats didn't hide. They owned the place.
I hated that I could still smell it. That it still lives in me.
Some nights it howled. Some nights it whispered.
I used to think I hated that place.
But now I know—I just hated who I was when I left it.
Every night, it reminded us:
We're still here.
Still breathing.
Still broken.
Still… ours.
For a while.
I had a brother.
Kaelen.
Three years old. All wide eyes and wobble-steps.
Blond hair. Blue eyes. Like he was the light—
and I was the dark.
He followed me everywhere. I used to think it was because he was scared.
Later, I realized it was because he thought I made him safe.
He was wrong.
He had this... glow.
Not literal. Not yet.
Just something warm. Something kind.
The sort of kindness that makes you want to scream, because you know the world's going to chew it up and spit out the bones.
People liked him.
It made my skin itch.
Our mother—Lira—kept her head down. Always did.
She worked odd jobs. Lifted crates. Whatever kept food on the table and eyes off our door.
She never let us near temples.
Never touched their gold.
She'd pull us into alleyways or behind laundry lines whenever priests passed by. If she heard chanting in the distance, she ducked into doorways and pressed us flat to the wall until the noise faded.
When the Church did their yearly procession through the slums—robes dragging through the mud, blessing us like it made a difference—she made us hide.
Under beds. Behind crates. Anywhere the light wouldn't reach.
I remember once, watching her through a curtain as she watched them.
Not fear in her eyes.
Something colder.
Something older.
I asked her why, once.
She didn't look at me.
Just said:
"Gods don't forgive their mistakes. They burn them."
That shut me up.
At the time, I didn't understand.
But hindsight has a way of circling back with teeth.
She was always hiding something.
I just didn't see it.
Or maybe I did—and I was too young, too stupid, or too hopeful to ask.
It happened on a dull afternoon.
Nothing special. Sky was gray. Air tasted like coal smoke and piss.
We were sent out.
Mother said she had to take care of something. Didn't say what. Just looked at me too long that morning—held my face like she was memorizing it.
So we left.
Went to the clay pits.
Where the kids from the slums went to play—if you could even call it that.
The ground out there was soft, red clay. Always damp. The older kids said it was red from blood—that it soaked into the ground a long time ago and never left.
I didn't believe them.
Not back then.
We spent the afternoon kicking stones and pretending we weren't hungry.
There were other kids doing the same. Chasing shadows. Throwing rocks. Wrestling for no reason.
Just distractions.
Just noise.
Ways to pretend the world wasn't already chewing us up.
But that day felt different.
There was someone new.
Reyda.
Sharp-tongued. Fast-footed. A year older than me and twice as dangerous. Long brown hair. Bright green eyes. A stare like broken glass.
Once saw her bite a boy's ear when he tried to steal from her—full bite, blood and all. He cried. She didn't.
There was something about her.
Not just how she walked, or how she talked back to older kids without blinking.
Something real.
Something alive.
Like she didn't know this place was supposed to kill people like her.
That day, a group of older kids from the deeper slums cornered us at the edge of the clay pits. Their leader, Jak, a tall boy with dead eyes and a rusty blade, had a reputation for taking whatever he wanted—food, coins, dignity.
Jak eyed Reyda's small sack of dried meat, smirking. "Hand it over, little girl. Or I'll take more than your snacks."
She didn't move. Didn't blink. "Try it."
I tensed. Jak laughed. His blade flashed dull red in the fading sunlight. He lunged.
But Reyda moved faster.
She ducked under his swing, snatched a stone from the ground, and slammed it hard against his jaw. Bone cracked, blood-spattered, but he swung again in rage. This time the blade caught her—quick, shallow, slicing along her clavicle. Blood dripped down her chest.
She didn't even flinch.
Instead, Reyda stood taller, eyes blazing like green fire. She wiped the blood away, smearing it across her cheek like warpaint.
"You done?" she growled.
Jak hesitated, visibly shaken, blood seeping from his mouth. His followers shifted nervously, eyes darting between their wounded leader and this girl who stood fearless, bloodied, and alive.
Finally, Jak spit into the clay and turned away, muttering curses. His pack trailed after him, leaving Reyda standing victorious, chest rising and falling calmly.
She turned back to us, blood still fresh, eyes fierce yet strangely gentle. "Never let anyone take what you're not willing to give," she said. Quiet. Fierce.
And that was the moment something cracked.
Not in her—but in the world around her.
The slums were a graveyard that never got buried. Stone homes stacked like broken teeth. People moved like ghosts, hunger eating at their bones until they disappeared.
Most of us just faded. We survived by becoming invisible. Reyda didn't.
She stood there bloodied and bright like she hadn't gotten the message that this place was meant to kill people like her.
Escape wasn't a dream. It was a lie you stopped telling yourself by the time you were twelve.
But watching her that day—how she bled and smiled and stayed standing—
I almost believed it again.
I didn't know what to call that feeling.
Not then.
But it made me want to fight. To move. To matter.
To be more than what this city—Dravorn—had planned for me.
But before I could say anything—
before I could step forward—
The world snapped shut.
Something pulled me backward. Like falling through myself.
I woke with a gasp.
My breath caught hard in my chest, like I'd been drowning in memory and finally kicked to the surface.
Dark ceiling. Dust. Rot.
Still the slums. Still night.
I blinked.
Too quiet.
I wiped the sweat from my face, then laughed.
Bitter. Shaky.
"Bad dreams," I muttered.
"Guess I'm overdue."
My body ached like I'd fought something real.
Maybe I had.
The glow had faded. The room was dim again. Cold.
I pushed myself up slowly, joints stiff from the floor. My hand brushed something damp.
Cloth.
Warm.
Sticky.
I turned.
She was still there.
The woman.
The one I'd stabbed.
Still breathing. Barely.
Her chest rose in short, shallow gasps. Blood soaked her dress. The light from earlier had dried, but it hadn't healed her.
And now—I saw her.
No blur.
No fog.
No smudged outline.
Her face was clear.
Every line.
Every shadow.
Her eyes were still open, but barely.
At first I refused to believe it.
Why did it have to be her?
"Reyda?"
My breath caught in my throat.
Reyda.
The girl who stood her ground while the rest of us faded.
Who once stood at the edge of the world and said she'd change it.
The one who gave me something I didn't recognize back then.
Hope.
And I put a knife in her back.
Was this what hope looked like now? Torn and bleeding in the dark?
I wanted to say sorry. But what's sorry worth when it drips from the same hand that held the blade?
My mouth went dry.
I stared at her like she was a ghost.
Maybe she was.
Maybe I was.
She coughed—wet, weak.
Blood touched her lips, then dried.
My eyes burned.
When did I last cry?
I thought that part of me was long dead.
But this—
She gave me courage.
I gave her a knife.
And now it hurts.
Whatever I was once...
I'm not anymore.
Her lips moved.
Barely.
A breath, cracked and broken.
"Aren…"