Archive of Our Own ^beta

You are nobody. Just a wanderer passing through.

This world has nothing to offer. People here live among rubbish and filth and lost dreams, which they throw away as if there’s no saving their worn-out hope. Most of them have resigned themselves to their circumstances, to the darkness, the lack of sunshine and the stench that lurks around every corner. It’s an observation that you, like so many things, record. This task is the only reason you exist.

Everyone is given a different mission in life. Yours is to preserve people, the world, and everything around it for posterity. Every book you fill with your words ends up in a library that has existed for centuries – created and maintained by people like you. Givers who possess a skill that makes them shadows of society.

No matter where you go, no one will ever remember you. No one will ever nod their head and say they know you once lived. You’ll never leave your name in history. But if you sit down and write something, then at least one day you’ll leave behind words that will inspire or inform someone after you. And maybe that’s worth more than any heroic deed you'll find in magazines.

What you want to capture this time is the legend of the Lady of Penta, whose world is said to exist almost solely in a tower. You’ve never seen her, but the stories tell of a beautiful girl with a warm gaze and a heartfelt smile.

Finding the tower where she lives like a princess is no challenge for someone like you. Thanks to your profession, hardly anyone knows this hellhole better than you do. That’s why it's so easy to find a run-down structure like this tower, whose exterior looks more stable than its interior.

As soon as you set foot on the broken stone tiles, the air around you seems to become a little more pleasant. It’s tempting enough to take off the mask on your face and draw a deep, dusty breath. This place is bearable, even if it seems almost surreal that a tower in the middle of nowhere in Penta doesn’t have to deal with bad air and a sea of rubbish. The Lady of Penta lives well here, that much is certain.

Your footsteps barely echo as you drag yourself up the stairs to a wide double door whose bygone days seem endless. The solid material feels heavy under your hands, yet opens easily with a gentle squeak. She seems to take good care of her home. A fact you can hold on to when you step behind the door and enter a room that is not perfectly tidy but has a certain homely charm. Between a bed, some fabric and trivia that seems to have no real meaning, sits a girl. The Lady of Penta. She isn’t anything like she’s been described. Her eyes possess a warm coldness that draws you into her arms. An endless desert without water that has never learnt to nurture what it attracts. Meanwhile, the smile on her lips creates the appearance of a doll. The face of a girl completely untouched by the world, stuck in a place that has broken her in a way that can only be seen if you let her lure you into no man’s land.

“Who are you?” She tilts her head as if you pose no threat. Strangers seem to be just another element in a world she hasn’t quite understood yet. “Have you come to see Amo?”

You nod, explaining that you came because you heard about the Lady of Penta. A mystery you want to investigate to find out how much of the fairy tales people tell are true. Now you’re standing here, in her room, and you have the chance to grasp the true nature of her existence.

She blinks a few times before her smile becomes a little more radiant and a slight blush appears on her cheeks. Immediately afterwards, she pulls herself to her feet and presents herself to you in all her glory. Her thin body is wrapped in a worn dress that reveals a lot of her upper body and underwear. It barely covers her chest, as if she wants to present herself to someone who appreciates the sight of a young woman’s skin. Perhaps someone who has made that her entire personality, because otherwise she seems almost a little lifeless.

“Have you really come to meet Amo?” She raises her arms, which are hidden behind a double layer of fabric that someone has attached to both arms with a belt. In the next moment, she turns on the spot, graceful as a princess, her dark brown hair seeming to dance lightly with her. The orange tips of the long front strands seem a little fiery in comparison, and it’s almost possible to believe that there is more life in her than what she conveys at first glance.

“Do you want to talk to Amo about love?” she suddenly asks. “Have you ever been in love?”

You could answer this question and tell her what you know, what you feel and what you have perceived up to this point. Fact is, however, that you didn’t come to this place to talk to her about romance. Love has no place in your life. Not in this position, where the history of an entire generation weighs on your shoulders. You can only make it clear to this girl – Amo – that you don’t want to have a conversation like this.

It’s much more important to know who brought her to this place. Is there anyone else here besides her? Does she have contact with other people? How long has she been in this tower, waiting for something that neither of you can probably put into words?

