"You ever get the feeling the world is holding its breath?"
That's what he said.
The day before everything changed.
He doesn't remember who he said it to.
But maybe that's the point.
---
Morning broke like spilled milk across the hills of Serifvloum.
Twenty-five moons still clung to the sky, like gods refusing to leave.
The red one—The Eye—was always the last to fade.
The city began to stir. Floating boats skimmed over stone roads.
Flesh and metal blurred together in machines that walked like men.
Vendors sang in fifty-nine different tongues.
Children shouted nicknames that were never meant to last.
No one here had a real name.
Not since Arlishmane made it law.
To give someone a name was to give them power—ten percent of your soul, your magic, your truth.
So they lived nameless.
And they forgot.
Every day.
Every night.
Memory erased the moment you turned thirteen.
---
Inside a lopsided house built into the wall of a canyon, a boy woke smiling.
His hair was a black storm.
His room a cluttered maze of bent tools, cracked books, and lost trinkets.
One sock was on. One sock had vanished.
He stared at the ceiling, blinked once, and rolled off the bed face-first.
He was twelve.
Twelve and immortal—at least until tomorrow.
Because tomorrow, like every soul before him, he would begin to forget.
---
Someone yelled from downstairs. A voice he didn't recognize.
He laughed and threw on someone else's coat, swiped a pastry that wasn't his, and leapt out the window like a king without a crown.
By mid-morning, he had already:
* Painted a guard's face with goat ink.
* Rewired a mech's legs to walk backward.
* Set loose a flock of mimic birds trained to scream obscenities in five languages.
"Why not?" he told his friends. "No one remembers anyway."
Whiteface laughed until he fell in a fountain.
The Pale Fish didn't laugh. He never did.
He just watched, like he was memorizing something no one else saw.
"You live too loud," Pale said.
"I live before I forget," the boy answered.
---
Then came the moment.
The moment everything cracked.
He was walking the edge of a market when he saw the old man.
Just crossing the road. Slow. Hands raised like prayer.
Then—
A roar of metal.
A flash of red runes.
A transport vehicle tore through the lane, shattering the air.
The man flew.
Silence followed.
Dust. A crowd. No one screamed.
---
He stepped forward, slowly.
The old man lay twisted, blood mixing with oil in the gutter.
There was something… familiar.
The slope of his jaw. The faint mark on his hand.
A gesture the boy had seen before. Maybe in a dream.
A heaviness bloomed in his chest. A truth he couldn't hold.
He turned and ran.
---
Back home.
Upstairs.
To the drawer.
The secret drawer.
He pulled it open and found the journal.
Its leather cover was worn, its spine cracked.
Inside, page one read:
> "If you're reading this… it's because you forgot."
He flipped through sketches. Words. Names.
Some pages made him laugh. Others chilled him.
Then he stopped.
A drawing. A note.
> "The man in the street. He's your father. Don't forget."
His breath caught.
He closed the book.
Shoved it back.
Locked the drawer.
He sat still until the moons returned.
---
At dawn, the forgetting began.
He woke up. Smiled.
But his chest felt heavy.
Like something important had been stolen.
Downstairs, someone called his name.
But it didn't sound right.
It didn't sound like anything.