Elyon forgot something small.
That was how it began. Not with pain. Not with noise. Just absence.
A woman stood in front of him, waiting, her hands clasped together like she had already asked once and did not want to ask again.
"You said I could," she said.
Elyon looked up from the ground. The painted boundary line curved near his feet. The Low Priority Zone breathed around him, quiet but tense. The sound beneath hearing was there, steady and dull, like a weight resting on his chest.
"I said what?" he asked.
Her face tightened. Not angry. Worried. "You said I could leave it closer. Just for a minute."
She pointed to a small device near him. A handheld scanner. Its casing was cracked, light flickering inside like a trapped insect.
Elyon stared at it.
He searched his memory. He remembered sitting. He remembered watching people pass. He remembered the hum. But he did not remember her. He did not remember speaking.
"I don't remember," he said.
The scanner sparked.
A sharp crack sounded across the street as a window split down the middle. People flinched.
"I'll move it," the woman said quickly. She dragged the scanner back a few steps.
The crack stopped spreading.
Elyon felt cold sink into his stomach.
It wasn't that he had refused.
It was worse.
He had missed the choice completely.
Later that morning, a guard stopped near him and spoke about a minor adjustment. Where people should wait. Which side of the street stayed clearer. Elyon listened. He nodded. He agreed, or at least he thought he did.
Ten minutes later, the same guard returned.
"You already approved this," the guard said.
"I didn't," Elyon replied.
The guard showed him a screen. Time. Location. Logged confirmation. Everything clean. Everything certain.
Elyon shook his head slowly. "I don't remember doing that."
The guard hesitated. His expression changed—not fear, not anger.
Calculation.
"I'll mark it," the guard said, stepping away.
By midday, the zone felt thinner.
Not broken. Not unstable.
Stretched.
Small things slipped through before Elyon could feel them. A door stayed jammed longer than usual. A light flickered twice before steadying. Someone tripped and scraped a knee.
Nothing serious.
But people noticed.
Whispers returned, quiet and careful.
"He's tired."
"He missed it."
"It's leaking again."
Elyon sat against the wall and pressed his hands to his face. His thoughts felt scattered, like pages shuffled out of order.
A memory surfaced without warning.
The first refusal.
The stillness.
How clear everything had felt then.
That clarity was fading.
Near sunset, a man from the zone approached him. Not an official. Not a guard. Just someone who lived here now.
"You're slipping," the man said gently.
"I know," Elyon replied.
The man nodded. "We were thinking… maybe there's a way to help."
"Help how?" Elyon asked.
"Schedules," the man said. "Guidelines. So nothing important gets missed."
Elyon laughed softly. It hurt. "So I stop choosing."
The man didn't answer.
That silence was enough.
Night came unevenly. The zone hummed, strained but holding.
Elyon lay back and stared at the sky. Stars flickered in and out, like they couldn't decide if they belonged there.
He understood the danger now.
The Echo was not just bleeding into the city.
It was bleeding into him.
Not power.
Not control.
Memory.
And if he stayed like this much longer, the city would not need to cage him or force him.
He would forget how to leave on his own.
Elyon closed his eyes as the hum continued, imperfect but patient.
For the first time since becoming the Anchor, he feared something worse than breaking the city.
He feared staying until choice itself wore away.