“Amo doesn’t want to ... talk about it...” The expression on her pretty face suddenly becomes harder than the rusty steel that sometimes falls from the sky. Any friendliness between you is stifled. Her knowledge of the things that would be important for your report, she keeps to herself. “Did you just come to question Amo?”

Her concerns are probably relevant, considering that the people out there assume she has the most information about most things. But you can assure her that your intentions aren’t like that. Sometimes, to have a conversation, you have to ask questions and answer them. You have to share your experiences with each other, even if it feels a bit like questioning. You can’t get to know each other if you’re not willing to talk a little about yourself and your circumstances.

Amo sees things differently.

She presses her lips together so tightly that their intense pink colour almost disappears. Her orange-coloured eyes narrow to slits, and she lets her previously raised arms hang motionless. Her posture, her behaviour – none of it is willing to play by standard social rules. Instead, she stares at you as if you’re just another insect among the many swarming around down here.

“If you don’t want to talk to Amo, then Amo will make sure you have no choice but to talk to her!” She shouts at you as if you’re the problem. And maybe you are, because this girl is hard to read and you make too many mistakes. On the other hand, even the nicest words between you could meet with her displeasure. It’s a bit like there’s an invisible film between you that distorts everything and makes it ugly, reminding you that everyone perceives things differently.

In those seconds, you can only watch as she uses her oversized boots to drag them across the floor with a hiss. Her eyes glow in a way that reaches right to your core. She seems to want to devour you, intent on pushing you into an imaginary corner from which you cannot escape.

Immediately afterwards, you smell something long forgotten. A scent that you associate with something you once loved very much and that still touches your heart. It weighs heavily on your soul, constricts your throat, while longing breaks out, tempting every fibre of your body to another place.

But your abilities as a Giver, as a chosen protocol woman, make you incompatible with these feelings. Your defence against false external influences within you doesn’t allow anything more than this feeling of former longing to flare up inside you. Amo’s ability brings nothing but pain that tugs at the corners of your mouth. Perhaps you even smile in the face of all the things that slip through your fingertips. Perhaps you also twist your mouth because you would like to reach for every single grain of sand, hoping to possess something all for yourself. Something other than what made you a Giver in the first place.

“Why aren’t you reacting?” Amo’s eyes widen. She expected something else. It probably has to do with further rumours that have reached you about the Lady of Penta. Judging by what you see, feel and perceive, she is capable of evoking memories so real that it feels like you are back in a place where everything was still somehow okay.

You, however, only see Amo. All you can say to her is that your focus is on her and that her ability has no power over you. Here and now, she is helpless. She has no control over the situation.

And it’s this lack of control that makes her lips part as if she’s lost for words. Her shoulders start to shake before a tense laugh escapes her throat, in disbelief and almost as frightened as an adult who can already taste the end of their life on their tongue.

“Go away...” She takes a step back, putting distance between you, while her thin fingers tug at the short scarf she wears around her neck. Her chest rises and falls faster with each passing second, and the fear of suffocation seems to be more deeply rooted in her than the anger at not being able to have her way with you. Perhaps she is simply afraid of no longer having control over the tiny space that should belong to her alone. You have taken the only thing that was solely in her hands. Something that, besides her shoes, must have a special place in her heart.

“Get out of Amo’s house!” She shouts louder than before, leaving no room for negotiation. There's enough courage in her to point to a hole in the wall that could also be seen as an oversized window, as if she’d prefer you to take the quickest and most painful route down.

But that is also a wish you cannot grant her. All you can do is apologise for not being able to give her what she longs for and for having to ignore her wishes once again. You are genuinely interested in her and her story, and you cannot leave before you have recorded this chapter. It would be nice if she talked about herself. You are willing to listen.

Her hand drops as she looks at you a little longer. “Why are you so mean to Amo?”

You are not mean to her, not in the slightest. Still, you have to ask what is mean about your interest in her, and it is at this moment that she shrugs her shoulders and lowers her head as if you’ve reprimanded her for something.

When she looks up again, her eyes are watery. “Why do you want Amo to remember? Amo wants to talk about nicer things.”

Every story has a beginning, a middle, and often an end. All you ask of her is a two-part act. A beginning and a storyline that brought her to this place. It’s obvious that there are unpleasant aspects besides loneliness. After all, she is all alone in this place. But you can’t learn to understand her if she doesn’t tell you about herself.

