We remained there in the silence. Time had lost its shape; I couldn't tell if minutes had passed or hours.
Finally, his voice broke the void.
"You're meant to come back here, again and again."
He spoke as if reciting a law of nature.
"You have to live through every past event, no matter how sour the taste."
I stayed still, but he continued, his tone growing more clinical.
"If you don't want to return... then try to remember. What happened to you back then? Why were you pulled into this place? Figure it out, Elena."
He sounded miles away, even though he stood right there. He wasn't talking to me; he was talking at me.
A heavy, hollow sensation settled in my chest. I didn't want to speak. I didn't want to feel. My face remained a blank mask, drained of emotion, as I looked at him.
"Ame," I whispered.
"Even if I wanted to change things, I can't. Can I?"
I tilted my head back, staring into the oppressive blackness of the ceiling to keep the tears from spilling over.
"Let's just get this over with. But this time... please."
My voice trembled.
"Can you send me to a memory that only hurts a little? I think my trial should be over by now, right?"
He didn't answer.
[He told me he would be with me everywhere]
I thought with a bitter, internal ghost of a laugh. [Everywhere. Every time]
After a long minute, the fabric of the space began to fray. A corner peeled back, allowing a sliver of soft, pale light to bleed into the darkness.
"Go there, Elena," he said, still refusing to meet my eyes.
"It will lead you back to your place."
I didn't give him a second glance. I rushed toward the light, desperate to disappear into it.
Inside it...
Inside the light, the cold void of the void vanished, replaced by a suffocating, humid warmth.
The first thing I heard wasn't a voice, but the rhythmic thwack-thwack of a ceiling fan struggling against the heat. I blinked, the brightness fading into the dusty yellow glow of a summer afternoon.
I was standing in the hallway of my childhood home. The air smelled of floor wax and overripe peaches.
[childhood?im small but, how old am I now?]
From the kitchen, I heard the clinking of silverware. It was a mundane, domestic sound, but it made my stomach twist into a knot.
This was the "little hurting" I had asked for—not a tragedy, but the quiet, aching realization of everything I had lost.
[hold on! I can move my body?…. It was not possible. Can I actually move? Can I actually talk? Can I actually feel]
I took a step forward, my footsteps silent on the linoleum. There, sitting at the small wooden table with her back to me, was my mother. She was humming a song I hadn't thought of in years, her hands busy peeling fruit.
"Elena? Is that you?" she asked without turning around.
"You're late. Wash your hands before the ice melts."
I stood frozen in the doorway. My chest felt like it was being squeezed by a giant hand.
Ame had sent me here, to a day that felt so normal it was cruel. This wasn't a trial of fire; it was a trial of longing.
I reached out to touch the doorframe, wanting to feel the wood beneath my fingers to prove I was really there, I can actually move, I can actually talk what I'm feeling, but my hand trembled so violently I had to pull it back.
"I'm here," I whispered, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger.
She turned then, her face soft and familiar, untouched by the years of grief that were supposed to follow. She smiled at me, but her eyes... they looked just like Ame's. Distant. Knowing.
"Are you?" she asked, her smile never wavering.