Chapter Text
She had learned to dread sleep.
It wasn't something new. The memories she couldn't hold onto during the day came back at night to haunt her like a hurricane, demanding—once again—to be part of her life. In vain. She had tried every method known to humankind, some legal, others that would've put her in jail had she even spoken about them. None of them had worked. Her experiences, everything that made her who she was, slipped through her fingers like seawater.
One might think that the unease that comes with being a blank canvas would eventually fade away, that Acheron could learn to live with it. It wasn't entirely untrue. Her life was no longer the hell it had been at first, even if she had no way of knowing so. But every day she woke with the same claustrophobic feeling: she couldn't remember her nightmares. Now, those days when she let herself drift along what she could only call life felt hollow and bitter instead.
Living without memories wasn't easy, but living with a constant tingle was even worse. Her body seemed to know something. Something she completely ignored. It was strongest in the morning and gradually eased as the night approached. But it never wore off completely; an involuntary trembling, a pang in her heart, or an eye twitch made sure she always knew something was missing.
She'd been like this for the past few years. Though if you asked her, it might as well have been her whole life. The discomfort had become her new dance partner.
Every day her symptoms got worse. Her nightmare became more aggressive. The tide seemed to drown her with greater force, muffling the sound of that voice. Wait, someone spoke to her in her dreams? It couldn't be... Or could it? She didn't know how, but she was certain it had happened.
She was unable to make out the voice or its words, but there was someone. Of that, she was sure.
That morning was no different from others. She woke up in a pool of sweat, clothes clinging uncomfortably to her body, her pulse racing—each movement accompanied by an involuntary tremor—and her breathing ragged, the little air her lungs could manage escaping through her mouth.
The contrast between the room's temperature and her body sent a shiver down her spine. She curled herself into a fetal position, her lips tracing over her lips, trying to wet them. Her eyes, however, settled on her bed. This was no time to try and recall where she was.
It took her several minutes to calm down enough so that walking was no longer dangerous. It was then that she rose to her feet, her now slightly steadier legs carrying her towards one of the doors. She had to find the bathroom. A sharp pain in her throat made it hard to swallow normally. It was strange, just seconds ago she had barely noticed it, and now it was all she could think about.
Luckily, that closed door led exactly to what she needed. A bathtub, a toilet, and a spotless mirror, accompanied only by a small shelf holding perfectly folded towels of various sizes. However, Acheron didn't pay much attention to the details; she practically lunged for the faucet, turning it on and cupping the water in her hands to drink without hesitation.
When the pain in her throat finally eased, she lifted her head and looked at her reflection: empty eyes and dark circles stood out on her face, her skin unnaturally pale. She should've been surprised by her reflection, but somehow, it already felt normal. Instead, she focused on the flush of her cheeks, the sweat gathering on her forehead, and the strands of hair sticking to her face. She needed a bath.
While the bathtub filled with water, she went to the shelf. She picked up several towels, stretching them out and noticing the different sizes. Some were far too small. How did people even dry themselves with those? She couldn't fully understand the purpose of most of them, so she chose two of the larger ones and folded back the ones she had moved. She returned to the bathtub, thinking that whoever had arranged them so precisely would probably not be happy with the current order.
When the warm water hit her skin, she lay back, staring at the ceiling. Then, in the calm and stillness of the bath, she remembered her awakening. That sensation of someone having spoken to her—or rather, whispering—. It was so sharp and yet so blurry... She couldn't make out a single word or tell whether the voice was female or male. Only that it had been there, and the sensations it left in her body. She could feel the slow cadence of the voice, its almost mocking tone, and how their breath had brushed against her ear.
"No..." She whispered, over and over again, the echo of her voice resonating off the walls.
She pressed her hand to her ear, shrinking into herself. What Acheron feared the most was, most likely, her own memories. Sometimes, she was drawn to them, curious about what happened in her daily life. Yet, as certain events came to mind, she could only wish it would end. It was overwhelming. She could almost sense the soft, gentle way a hand would rest on her shoulder.
She sank beneath the water, wrapping her arms around herself. It was enough. She couldn't take it anymore. So she turned to what she knew best: pain and agony. Even when it felt like she had been submerged for far too long, she didn't move. She was running out of breath. But she held on. She didn't even flinch when a burning sensation spread across her chest. She wanted to breathe. She needed it. But she couldn't.
It wasn't until her mouth betrayed her—opening to take in water—that she surfaced again. Her fingers clenched tightly around the edges of the bathtub as she began to breathe erratically. She coughed several times, trying to dull the burning in her lungs. The way she dealt with the world wasn't healthy, but she didn't know any better. Because the worst part was that it had worked. It had pushed those unfamiliar sensations away. Now her mind struggled against her body, trying to recover.
Once she regained some stability, she all but leapt out of the tub, wrapping one towel around her body and another around her hair. She didn't bother with the water left behind or the splashes scattered everywhere. She wanted to get away from that place. Still, the bedroom wasn't any better. A single glance at the bed was enough to notice the soaked sheets. Instead, she headed from the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony.