“What about you? Will you tell Amo about yourself?”

There isn’t much to know about you. You are a Giver. You spend your life recording and immortalising world events. In between, you are a person with feelings and hobbies and dreams and ideas that will never have enough space in your life to ever be relevant here. Wherever you’ve been, people forget you. This is something you must remind yourself of again and again. It doesn’t make goodbyes any easier, but it transforms them into something bearable. Because even if they can no longer remember you, the things you experienced with them are forever engraved in your mind and your records. Every person who enters your life gets at least one line on paper. At least one sentence, dried between the covers, waiting to be read again one day.

Amo listens, back in a sitting position on the floor, to your words, your story and the parts where you talk about what you have already seen. Little things that you can easily discuss with others. Because one day, Amo will no longer remember this conversation either, and that’s okay.

“Amo won’t forget you,” she protests. Suddenly, she is completely calm again, as if all the commotion before hadn’t happened. Her eyes appear wide and round, and she could hardly seem more childlike.

No matter how long you look at her, her behaviour makes it difficult to place her in an age group. At first, she could have been twenty. Then came the image of a sixteen-year-old trying desperately to fit into a mould that's been imposed on her but which she can’t live up to because, at the end of the day, she doesn’t fit into it. Right now, apart from her body, she could also be ten. Awkward and lost, yet so sure that there is still a little hope out there that you could take her in your arms. Not because she is cute, but because this childlike behaviour is something that should be protected in times like these.

The people here at the bottom, among the rubbish and corpses, grow up with their first step at the hand of another. They have no chance of being what you find above the clouds. The people at the bottom cannot be compared to those in the sky. At least according to the records in the library.

“Amo has been here for a very long time,” she finally reveals to you, and it’s a step forward. “Mama passed Amo on to a man who loved Amo very much. He gave Amo clothes when Amo grew, and he pierced Amo’s leg with these pretty ribbons.”

Corset piercings. A painful procedure that looks pretty on her skinny legs, yet is nothing more than an act of destruction towards her existence. The question arises as to whether Amo even wanted them.

“Amo loves cute and pretty things! That’s why he took a needle and made these ribbons. It hurt, but it healed well and only got a little infected.”

She probably didn’t receive any anaesthetic. Or he knocked her out so she wouldn’t feel the pain. Both options are terrible, and it would be much easier to believe that she was given a proper sedative; that this stranger was good to her, even if he isn't present now.

“He’s dead,” Amo explains. She lowers her eyelids, her strangely long lashes conjuring a touch of extraordinary beauty on her face. “Amo pushed him, and then he fell.”

She killed him. Perhaps in an accident, perhaps out of sheer desperation.

“He always did these things to Amo. Out of love. Amo always had to lie still so he could slide his hand between her thighs. He always said it was a way to connect and that it was important when you’re in love. It always hurt, but Amo likes love.” She smiles at you when she looks at you again. “And then Amo was allowed to wear these shoes afterwards.”

Lost in thought, she plays with her hair as if recalling a special moment that made her life a little easier. However, the truth behind this gesture is different.

“Amo loved these shoes because they belonged to someone Amo probably loved too. And that’s why these shoes were so important, even though he wanted them back. But Amo wanted them so badly that there was an argument, and when he tried to take them away, Amo threw herself at him. And suddenly there were these shoes in Amo’s arms, and he fell out of the tower, and ... since then, Amo has been alone.”

As if she wants to erase this memory, she clicks the shoes together. When you look at these well-maintained items, which appear clunky and out of place on her feet, they look like they were made for someone who plans long hikes over uneven ground. They aren’t shoes that suit a girl who spends most of her time in this tower. Still, she is attached to them. Enough to master the power of a Giver.

However, the smell emanating from them is more than unpleasant. It’s reminiscent of a mixture of sweat, dust and decay, as found in damp places.

“Amo likes strong smells,” she throws in. She seems to have correctly interpreted the face you made. No one can really find this stench pleasant, and yet this girl is convinced that this scent is exactly what she can appreciate.

Still, it’s a little hard to believe, and you play it safe. After all, you don’t want to make any mistakes in your notes. It is important to record everything as accurately as possible. However, Amo just nods and smiles, but not at you. It seems to be directed at something far away that she has long since been unable to reach. “The stronger the smell, the better. It means you’re not alone.”

