Empty past
Gloomer went to work the moment he woke up.
The haze of sleep still clung to his head like a vice, but there was no time to shake it off. Work awaited him—grueling, mindless, gnawing into his bones with every second, yet as inevitable as the morning cold.
At the moment, he was a woodcutter.
Yesterday afternoon, all the workers had been given time off so they could fetch water without interference.
The job didn't require much skill: cut down a tree, shape it enough to turn it into some usable piece—and that was it. Seemed simple, but every day brought aching backs, raw palms, and the sense that time itself had frozen.
But even that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was having to endure it.
Endure the long, draining hours. Endure the cold, the thirst, the constant irritation. Endure a life that refused to change.
Ars, Vale, Lark—they all worked differently, picking whatever came easier to them. The funny part? All the kids got paid the same. Just in food.
Copper and silver coins were only for those over sixteen.
The food was barely enough for two meals. So usually, they only ate during the day and evening.
Gloomer hurried to his work site, gave the others a brief nod of greeting, and got straight to it. Today's task was trimming branches. Maybe not the hardest job, but for someone who had only just turned sixteen, it was a real challenge.
Though… his body had grown used to it.
His mind, however—never.
— Damn it... why the hell is this axe so crooked? — he muttered, swinging the blade down onto another branch with force.
A dull thud. The tree shuddered.
He spat to the side in frustration and swung again.
— Why is it so cold today...?
But…
Something was off.
His voice sounded too clear. Too sharp for this place.
He knew that after saying something like that, someone should've called him out, smacked him on the head, or at least thrown him a dark look.
That's how it always used to be.
But nothing happened.
Absolutely nothing.
No warnings. No threats from the adults. Not even a sideways glance.
The sense of wrongness hit him in the gut like a blade.
His head buzzed.
The world seemed... farther away.
Everyone was still working as if nothing had happened.
Lunch came sooner than usual.
Gloomer sat down on a roughly built bench, pulled out his modest portion of food... and then, without knowing why, reached into his pocket.
His fingers touched something solid.
Slowly, he pulled the object into the light.
Sausage.
And a few more scraps of food—things that had no business being here.
Gloomer froze.
It was like a hole opened in his mind.
— What the... Where did this come from...?
His hand trembled, still holding the food.
Thoughts scattered in his skull like trapped rats. He couldn't remember. Couldn't understand.
Then he remembered.
Yesterday.
What had he done yesterday...?
His blood pounded in his temples.
Pain bloomed in his head.
Gloomer jumped to his feet, shaking all over.
He didn't know what was going on—but he knew one thing: he had to run.
Now.
If he stayed—he would die.
That thought screamed in his mind.
HE HAD TO RUN!
NOW!
Everyone turned to look at him, confused—but no one tried to stop him.
Even the adults who usually kept watch were nowhere to be seen.
Damon was dressed too neatly for this village.
The village greeted him with silence. Thick, heavy. Wrong.
He stopped at the edge of the path, staring at the darkened rooftops. Something was off here.
He was looking for the elder—his possible brother.
Why possible?
Simple: he wasn't sure. Truth be told, he didn't know much about himself at all. His past was a void, a black gap in his memory. He didn't remember his childhood. Didn't remember any family. Didn't know where his knowledge came from. Who had taught him to read? Why did his head echo with scattered fragments of someone else's words?
It was like he had simply woken up one day on this island, with nothing but absence behind him.
He had been following traces, clues, anything that might point him toward the truth. But everywhere—only confusion, only puzzled stares.
All he had left were the notes in his pockets.
Strange. Messy. They had led him here.
And now he stood at the edge of the village, staring into its silence, at the gray silhouettes of the houses… and at the shadows moving between them.
No—not shadows. People.
Children and teenagers.
Even with his broken memory, he knew that wasn't natural.
— Why haven't I found anything yet? — he muttered, rubbing his forehead.
Yesterday evening, the village held a celebration. Damon wandered into it by accident.
Everything looked normal at first glance—rowdy teenagers, swaying figures by the tavern entrance, loud voices, conversations about the future.
But something about the picture felt off.
The tavern looked far too luxurious for this place.
The dishes were too clean.
The lights too bright.
But what struck Damon the most wasn't that.
There were no guards.
And the tavern's overseer—it was like he didn't exist at all.
But what truly shook Damon was a conversation.
— The elder?.. — One of the teens gave him a confused look. — What elder?
— Who's in charge of your village? — Damon felt a cold knot twist in his stomach.
— There've never been any adults here, — the boy replied with a smirk.
Damon froze.
Was this... a joke?
But their faces said otherwise.
They weren't lying.
They truly didn't remember a man who was supposed to live here.
Were the records wrong?
He searched for any clue. Any detail he could hold on to.
And he found a house.
There was something about it. Something that set it apart from the others.
Now Damon sat inside that house, staring deep into its dark window.
Wind lashed the shutters, the sky grew darker, and a single thought echoed in his mind:
"Something unnatural happened in this village."
Yes, such things existed in this world.