The morning air seeped into her bones, stirring the droplets of water still clinging to her skin. She was safe there. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the smell of burnt gasoline fill her lungs. That unpleasant scent was familiar. Her body was used to it.
When she opened her eyes again, her breathing was calmer. Not even the sound of the door closing behind her, pulled shut by the breeze, startled her. Instead, she sat down on the ledge separating her from the fall, watching the people walking along the street below.
It was a soothing view. They moved back and forth, going about all kinds of everyday activities: a group of young schoolgirls sat chatting while eating ice cream, their faces reflecting their excitement; a woman emerged from a clothing store with no hurry, her calm interrupted as she picked up her phone and started a conversation; a man in worn clothes slept deeply on a bench, his chest rising and falling rhythmically; a father pushing his child on a swing while the mother filmed... Acheron scanned the scene, paying close attention to every single individual.
When you don't have enough topics for conversations or people don't find you interesting, your role becomes secondary. Just another background character, like so many others in the world, passing through their story.
That had happened to her her whole life, always relegated to the shadows. But it had never bothered her. She had become more analytical, knowing what someone needed before they even asked. Tissues just as their eyes began to water, an arm to hold onto before stepping on that bump in the road that would make them trip...
She was used to agony, yes, but she knew that, for some reason, the world wasn't. Acheron was apathetic, yet she had feelings like any other human. That was how, despite staying in the shadows, she stood out, always lingering at the edge of the light that illuminated people, but never joining them directly. And before anyone could notice her absence, she would withdraw, just like the waves retreating after crashing against the shore.
That was her life, as sad as it was. Even if she couldn't remember it, she always acted the same, as if her body had memorized every step of the choreography to the millimeter. Situations that felt familiar left a bitter taste in her mouth. That's why she always fled to hide somewhere those sensations couldn't reach her.
From the outside, it looked like she was letting the current carry her, but in reality, she had spent her whole life running from her past. A past she couldn't remember, yet haunted her every move. A past that tempted her to want to know more. A past that filled her with growing terror. That was why she was on that balcony now. It had become her anchor after she had been dragged to the bottom of the sea.
From her spot, she focused especially on that family. Her ribs began to press against her heart, making her uneasy... Nostalgia, perhaps? She gripped the towel tighter, as if physical pain could drown out whatever she was feeling. Luckily, it didn't seem to overflow, just as it hadn't in the bathtub. The muffled voices, the noise of the vehicles, the strong smells, and the wind clouded her senses. No one was whispering to her; she could breathe easily and rest.
The hand she had left hanging raised to her shoulder, right where she had felt the presence of the mysterious figure from her dreams. Why was she able to recall fragmented pieces? If only the memory were complete, she could trace it back to its source and finish the job. Maybe that was exactly what she had been doing, only she had forgotten, and now she was once again without direction. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she had just experienced it for the first time.
No. It wasn't the first time she had felt it.
That hand felt familiar. Like she knew it. She could almost make out the position of its fingers, replay the gentle choreography they traced across her skin. Without thinking too much about it, she began to stroke her shoulder with her thumb, drying the few remaining drops of water. It wasn't unpleasant. Quite the opposite. It soothed her, drawing her into a gentle trance.
From her shoulder, it drifted to graze against her neck. Carefully, she wrapped her hand around it, though she didn't apply any pressure. It didn't feel right to do so. She could almost hear a suppressed laugh dismissing the thought, easing her by letting her know there were no ill intentions behind that gesture. So she let go and moved down to the edge of the towel. Every slight movement against her skin made the area feel as though a lighter had been brought close to it. The contrast with the cold air drew an unintended sigh from her lips.
She couldn't be certain, but she knew that feeling. Moments before, she had completely suppressed the existence of that being, yet now—no longer thinking, letting herself be guided by the dance of her hand—she couldn't help but crave it. It was as if her body were moving on its own, seeking as much contact as possible. She wanted to stay there. Forever.
She lifted both hands and held them in front of her face. The tips of her fingers were icy, her nails beginning to tint with a faint shade of purple, yet it didn't seem to bother her. She cradled her face in her hands as a powerful urge took hold of her: she wanted to kiss them. She did so, gently. The complete opposite of how she was used to act.
She didn't know what she was doing; her mind had gone silent. There was no anxiety, no unpleasant smells. She was alone with the sensations her own touch awakened. It was like the calm before the storm... Or perhaps like the sun breaking through thick clouds.
She was almost desperate. Why couldn't she be closer? Why did they stop at her face instead of continuing their journey across her body? Why did she have to settle for just her hands? She needed more. Like an addict craving another dose. Like someone lost in the desert, longing for a single drop of water. Was that what she had become now? A weird woman, obsessed with imaginary hands?