Loneliness is something that will one day drive many people in this place mad, because not everyone is as happy as they appear to be. Amo is one of them, and yet, with her slightly reddened cheeks, the hope in her eyes, the life that sometimes seems so tangible in her thin body, she’s probably the most graceful figure among the shadows of loneliness you’ll ever encounter in your life. She takes these moments with such dignity and so much stubborn perception that it’s hard to believe how quickly her mood can change.

Just like in these moments, when her eyelids droop slightly and she lets her shoulders slump. Hope fades, and all that remains is sadness, which she holds tightly in her arms. She clings to her drawn-up knees with her hands before looking up at you from below. “Will you leave something here so that Amo can remember?”

You mustn’t leave anything behind. And even if you were foolish enough to let her wrap you around her little finger, she would eventually see any object you gave her as nothing more than rubbish, which she would throw away as soon as the opportunity arose. There is no hope for a happy ending. No possibility of changing even the slightest thing. That’s why you say no. You have no choice but to disappoint Amo again, and it flips another switch in her. Her whole personality snaps from one version to the next. She doesn’t give you time to adjust. Amo just jumps up and glares at you with a rage that contorts her pretty face into a broken grimace.

“Why does everyone always come here because they want something from Amo?” Her voice gets louder, sharper, and more desperate with every word. “Everyone comes to Amo and talks and talks and talks and doesn't listen or pay attention, and then they leave and never come back, and no one ever thinks about Amo!”

The way she shouts at you is deafening. She has something of a wounded animal about her, crying out for help without ever being heard. Her situation is one that no one can really fight against, because some people are made to be victims for others. Whenever someone thinks they can break out of this cycle, there is a setback. Truth is, very few know how to escape the slaughterhouse, and Amo doesn’t give off the vibe of a fighter. She's not strong enough to stand up to fate.

You shouldn’t care. But you are here to find out about her and record her for posterity. And perhaps you can offer her a kind of companionship during this time that will keep her safe for a fraction of a lifetime. A togetherness that gives her body strength before she is once again alone with the rubbish and the stench, with no one by her side. So you offer her to stay. Not forever. You explain to her that sometimes you have to leave to do your job. But you will always come back to ease her loneliness. Perhaps you can show her the world with your stories. Perhaps you can even capture Amo in your writings in a way that will still enchant readers a hundred years from now.

“You’re lying.” Amo doesn’t believe she can spend time with someone who won’t leave her one day. She knows what will happen.

You both know it.

Yet you’re willing to lie to her face and let her believe that these moments will last. Worse still, you offer her a pinky promise. Fitting for two souls, one of whom is wavering between adulthood and everything that came before, while your own seems so transparent that there is no room for real promises.

And Amo is willing to trust your lie as long as it gives her something to hold on to that has a pulse like hers. Something that speaks to her when she asks it to.

Hesitantly, she accepts the vow, hooks her little finger with yours, and her warm skin nestles happily against you. In this way, you are connected, even if the thread is terribly thin and will break if either of you pulls even a little too hard. But for now, it’s enough.

It’s plenty.

When Amo’s lips press against your cheek out of nowhere, it’s a closeness that could hardly be more foreign. This contact, which exists so unplanned between you, lasts only a blink of an eye before Amo withdraws and gives you a smile that this time belongs entirely to you.

She could hardly be more beautiful than in these moments. Alive, blooming like a desert flower amid rubble and memories. Perfect for someone like you.

Perfect for a world where nothing blooms forever.

》ALMOST THERE《

You spend two days in this tower. Forty-eight hours, not even half of which you spent with Amo, because your task is too important to remain motionless at her side.

But she is patient with you. She lets you come back and welcomes you, not caring that you are far from being perfect company for her. Today is no different as you walk through the double doors. The only difference is that you left her alone for ten hours, and this time she gives you a big hug. Her body nestles lightly against yours as her hands wrap around your neck so she can hold you close. A hum escapes her throat, turning into a high-pitched sound of joy.

“Welcome back!” Her lips press briefly against your cheek, a touch that you learn to love in Amo’s company. In these seconds, she allows you to take a deep breath and forget why you do this job at all when you could just find peace somewhere else.

