The city gleamed with cold sunlight when Mira awoke.
She didn't remember falling asleep. The streets outside were washed clean by rain, puddles reflecting the tall glass towers and endless wires that crisscrossed the skyline.
Everything looked new, strange, unfamiliar.
She sat up slowly, her head heavy but calm. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt nothing—no ache, no sorrow, no desperate heartbeat clawing at her ribs.
Only quiet.
She walked to the window, gazing out over the city.
It was beautiful, she supposed. The color of the sunrise was soft, like diluted gold. The people below moved like clockwork figures—efficient, peaceful. She wondered what it would be like to feel joy at the sight of it.
But when she tried to smile, her lips didn't move.
Somewhere in her mind, there was a faint echo—a voice saying you used to love this. But the memory had no weight.
It was like looking at a photograph of someone else's life.
Across the city, Jalen stirred from sleep.
For the first time in months, he dreamed—not of darkness, but of light. Warmth spilled through his veins like sunlight after endless rain. He woke with tears on his face, though he didn't know why.
He felt alive.
He rose from the bed and breathed deeply. The air smelled sweet. His limbs felt light, his thoughts clear. The heaviness that had haunted him was gone, replaced by something luminous and quiet.
Yet beneath the calm, a strange emptiness lingered—like the echo of a song he couldn't remember the words to.
When he stepped into the kitchen, Mira was sitting at the table, her hands folded neatly, eyes distant.
He smiled instinctively. "Morning."
She looked up. "Morning."
Her tone was polite, soft, but there was no warmth behind it.
Jalen's smile faltered. "How do you feel?"
"I'm fine," she said simply. "I think I slept well."
"That's… good."
He poured two cups of coffee, sliding one toward her. She nodded in thanks but didn't drink it.
The silence between them felt different now—not tense or broken, but hollow, like a room stripped of furniture.
Jalen studied her for a long moment. "You really don't remember, do you?"
Mira tilted her head. "Remember what?"
He swallowed hard. "Me. Us. What we were."
She looked at him blankly. "I remember that you're my brother."
"Yes, but…" He hesitated, the words catching. "Do you remember why you kept fighting for me?"
She frowned faintly, as though trying to grasp something invisible. "No. Should I?"
The question sliced through him.
He tried to tell her. He tried to explain everything—the Exchange, the trades, the bond between them. But as he spoke, she only listened quietly, her expression calm, detached.
When he finished, she smiled faintly. "That sounds like a sad story," she said.
"It wasn't just a story," he whispered.
She tilted her head, eyes soft. "Maybe not for you."
He wanted to shake her, to force the memories back into her, but deep down he knew—this was the cost. She had given everything, even him, to save him.
He had his happiness back. And it came at the price of her love.
That night, Jalen dreamed of the past.
He saw her laughing again, painting on the floor, her fingers stained with color. He saw her carrying his sadness like a candle through the dark.
And when he woke, he felt that same fierce ache—the ache of remembering what someone else had forgotten.
He sat at the window, watching her sleep. She looked peaceful now. Almost serene.
He whispered, "You don't know me anymore, but I'll remember enough for both of us."
In the days that followed, their lives fell into rhythm.
Mira took long walks, watched the sky, and smiled politely at strangers. She didn't feel connection or loss—only the faint hum of existence, the weightless drift of someone unburdened by feeling.
Jalen, meanwhile, began to write.
He filled notebook after notebook with their story—the trades, the Exchange, her sacrifices. He wrote to preserve what she had erased, to keep her love alive even if only on paper.
Sometimes she would glance at his work and ask, "Why are you writing that?"
And he would answer, "Because it's true."
She would smile faintly. "Then it must be worth remembering."
One evening, he found her standing on the rooftop, watching the city lights.
"They say," she murmured, "that the city runs on power drawn from emotion. Did you know that?"
He nodded slowly. "I've heard that."
She turned to him. "Do you think that's true?"
"Yes," he said. "I think it's truer than most things."
She smiled again—gentle, distant, unknowing. "I think it's beautiful."
And Jalen, watching her against the glow of the city, thought she was right. Even emptiness could look like peace from far enough away.
Later that night, after she went to sleep, Jalen walked through the quiet streets until he reached the Exchange.
The doors stood open, as if waiting.
The pale-eyed woman was behind the counter, the Architect nowhere in sight.
"You've come to look upon her trade," she said softly.
Jalen's breath caught. "You still have it?"
She nodded and reached beneath the counter, bringing out the small glass vial shaped like a tear.
Inside, light swirled softly—golden, eternal.
He stared at it for a long time. "That's her love."
"Yes," the woman said. "The purest form."
He reached out to touch it, but she drew it back slightly. "Careful. To touch it is to remember what was lost."
Jalen's voice broke. "Maybe I need to."
The woman studied him, then slowly placed the vial in his hand. "Then remember well."
He held it tightly to his chest, tears streaking down his face. For the first time, he felt the full gravity of her gift—the completeness of her loss.
He whispered into the silence, "I'll carry it for her."
The light inside the vial pulsed once, faint and warm, as if answering him.