The hollow figure at the mouth of the alley shifted closer, the air around it warping, black static crackling along the ground. Behind it, more shadows gathered, a silent army of emptiness learning to walk, to speak — to **erase**.
Radit's pencil snapped under his grip. He dropped it, clutching Tamari's hand instead. "Stay with me," he whispered.
Tamari trembled, tears streaking her cheeks. "They… they're inside my head, Radit. Whispering my memories back to me twisted… broken."
The hollow figure hissed, its voice like a thousand echoes all speaking at once. **Give… us… words…** it breathed.
Radit gritted his teeth, forcing the fear down. "You can't have them," he spat. "These are **ours**."
He held up the notebook, its pages fluttering wildly as though caught in a phantom wind. "This city isn't empty. It never was," he shouted. "It's people, and moments, and pain, and hope. You can't erase that!"
The shadows recoiled, flickering, but then surged forward as one. The cracks in the ground erupted, spidering toward Radit and Tamari. The alley walls trembled, threatening to vanish into blank space.
Radit squeezed Tamari's hand so hard it hurt. "Say something," he begged. "Anything real!"
Tamari sobbed, then shouted through gritted teeth. "There was a cat here once! By the lantern shop! A tiny orange cat — it rubbed against my leg every time we came!"
A small flicker of warmth pulsed through the air. For an instant, Radit heard the faintest meow — a memory fighting to exist. The shadows shrieked, recoiling again.
Radit joined in, voice hoarse. "I remember the smell of dumplings in the market. The laughter of kids chasing each other past the stalls. I remember standing here wishing I had someone's hand to hold!"
The hollow figures trembled violently, their outlines glitching in and out of existence.
Then Tamari screamed, throwing her scarf into the air. "I remember loving this city even when it broke my heart!"
The scarf caught a phantom wind, glowing bright red in the darkness, like a small burning comet. It burst into flame — not of destruction, but of **memory** — scattering embers that hung in the air like fireflies.
The hollow figures howled, collapsing inward. Cracks in the ground sealed shut, the alley walls hardening. A shockwave of light and warmth rushed outward, pushing the blankness back beyond the edge of the square.
Radit fell to his knees, clutching Tamari as she sobbed into his shoulder. Around them, the world held steady. The shadows were gone — not destroyed, but driven back into whatever dark place had spawned them.
Tamari clung to him. "We… we did it," she whispered. "We held them off."
Radit nodded, shaking. "We're not done," he breathed. "But we proved something. We're not powerless. We **choose** which story stays."
He looked around at the fragments of lantern stalls, the faint glow of phantom lanterns drifting into the sky. He heard echoes of laughter, faint but stubborn, like the city **itself** was remembering, piece by piece.
Tamari touched his cheek, her eyes fierce. "We keep going," she said. "We keep fighting. We keep writing. Together."
Radit gripped her hand, staring into the dark beyond the square. "Let them come," he whispered. "We're ready."
And in the silence, a single word seemed to bloom in the air between them — not a threat, not a command, but a promise:
**Remember.**