Trafalgar sprinted down the marble corridors, boots thudding against the polished floors, breath sharp in his throat.
"Where's Mayla?" he demanded, grabbing a passing maid by the shoulder.
The girl blinked at him in confusion. "Mayla, young master? I… I don't believe I know anyone by that name."
He let go, heart pounding harder.
Another servant came around the corner—he stopped them too.
"Mayla. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Early twenties. Where is she?"
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know who that is."
Trafalgar clenched his fists.
A third one. "Do you know Mayla?"
The answer was the same. A puzzled look. A polite denial. A blank spot in their memories.
'No. No, no, no. This isn't right. She's been here since forever. Always waiting. Always—damn it!'
