Chapter 11: The Ones Who Forget
Cass didn't go straight home.
He should have. His body demanded it, exhaustion pressing against his skull like a vice, but the weight in his chest was heavier. He couldn't let this go.
Not now. Not after what had just happened.
So instead, he found himself at a bar.
It wasn't his usual place—he didn't have a usual place—but it was one of those dimly lit spots that felt like it belonged to another time. The kind of place where no one asked questions, where strangers faded into the background and everyone drank to forget.
Cass wasn't here to forget.
He was here to remember.
The whiskey burned down his throat, but he barely tasted it. His mind was still reeling, still circling back to the same terrifying realization—they could erase people. Not just from records. Not just from the world.
From memory.
His phone sat on the bar in front of him, the screen dark, but the last message lingered in his head.
"You're next."
Cass exhaled sharply through his nose. His reflection in the counter's polished surface looked worse than usual—tired eyes, a shadow of stubble darkening his jaw, the tension in his shoulders locked so tightly he wasn't sure if he'd ever fully relax again.
The bartender walked past, pausing when he caught Cass's expression. "You look like a man with too much on his mind."
Cass huffed a weak laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Something like that."
The bartender shrugged, pouring another drink without being asked. "Ain't that the way it goes?"
Cass didn't answer. He wasn't here for small talk.
He was here for proof.
He had to know if it was just Rich.
Or if it was happening to everyone.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. His fingers hovered over a name—Mom.
Cass hesitated.
Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he tapped the call button.
The line rang once. Twice.
Then—
"Cass?"
His throat tightened. "Hey, Mom."
She sighed, and he could hear the faint sounds of dishes clinking in the background. "You never call this late unless something's wrong."
Cass swallowed. His pulse thudded against his ribs.
How was he supposed to ask this?
"Hey, Mom, do you remember if I ever had a different name?"
"Do you remember anything strange about me?"
"Do you remember Jonathan Carlisle?"
His grip on the phone tightened.
He had to be careful.
"…Hey, weird question," he said, forcing his voice into something casual. "Do you remember Uncle Jonathan?"
Silence.
His heart stopped.
"…Who?"
Cass sat completely still.
He hadn't even told her who's uncle. Just the name. No hesitation, no confusion, just… nothing.
His mouth went dry. "Jonathan Carlisle."
Another pause. Then, his mother laughed.
Not the reaction he expected.
"Cass, honey, I think you've had one too many." She sounded amused. "We don't have an Uncle Jonathan."
His pulse spiked.
This was worse than with Rich.
Rich had at least been confused—like something had been erased but left an empty space behind. But his mother?
She sounded completely certain.
Like there had never been an empty space at all.
Cass's throat tightened. His grip on his glass was too hard, his knuckles white. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." She laughed again, light and dismissive. "Did Logan put you up to this? You two always loved messing with me."
A chill crawled up Cass's spine.
He licked his lips. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Must be that."
His mom sighed, her voice dropping into something softer. "Cass, honey, are you okay? You sound off."
No.
No, he wasn't okay.
But what was he supposed to say? That he was losing his grip on reality? That someone, something, was stealing pieces of the world? That he had no idea if he'd even exist by next week?
Cass forced a breath out through his nose. "Yeah," he muttered. "Just tired."
She didn't sound convinced, but after another few seconds, she let it go.
"I'll let you go, then," she said gently. "Get some sleep, sweetheart. You work too hard."
Cass nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Yeah. Night, Mom."
"Night, baby."
The line clicked dead.
Cass stared at his phone.
His own mother had never heard of Jonathan Carlisle.
It wasn't just Rich.
The world was changing.
The memory didn't just fade. It was rewritten.
He pressed his fingers against his temple, his breathing slow and uneven.
How long before it happened to him?
The thought sank in deep, sharp and cold.
He needed to know.
He needed to figure out how far this went.
Cass took a slow breath, steeling himself before he pulled up another contact.
He needed to test this again.
His thumb hovered over another name.
Vera.
His little girl.
The moment he thought about it, an icy feeling twisted in his stomach.
No.
He couldn't do that.
What if—
What if it wasn't just a missing uncle this time?
What if one day he woke up, and his wife didn't remember Vera at all?
What if Vera didn't exist anymore?
His hands started shaking.
No.
He wasn't ready to risk that.
Instead, he scrolled further. His gaze landed on another name.
Dad.
Cass hesitated.
Then, before he could think better of it, he hit dial.
The phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
A voicemail clicked on.
"You've reached the number of—"
The message glitched.
Cass's stomach dropped.
The words didn't come. There was just… static.
Then, the voicemail cut out completely.
Cass's fingers clenched around the phone. He stared at the screen, pulse hammering against his ribs.
Something was happening.
And it was happening faster than before.
A notification popped up at the top of his screen.
Cass's chest tightened.
Unknown Number.
His thumb hovered over it, a part of him screaming not to look—but he opened it anyway.
Only one word.
"Stop."
Cass's breath hitched.
The message disappeared.
Gone.
Like it had never been there.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
He shoved his phone into his pocket, tossing back the last of his drink before sliding out of his seat. He needed air.
The bar door creaked as he pushed it open, stepping into the cold night. The city lights buzzed overhead, neon flickering in a steady pulse against the dark sky.
Cass leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for just a second.
He couldn't ignore this anymore.
He had been too passive. He had let the world shift around him, let the cracks widen beneath his feet.
No more.
If they wanted to erase him—
Then he was going to make damn sure he left something behind.
Some kind of proof.
Some kind of mark.
Something they couldn't erase.
End of Chapter 11.