The next morning, the leaf was still there.
Aerin found it on the desk beside the bed, where she were absolutely sure she hadn't put it.
It wasn't dry.
It wasn't brittle.
It was fresh — soft, green, alive.
Which meant one thing.
The city hadn't fully faded.
She held the leaf carefully, heart thudding. The world outside the window looked completely normal: blue sky, distant mountains, early traffic sounds, someone calling their dog in the street below.
No glowing bridges.
No crystal tree.
Just ordinary.
But the leaf was proof.
At school, Aerin couldn't focus.
The teacher's voice blended into the background noise while Aerin's mind replayed the city — the lights, the people, the fading edges of things that had once mattered enough to exist.
At lunch, Aerin didn't sit with friends.
Instead, she sat near the back of the courts and watched the old oak tree near the fence.
It was half dead.
One side still had leaves. The other side was bare, bark cracked and grey.
Aerin stated at it for a long time.
Then whispered, very softly, "You're still here."
Nothing happened.
Of course nothing happened.
This wasn't the city.
Still.. Aerin felt something response. Not visually. Not magically. But emotionally — like noticing something made it heavier, more present.
That night, Aerin didn't wait for the clock.
She went to the station before midnight.
It was still abandoned.
Still silent.
Still ordinary.
But she sat on the edge of the platform anyway.
Waiting.
The air changed before the light did.
A soft warmth brushed against her face like a breath.
Then the lanterns appeared.
One by one.
The station woke.
The city returned.
Ilen was already there.
"You're early again," he said, smiling.
Aerin held up the leaf.
Ilen's eyes widened slightly.
"You brought something back."
"I didn't mean to," Aerin said. "It just.. stayed."
"That's not nothing," Ilen said quietly.
They walked into the city together.
But something was wrong.
Aerin felt it immediately.
The air was thinner.
Not physically — emotionally.
Like a place that had been lived in but not loved for a long time.
Some shops were missing.
Some streets were shorter.
The park Aerin had helped remember was there... but small.
The trees were thinner. Paler.
"They're fading again," Aerin whispered.
"Yes," Ilen said.
But faster than before."
They hurried toward the crystal tree.
It was dimmer than last night.
Some of its leaves had turned transparent.
The silver-haired woman stood beside it, frowning.
"The rate is increasing," she said. "We're losing things faster than we can remember them."
"Why?" Aerin asked.
She looked at Aerin carefully.
"Because something is pulling memory away."
"Something?"
She nodded.
"Not a person. Not exactly. More like a... process. A hunger. A leak."
Ilen frowned. "That's not supposed to happen."
"Well, it is," she said.
A low sound rolled through the city.
Not loud.
Not violent.
Just deep.
Like something enormous shifting in its sleep.
The lights flickered.
A building vanished.
Not faded.
Vanished.
One moment there.
Next moment gone.
Aerin's breath caught.
"That's not normal," Ilen said.
"No," the woman agreed. "That's erasure."
Aerin felt cold.
"What does that mean?"
"It means something isn't waiting to be forgotten," she said. "It's actively moving."
Another sound.
Closer.
A shadow passed over the city — not blocking light, but thinning it.
Like someone has smeared the air.
"What do we do?" Aerin asked.
The woman looked at the crystal tree.
Then at Aerin.
Then at the leaf still in Aerin's hand.
"We anchor," she said.
"What's that?"
"We give the city weight in your world."
Ilen's eyes widened.
"That's dangerous."
"So is extinction," she replied.
Aerin swallowed.
"What does anchoring mean?"
"It means tying part of this city to you," she said. "To your memory. To your attention. To your life."
"That sounds permanent."
"It is."
Aerin hesitated.
Then looked around.
At the fading streets.
At the fading lanterns.
At the place that only existed because someone cared.
"I'll do it," Aerin said.
Ilen stared.
"You don't even know what it costs."
Aerin met his eyes.
"Neither does the city."
Silence.
Then the woman nodded.
"Very well."
She placed her hand on the crystal tree.
A thread of light appeared —thicker than before.
It connected the tree to Aerin's chest.
Aerin felt a pull.
Not painful.
Heavy.
Like something important settling into place.
"Remember this place," the woman whispered.
"Not as magic. Not as a secret. As a responsibility."
The city pulsed.
The shadow recoiled slightly.
The lights brightened.
Aerin gasped as the weight deepened — not as the body, but on the mind. The city was suddenly... louder. Cleared. Sharper.
Every fading edge became visible.
Every weak place felt tender.
Aerin could feel where the city was hurting.
"I can feel it," Aerin whispered.
Ilen looked both amazed and terrified.
"You're becoming a Keeper."
"A what?"
"One who remembers when others can't."
The shadow shifted again.
Closer.
Hungry.
Aerin clenched her fists.
"Then I'll remember it harder."
The city held its breath.
And for the first time, the thing that erased memory noticed something watching back.