Then, warm air brushed against her ear. At first, subtly; then, more obviously. Far from startling her, she leaned back against the wall, relaxing her body. She recognized that way of breathing, of exhaling. She didn't hear a single word, yet she could almost feel the smile the stranger was forming in response to her reaction. Those lips... She didn't want them to pull away. She turned her body slightly, resting her cheek against the wall, seeking friction against skin that didn't exist. The coolness of the surface only made her skin prickle further. She pressed herself against it as much as she could, her hands gripping firmly—almost scratching—the paint beneath her fingers, while her thighs left no space between them.
And just as it felt like she was sinking into the wall, everything stopped. Not abruptly, but gradually. She didn't know what came next, what she was meant to do in that moment. The sounds of the street flooded back, drowning her thoughts, that familiar smell filling her lungs once more. She opened her eyes and looked around. She was still on the balcony. She had been so lost in the sensations that she had completely forgotten where she was.
Heat rushed to her cheeks when she realized that, wearing nothing but a towel, she had been putting on a show. Luckily, she was high enough up that no one was likely to notice her. Despite this, she opened the door and rushed back inside the room. Shame was consuming her.
Acheron didn't understand many things, but what had just happened threw her off balance. It was the first time something like that had ever happened to her. It was then that the scene in the bathtub came back to her mind. Maybe, if she hadn't been so anxious back then, the whole thing would've happened there instead of the balcony. She was always running from her memories. Or rather, the lack of them. Why hadn't she done so this time? Why had it felt so good to let herself go? Why hadn't she done it before? Those were answers she didn't have.
She lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The movement made the towel slip from her body, something she welcomed. Her skin was burning, and she needed air to cool herself down. She didn't feel like stepping back into the shower. She also unwound the towel from her hair, her gaze drifting to the bed. It was almost dry by now. She narrowed her eyes.
Earlier, when she had stepped out of the bathroom, that piece of furniture had made her heart skip a beat. It had stirred some memory. But now she couldn't grasp what it was. Only that she hadn't wanted to stay there, and that was why she had fled the first time.
Now she wanted to do the same, but for a completely different reason. That voice, those hands... She had to find out who they belonged to. She had to know why their movements were etched so deeply into her. She had to learn how they had met. Lying there, trying to recall something as trivial as a bed, wouldn't bring her any closer to her goal.
She dressed as quickly as she could and opened the door to her room. However, before leaving, her eyes landed on the sword leaning against a wardrobe. She approached it, brushing her fingers against the hilt. Right. It was hers. She took it without hesitation, fastened it to her belt, and only then did she stride out of the room.
Acheron wandered through the corridors for a while. It seemed like she was in a hotel. And definitely not in a shabby one. The luxury was evident in every texture and detail. How had she been able to afford staying there? She shook her head. She needed to focus, to push aside useless thoughts. She didn't want to forget her mission, so she had to remind herself of it periodically. If she lingered on trivialities, time would slip away, and that wasn't an option.
And so, she moved forward, paying just enough attention to her surroundings to make sure she didn't get lost. Her steps were firm and hurried, mirroring her mind, which kept repeating "I need to find you" in a loop. When Acheron finally found the elevator, she let out a relieved sigh. She didn't want to think about how long she had been wandering around the same floor. But it had definitely been far too long for her liking.
After pressing the button, she waited patiently, watching the numbers on the small screen: from 12, they slowly began to descend until they reached 5. When the doors opened with a soft ding, she stepped inside the cubicle, calmly, her gaze drifting to the panel of buttons. She assumed she needed to go down, so she pressed "0" on the display, trusting it would take her where she needed to be. Her eyes then lingered on the mirror. On her reflection, specifically. She looked tired, but this time, there was something different in her eyes: determination.
She couldn't remember it, but it was the first time in a long while they had looked that way.
So focused was she on herself that she didn't notice a figure approaching at a fast pace through the closing elevator doors. It wasn't until she heard the stranger¡s voice that she realized she wasn't alone.
"Could you hold the door, please?"
She hadn't expected to meet anyone along the way. She could have ignored the woman asking for help. It's not like waiting for the next elevator would've taken that long. But she chose not to. Carefully, she turned around and placed her hand against the door just as it was about to close, bringing it to an abrupt stop. Slowly, it began to open again.
"Thank you so much. I thought I wasn't going to make it in time." Acheron heard the relief in the woman's words, accompanied by a soft laugh.
However, there was something that made Acheron stare at her, her mouth falling open in surprise. She hadn't noticed it before, caught up in the urgency and speed of her words. But now it was undeniable. She knew that slow way of speaking, as if every word was carefully measured. And above all, she knew that laugh.
She may have been repeating her goal to herself over and over again, but she hadn't been able to brush off that scene on the balcony. She didn't know how or why, but it was the same laugh she had heard when she thought about choking herself.
When the doors opened wide enough, their gazes met. And immediately, Acheron knew she wasn't imagining it. In that woman's eyes, she could see way too many emotions. But the one that stood out the most was recognition. The stranger had remembered her, too.