Stillness
He was no longer in the room of mirrors.
He didn't know when the world had changed again.
There had been a hallway of pages, a typewriter, something about a name—but now there was grass beneath his feet. Tall, soft, overgrown.
The sky was pale lavender, thick with slow-moving clouds. The air smelled like wet bark and the sharpness of old stone.
He stood at the edge of a wide, open field.
Wind moved through the grass like breath.
Nothing chased him.
Nothing called his name.
He just stood there.
He sat on a broken stone near the center of the field, facing nothing in particular.
His hands trembled, though he wasn't cold.
The images from the mirrored room still throbbed behind his eyes:
A file with his face on every page.
The girl, older, saying this wasn't his story.
The typewriter, asking him for a name.
A reflection that looked afraid of him.
"What am I forgetting?" he whispered.
No one answered.
But the wind seemed to pause.
He tried to trace the timeline in his mind.
When did this start?
The first room. The envelope. The girl.The dress. The Archivist.The red door. The mirrors.Himself.
That's where his thoughts snagged.
Himself.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine his face.
Just picture it.
Start with the eyes.What color were they?
He didn't know.
The shape of his nose.The curve of his lips.Did he have freckles? Scars?
Was he young? Old?
Nothing came.
Just static.
A suggestion of features—shadows that didn't settle into anything whole.
He touched his cheek, suddenly unsure what he was expecting to find.
He stood.
Took a few steps through the grass.
Each step felt lighter. Not in relief.
In detachment.
"I can't remember what I look like," he said aloud.
The words left his mouth like breath in winter—visible, fragile.
A bird flew overhead.
Or maybe it wasn't a bird.
Maybe it was a memory pretending to be one.
It made no sound.
He kept walking.
Maybe if he moved far enough, he'd find a reflection again.
Maybe he'd recognize himself next time.
Or maybe—
Maybe there never was a face to remember.