They’re fleeting thoughts that usually fade away when Amo breaks away from you and dances around the room. Today is no different. She spins around, the scraps of her dress swirling with her. She’s carefree, maybe even genuinely happy, and she keeps spinning in circles as if she’s expecting a whirlwind of blossoms that isn’t there. But if you close your eyes, you can imagine it. Amo dancing through a sea of colourful flowers. A few leaves get tangled in her dark brown hair, while the orange tips themselves become a whimsical spectacle of colour among the calyxes and stems. Her dress looks a little less worn out. And you can hear her laughing. A clear, cheerful laugh that sweeps all the heaviness from her shoulders and lifts you both out of this world that has been so terribly damaged by humanity.

In this imagination, you can let go. You don’t have to keep a protocol. Instead, you take Amo’s hand and let her pull you into the sea of flowers. Together, it’s much easier to spin around. You give each other support and balance, and everything around you loses its meaning. You can just dance, detached and freed from all obligations. Hand in hand. And perhaps you, too, can find joy within yourself that slips over your lips as laughter.

However, there is usually nothing but disappointment behind a dream. Here, too, with Amo, is no exception. You only have to blink a few times to realise that you are still in this tower, still surrounded by nothing but Amo’s belongings and the yawning emptiness outside. There are no flowers in this place, and even as you lead Amo into a spin with one hand, the glamour of a former fantasy loses its shine.

At least for you.

Amo knows how to hold on to ideas and dreams, so she turns back to you gracefully and embraces you so enthusiastically that you both end up on the bed, whose sheets smell a little sweet. Similar to perfume that reminds you of distant worlds. The same perfume that Amo exudes.

You lie motionless, just like Amo, who doesn’t move an inch. She doesn’t seem to want to give up being close to you. Not in these seconds, when everything between you couldn’t be more beautiful. With your fingertips, you brush some of her hair behind her ear so that she looks up and gazes at you as if you've given her a gift that can’t be bought with money or other riches. Immediately afterwards, she rolls off to your side, taking your hand and holding it tightly in hers.

She won’t let go, that much is obvious. But it’s okay to lie next to her and enjoy the silence between you for a moment. Especially since you don’t usually have much physical contact with others. Your job doesn’t involve that kind of closeness. A whispered confession you make to Amo. Not because she deserves it or because you desperately need to talk to someone. It’s just a few words you say so that they can pass between you.

“Amo doesn’t have it either,” she replies, at least as quietly.

Two statements that connect with each other while nothing else happens. The silence between you grows. Only your breaths can be heard. Uneven, because you cannot breathe in unison and also because you don’t even try. A soft noise settles in your ears. A static sound that emanates from the silence and from the wind outside, which grows a little stronger with every blink of an eye. It can’t reach you here. Here, you can ignore it.

For half an eternity, Amo’s hand in yours is all that really exists. The rest is a constant being and not being that comes and goes whenever you close your eyes a little too long or leave them open a bit too much. The only thing missing here is the ticking of a clock, as you once read in another book. A constant sound that gives time a certain relevance. However, there is no need for further relevance between you and Amo. Every second between you is real. It exists, and you perceive it. A ticking sound might destroy this delicate connection between you.

“Amo has never been silent for so long when she wasn’t asleep.” When she breaks the quiet, you hear a statement that sounds almost breathless. “Whenever it got too still, Amo would talk so it wouldn’t be so quiet anymore.”

You tilt your head to one side, look at Amo, and examine her beautifully shaped nose and perfectly curved lips. She stares at the ceiling as if she’s not allowed to break eye contact.
“Amo always had to entertain. When Amo didn’t talk ... he sometimes got angry because it looked ungrateful and because a girl has to be happy when she’s with someone she loves.” Finally, her attention wanders in your direction. “Is it normal to sometimes wish you could jump off somewhere and fly away, even though you have someone you love?”

For some, it’s the thought of escape. For others, it’s the idea of finally seeing an end. Jumping out can mean death, a new beginning, or seizing an opportunity. For Amo, it’s probably all of these things, and all you can do is nod, because for her, in her situation, it couldn’t be more normal.

