The Mask Slips

I tried to shake the memory—the image of the shadowy figure, the fire, the smoke—but it clung to me like a thick fog. I was still standing in the middle of the ruined living room, the pendant clenched tightly in my hand, its once-familiar weight now feeling like a burden. Alin was close by, his presence both comforting and unnerving at the same time. His concern had always been a balm to my anxieties, but now, something was different. A shift in the air, a subtle change in his demeanor that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

I found myself studying his face, the way his brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of my fragmented memories, the way his lips pressed into a thin line when I mentioned the figure in the memory. His dark eyes, usually so expressive, were guarded, as if he were trying to hide something from me. My heart pounded in my chest, the rhythm growing more erratic with each passing second.