Monsters. People with terrifying abilities.
He knew that—though he couldn't remember how.
A sip of hot tea warmed his throat, but not his thoughts.
The teens lived in broken-down homes, but this part of the village stood abandoned. No one even came near.
Why?
Maybe… a high-class monster had appeared here.
One that could affect memory.
And what if… it was the reason for his memory loss?
It made sense, and yet there was nothing he could do.
He sighed, running his finger across the old wooden table.
Damn it. Why is everything so complicated...
Damon stood, scribbled his thoughts into a notebook, and packed it tightly into his bag, pulling the strap firm across his chest.
He had to leave.
He wasn't going to find anything here.
He might even become a target himself.
He planned to escape to any safe island and report this. But for now, he had no idea how to even leave this one.
He walked through the village center.
The usual sounds of nature.
Warm. Peaceful.
And then—
A dull bell rang.
Damon stopped.
A bell? At noon?
He couldn't remember his past, but so much of his knowledge had stayed with him.
He knew that nearly every other village on this island had a church.
And above him, a bell tower rose.
That bell was never rung at noon.
Only in the morning—to wake the village.
Only in the evening—to bid the sun farewell and call for prayers to the goddess.
But now?
Something was wrong.
Maybe I'm losing my mind.
Where do I know all this from?
He lifted his head.
Silence.
The sounds had faded.
No one seemed surprised.
No one asked what had happened.
And then he saw them.
The crowd.
People were stepping out of houses, leaving their work behind, spilling out from alleys.
Walking.
In one direction.
Toward the Silent Shore.
But their movements…
Too steady.
Too mechanical.
Like puppets on strings.
And their eyes…
Empty.
Damon went cold.
He looked around.
A woman passed by him.
He looked at her face.
No reaction.
Step.
Step.
Step.
They walked without pause.
Like sleepwalkers.
No words.
No emotion.
Damon couldn't just stand there.
He stepped forward, blocking one of them.
— Stop.
No response.
The person sidestepped him without a glance.
— What's wrong with you? — Damon grabbed their shoulder.
Cold.
Like a corpse.
The person wobbled, but kept walking.
As if he wasn't even there.
And then Damon understood—
They can't hear him.
They didn't even know he was there.
He looked at their faces again.
Something deep inside…
As if a foreign mind had filled their hollow shells.
Damon stepped back.
If this wasn't mass hysteria…
Then it was something else.
Something alien.
Dangerous.
Anomalous.
But before he could finish the thought—
The bell rang again.
Once.
Twice.
The crowd froze.
So did he.
His gaze rose.
The bell tower.
At the very top, a trembling figure.
A boy.
Who was that?
It was Gloomer.
Small.
Fragile.
Clinging to the beam, barely holding on.
But his hands were wrapped tightly around the rope.
He was ringing the bell.
Why?
Gloomer didn't know exactly what had happened to them.
But he knew something supernatural was involved.
His whole body begged him to run.
But how could he leave his friends behind?
Not just friends—his family.
When he returned to the village, they were already like this.
Like zombies.
He shouted. Shoved them. Tried to wake them.
Nothing worked.
Then he looked up.
The church.
And somehow…
He felt there was still hope.
He didn't just kneel and pray.
Blind prayers would lead nowhere.
He climbed the bell tower.
Barely breathing, he grasped the rope.
Closed his eyes.
— All gods of this world… anyone… please… — he whispered.
And struck the bell.
Once.
Nothing.
As if the world didn't even notice.
Only his heart reacted—flaring to life, pounding like a wild animal cornered.
Chills ran down his spine. Ringing in his ears.
Twice.
And then—
The crowd stopped.
A coincidence?
Gloomer gasped in relief and rang it again.
People began to stir.
Someone blinked. Looked around, dazed.
It worked!
But at that moment—
A loud crack.
The shore.
A sharp sound—like ice breaking. Stone splitting.
No.
Something else.
The ground trembled.
Gloomer nearly slipped and fell.
Even Damon staggered.
Then he saw it.
The mist.
Rising from the shoreline.
Thick.
Heavy.
Alive.
And inside it…
A silhouette.
Tall.
Indistinct.
Down by the shore, Kai—the kind boy—was the first to wake.
— What…? Why am I here?..
Others began to sway, confused.
They were waking up.
Gloomer nearly burst into tears from the relief.
But the joy was premature.
He saw the water behind them.
The waves stirred.
No.
It was something else.
— GET AWAY FROM THE DAMN SHORE! — Gloomer shouted with all his might.
But few could hear him.
Kai turned around.
And something grabbed him.
A hand.
Thin. Skeletal.
Black as coal.
It shot out from the water and clamped around him.
Kai screamed.
It was his last sound.
He was pulled into the water.
Immediately.
As if he had never existed.
People screamed.
Panic.
Chaos.
They ran.
Damon stared into the mist.
Something was there.
No.
There was… an island.
It shouldn't be here.
It couldn't be here.
— The Dark Island.
— No...
Damon exhaled.
The island that appeared once every few years…
It was here.