“Whenever he touched Amo to connect with her ... Amo wanted to jump. It’s strange, but Amo only looked him in the face once while he was doing it. He was all sweaty, and he was panting, and his head was all red, and he once said that it felt very good with Amo.” Her face seems petrified, like a mask that doesn’t allow any further emotions. “Amo didn’t like it. It never felt good, and it hurt. Amo once said that she didn’t like it and that she didn’t want it, but he said that it was very important to him to show Amo how much he loved her.”

And she fell for it. She believed this man because he was all she knew. She didn’t know any better, completely a victim of childish hopes, eager not to be rejected by the only person out here who was there for her.

She deserves better. Everyone does, but in these moments, Amo probably deserves the whole world. When you place a hand on her cheek and feel her warmth, reminding yourself that behind this motionless face there is indeed a human being whose emotions are so scattered that she sometimes just freezes, there is no reason not to wish her the world and the skies. Probably neither of you will ever hold any of it in your hands, but this too can only be a fantasy that you indulge in for a split second.

You can’t tell her that you’re sorry or that what this man did was wrong. Sometimes it’s better to let the lies of a false memory win than to let someone break completely. So you just stroke her cheek until she blinks and takes a deep breath in and out.

“Amo likes this silence. It’s not heavy or tense.”

Agreeing with her is the only right thing to do, because it’s the truth. You fit together strangely and wonderfully, and that’s something you’ll record for posterity. So that future generations won’t forget that moments like these can be special with the right person.

You give Amo a quick smile before sitting up and letting go of her hand. Then you stretch, shake off the sluggish calm that had been clinging to you so pleasantly, and explain to Amo that you are going to head off again. You have found some ruins that are worth exploring, and you want to go a little further away from this place to buy some food that you can both enjoy. It will take you four days.

Amo doesn’t answer. She just stares at you. You wouldn’t blame her if her emotions got the better of her again and she burst into tears. Maybe she’ll yell at you or threaten you again with her skills as a Giver, even though they have no effect on you. But she does nothing. Instead of protesting, she breathes in and out. Her shoulders tremble, the corners of her mouth turn down, and that little bit of happiness that seemed so tangible before is now far away. Her eyes pierce you as if that’s the only way she can hold you, and her fingers creep slightly towards your hand to grab it again.

For another moment, she doesn’t respond to your statement, instead leaning against you as if the physical contact between you is all it takes to keep her sane. It’s obvious that she doesn’t want to see you leave. But you both know that you need something to eat, and your records remain important, even if it would be easier to burn them and give Amo your full attention.

It could all be so much easier if you weren’t who you are.

But your positions remain unchanged, so you try to get up while Amo reaches for your arm to hold you back. When you look at her, there is a wet glint in her eyes that this time doesn’t turn to anger. “Stay... Please...”

That’s all. Two simple words, which she ultimately rounds off with a compromise so she can keep you with her, at least for the moment.

“Just until Amo falls asleep.”

You’re not heartless enough to deny her this request. She needs you, she really does, and you can always continue your journey later. If you leave her a note or something of yours that won’t make her feel so alone, she’ll get through the time you’ll be apart. She won’t break. Not as long as you treat her with care.

Together with Amo, you let yourself fall back into bed. Once again, her scent is all that envelops you. Her body nestles against you from the side, each of her curves moulding to your body, her breath brushing your neck. You are free to play with her hair, to feel her closeness and breathe in her scent. She places a hand on the curve of your chest, letting it rest where she can feel your heartbeat beneath her fingertips. She, too, seems to hope that she’s not just living an illusion.

For now, you both hope.

》ALMOST THERE《

She dances. A little detached from the world, as if no one could touch her. Here she is free, at ease, beautiful with her orange eyes and the delicate smile on her lips. Her hair, her worn clothes, both make her seem a little unreal as she stretches out her arms and spins and laughs and looks at you as if there is no one else in the world but the two of you.

You sit on the floor, leaning against the wall, your legs slightly drawn up, as you look up at her and watch her dance discreetly to the melody she squeezes out of her throat in bright tones.

Time seems to stand still. It could go on like this forever, with Amo in her graceful, wilful beauty and you sitting on the floor. She is the only work of art in this place that deserves attention, and it’s hard not to love her for it. She is all you need. Out here, she is all that brings peace, as long as you treat her well.

