A Footstep Out of PlaceEzra's mind raced, the weight of the missing echoes pressing against his chest like an oncoming storm. He had spent years listening to the city's past, piecing together lost stories, reviving forgotten moments—but this wasn't something he could fix with careful hands and an attentive ear.
This wasn't time wearing thin or memories fading naturally.
Something was deliberately unraveling Echo City's history.
And then—a sound.
A single set of hurried footsteps, cutting through the silence like a blade. Fast, uncertain. The rhythm of someone moving too quickly, too afraid to stop.
Ezra's instincts sharpened. He turned toward the sound.
A woman emerged from the shadows of a narrow side street, her coat drawn tightly around her as if trying to hold herself together. She wasn't running, but her movements held a sharpness—a frantic urgency beneath a composed exterior. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts, and as she stepped closer, the lamplight caught the sheen of fear in her wide, searching eyes.
Then—she spotted him.
And froze.
"Ezra Vance?"
Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but there was something raw in the way she said his name. Like she had been holding onto it as a lifeline.
Ezra's brow furrowed. He knew that look.
The kind that came from witnessing something impossible.
"Who's asking?" His voice was cautious but steady.
The woman hesitated—just for a moment—before stepping forward.
The lamplight revealed her sharp cheekbones, dark eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. She looked like someone who had spent hours running from a nightmare, only to realize it had followed her into the waking world.
"My name is Mara Finch," she said, voice tight with something too heavy to name. "I need your help."
Ezra had heard those words before—spoken in desperate tones by countless people who had lost something. Memories gone hazy, moments slipping beyond reach.
But there was something different about Mara.
Something in the way her hands clenched into fists.
Something in the way her breath hitched before she spoke again.
"It's my husband," she said, voice trembling. " I am the only one who can remember him."
Ezra kept his expression still, but beneath the surface, unease stirred—a low tremor before a quake.
Fading memories wasn't unheard of.
Memory was fragile—prone to fading, warping, breaking. But this wasn't natural. This wasn't forgetfulness, or time, or even grief twisting Mara's mind.
This was precise.
Deliberate.
Ezra ran his thumb over the rejection letter. The paper was creased, damp where Mara's fingers had clutched it too tightly, the edges curling inward like something trying to disappear. Her whole body was taut, vibrating with the kind of tension that came from knowing something was wrong and having no one believe you.
"They called me confused."
Mara's voice was thick, bitter. Raw.
"They said I must be mistaken, that I must have misremembered."
She let out a sharp breath—the kind people exhaled right before breaking.
"But I remember him."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her coat, twisting it tight.
"I remember the way he laughed when I burned dinner." Her voice was gaining momentum now, like she had held this inside for too long. Like she was afraid that if she stopped, the memories would slip through her fingers.
"I remember how he always left his shoes in the middle of the damn hallway. I remember the stupid cologne he wore that I hated—"
Her voice hitched.
And then, she cut herself off.
Ezra didn't speak.
He had seen this before.
The worst part about memory erasure wasn't just the loss.
It was the doubt.
People thought their minds were solid. That their memories were things they owned.
But when the past was altered—when the weight of proof was stripped away—what was left?
A gut feeling?
A scent no one else could smell?
A name that felt like a phantom in their own mouth?
People didn't just grieve the ones they lost.
They grieved their own certainty.
Mara squeezed her eyes shut, as if trying to trap everything inside her head before it, too, was stolen away.
Then she looked at him again.
Her gaze was sharp, desperate.
"You're a memory-keeper."
Her voice was quiet, but steady.
"You can prove he was real."
A beat of silence stretched between them.
"You can find him."
Ezra inhaled slowly.
This was different from any case he had taken before.
Memory-keepers were called in to recover, to restore—to pull the past from the walls and put it back in the hands of those who had lost it.
But Daniel Finch hadn't been lost.
He had been removed.
Ezra met Mara's eyes.
And gave a small, measured nod.
"Take me to your apartment," he said. "Let's see what's left."