Her outbursts and her wavering nature both only happen when you corner her or throw her to the shadows of loneliness. Amo isn’t a girl who can cope with the silence of hours spent in complete solitude. No one could, and yet here she is, living this life and accepting her position as if someone will come and rescue her from this tower at some point.

You could take her with you and make her part of your journey. But then you run the risk of being distracted. So far, no Giver whose task is world history has managed to live a life with someone else without failing in their mission. Most of these stories end in tears, death, an abandoned family and a Giver whose soul is left even more broken than it was before.

If you take Amo with you, you seal your own death sentence.

And you can’t stay any longer. If you give her more of your time, you’ll never leave this place. You’ve been spending time with Amo for a week now, without leaving to follow your tasks. The last time you left was for food. Now you’re sleeping by her side and letting her kiss you every morning. Sometimes her lips brush your cheeks, sometimes your forehead, and now and then the corner of your mouth. And you sometimes return these caresses, kissing her on the top of her head or on her knuckles, because she likes it when she can be the princess in a tower for a second.

You gave her a bear. A stuffed bear that she has placed with her other things, where she thinks it looks especially beautiful. She is happy about little things, about big things, about gestures, about you and your attention. As long as you don’t make her feel like she’s just a burden, she’s the nicest girl within half an eternity. But she’s also an anchor that chains you to this place.

When you think about having to leave her behind so that you can both get on with your lives without pretending you’ve arrived in forever, all that’s left is heaviness in her dance. Her laughter seems a little more laboured. Her clothes are like shadows, and her smile is like that of a half-broken porcelain doll.

Until she finally trips over her oversized shoes and crashes to the floor. She is breathing heavily and still laughing, this time almost apologetically. “Amo lost her balance from spinning around so much.”

You’re immediately on your feet, crouching down next to her. Making sure she hasn’t hurt herself is one of the few things you can do without causing her more pain than necessary. Her knees are slightly reddened from the impact, as is one elbow. She has grazed the ring finger of her left hand, and although it's hardly bleeding, it’s better to treat it.

Having a few small items with you for emergencies is normal in your world. Accidents can happen to anyone. That’s why you carry plasters, ointments and cotton wool with you. It’s completely ordinary, perfectly usual, and yet Amo watches you as if she’s seeing it for the first time. You can be sure that this isn’t the first time she’s seen basic first aid supplies. After everything she has told you, it wouldn’t be surprising if the man she pushed out occasionally smashed her face. Just to keep her quiet, because for many people it’s easier to silence someone like Amo.

Gently, you take her hand in yours, dab the blood from her skin and apply some ointment. Then you stick a band-aid on it, and Amo looks at it for a moment longer than necessary.

“You are very soft,” she says. “It has been a long time since anyone touched Amo like this.” Her eyes seek yours. The smile on her lips has disappeared, and the expression on her face tries to tell you something that she has probably never consciously expressed as clearly as in these seconds. “Amo loves you. Really. Very much.”

It’s easy to believe her, not least because a romance with her would last a lifetime. Your whole life, before you lose your mind and succumb to ruin because you cannot keep your vow to write down this world. Still, in these seconds, there is nothing wrong with placing a hand on her cheek and caressing her soft skin. Her head presses into your touch, her hands rest on yours, and the warmth between you remains. It exists as long as you allow it to.

“Do you love Amo?” Her gaze searches for answers, for a simple reaction that can give her new strength in this world.

No matter what you would most like to say to her, what is going through your mind or what the truth is, you give her a positive answer. You love her. In these moments, you do, no matter what comes next. Because you will soon break her heart and also because she won’t even notice. All that will remain with her is the fact that she once loved, even if she won’t remember that person’s face.

And yet you savour her joy. The sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips, slightly parted, unable to utter a single word.

She loves you.

She really does.

And yet you listen to her heartbeat, her words, her laughter, to this girl so close to the abyss, only until night falls upon you and her character transforms into something else. Suddenly she just sits there, on her bed, her expression carved in stone. Pale and lost, not quite the Amo you have come to appreciate lately. Her long eyelashes cast dark lines across her face, and for a moment she seems to become one with the night. It takes an eternity before she lifts her head and looks at you as if the world is about to collapse at any moment.

“Why does this silence suddenly feel so heavy?” She raises her hands to chest height, as if hoping for a simple answer that you cannot give her.

You have no choice but to shrug your shoulders and go to her, finding a place to sit next to her. Telling the truth wouldn’t change anything, and at least for tonight, it’s better to let her have her sweet dreams. So you advise her to go to sleep. She is safe in her dreams. There, she has nothing to lose. There, you can kiss, hold each other close and never let go again.

“Amo doesn’t want to sleep,” she confesses. “It’s better to stay awake.”

Shoulder to shoulder, it’s terribly easy to lose yourself in her closeness, her warmth, her fear and hopelessness. You can put your arm around her, and she can press her head against your chest. Together, you can just be while you figure out why she doesn’t want to sleep.

“Amo is afraid that you might disappear. Without coming back.” She looks at you as if she has faith that her imagination is nothing more than just that: imagination.

You can’t lie to her, you can’t tell her that you’re going to stay. But you don’t have to tell her everything either. There is a fine line between truth and lies. A narrow path that was made for telling half-truths that remain half-mysteries as long as you don't get lost in them. That's why you tell her that you’re leaving. After all, you have to fulfil your duties, write your reports and do your part. Nothing she doesn’t already know. You've left her many times before to do just that. But you also promise her that you’ll stay until she falls asleep. Just like last time, before you came back with a gift that brought a beaming smile to her face.

Amo doesn’t believe you.

Her eyes fill with tears, and she clings to your body as if you're the only thing that can save her from drowning. Her hands clench the fabric of your clothes, and her breath comes trembling over her lips.

“Amo loves you,” she repeats. “You won’t leave Amo behind, will you?”

Of course you won’t. Not now. Not in these moments. Not until she falls asleep. You can only reassure her again and again that nothing has changed between you. You are the woman who has a place at Amo’s side and in her heart – until she forgets you. Until then, you can only compliment her on how beautiful she is. How cute she looks when she dances across the room and how dreamlike she appears when the light of day falls dimly on her figure, giving her a forgotten glow that no one else can carry.

All these things reach her as the two of you gently rock from side to side. Just you and Amo, in this dark room lit only by a single candle. A small glow that gives you both comfort and warmth.

“You’ll come back?” Amo asks one last time, and you confirm. You’ll probably come back to this place again and again, because there’s a memory here that will get you through the cold days. Maybe you'll even see her again, from far away, when you least expect it.

Amo accepts it with a tired smile before looking at you for a long moment. Eye contact that seems terribly perfect with her before she lowers her eyelids and puckers her lips slightly. An invitation you can’t refuse as you press your mouth to hers. A gentle, almost tender touch that tingles under your skin. Amo’s scent burns deeper into your senses. Her body, around which you wrap your arms, becomes engraved in your subconscious. With this kiss, she opens up a hell for you after a time that will stay with you for the rest of your life.

And yet you let the longing for an end well up, for a journey that only you will ever be able to put into words. Then you take your vital instrument.

When your lips part, her shoulders tremble and a tear runs down her cheek. She knows. You both know, you did from the start. But Amo doesn’t resist. She accepts this last breath between you before you place a hand on her head, only to pull it aside in the next moment with lightning speed. What detaches from Amo is a film, like the kind you see in camera footage. A negative full of memories. Images of you lying together on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Seconds in which she tells you things. Momentary shots that you pull out of her head to take with you. Amo won’t miss them. She won’t remember, she’ll just know that there’s this warm feeling in her chest.

“Amo ... loves you.” She sobs one last time until you tear off the film. “Amo ... she...”

She loves you.

And yet she can no longer find the words as she looks at you with incomprehension. She tilts her head, blinks a few times, and takes a breath. “Who are you?”

You are nobody. Just a wanderer passing through.

This world has nothing to offer. People here live among rubbish and filth and lost dreams, which they throw away as if there’s no saving their worn-out hope. Most of them have resigned themselves to their circumstances, to the darkness, the lack of sunshine and the stench that lurks around every corner. Something you do too when you knock Amo unconscious to put her in her bed and leave.

At the doorstep, you pause for a moment to look at her one last time, to commit her to your memory. Because this world has given you Amo. More than you ever dared to hope for. She is the sunshine in this darkness. A sun that will hopefully, someday, soon, be found by someone else. Someone who can keep her.

Someone who is more than you.