Chapter 9: The First Time He Forgot
The first thing Lior said that morning was, "Hey, you're in my room."
Elaine blinked at him, clutching a tray of breakfast scones like a shield. "This is my room."
He tilted his head, puzzled. "Are you sure? I could've sworn mine had… less books."
Elaine's breath caught. It wasn't just the confusion in his voice—it was the polite distance in his tone. As if she were a guest. A stranger.
Not someone who had kissed his cheek the night before.
Not someone he once whispered secrets to in the dark.
Not someone he'd said belonged in his story.
He didn't remember.
Not the tunnels. Not the letter. Not her confession. Not her.
And it wasn't just vague forgetfulness—it was the uncanny precision of a timeline rethreading itself. A clean cut through memory.
"Oh," she said, setting the tray down carefully, as though it might break if she made a sudden move. "Sorry. I must've… wandered in by mistake."
He smiled, easy and warm, like a boy meeting her for the first time. "No worries. Happens to me all the time. Rooms and people and… what was I saying?"
Elaine nodded, numbly. "You were about to eat."
And then she left. Because if she stayed a second longer, she might've screamed.
---
She spent the next hour pacing her room, the letter still unopened on her desk. She didn't know what stung more: that he'd forgotten her, or that she'd expected it. She knew the timeline was reversing, unwinding toward the moment they first met. But it hadn't occurred to her just how visceral it would feel to be erased.
Piece by piece.
Day by day.
By noon, she had rewritten the letter three times. Once as a confession. Once as a goodbye. Once as a set of instructions.
None of them felt right.
By dusk, she burned all three drafts and went looking for Lior instead.
---
She found him in the stables, attempting to saddle a horse that clearly hated him.
"You're doing that wrong," she said.
"I gathered," he grunted as the horse stepped on his foot. "Is this one possessed?"
"Just temperamental."
He turned to her, blinking. "Elaine, right?"
Her chest tightened, but she nodded. "That's me."
"Sorry about this morning. I've just been… off lately. It's the weirdest thing. I keep thinking I'm forgetting something important, but when I try to remember, it slips away."
She forced a smile. "Like trying to hold water."
"Exactly. It's driving me nuts."
He looked at her then—really looked at her—and something flickered across his face. A frown. A tug of familiarity.
"Do I know you?" he asked softly. "More than just… the hallway nod kind of knowing?"
Elaine stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough for the ache to reach him. "Yes. But it's okay if you don't remember."
"Is it?"
She wanted to say yes. To make this easy for him. But her heart refused to lie.
"No," she said. "It's not."
Silence fell between them, thick and unkind.
"I had a dream last night," Lior murmured. "There was this ribbon. Blue. And a tower. And you. But I woke up and… it didn't feel like mine."
"It was yours," she said. "You just don't get to keep it this time."
His eyes locked with hers, full of something that wasn't quite understanding—but wasn't absence, either. "Who are you?"
She hesitated, then took his hand and placed the sealed letter in it.
"Someone who loved you forward while the world moved backward."
He looked down at the letter, then up again. "Should I open this?"
Elaine shrugged, blinking back tears. "Only if you want to remember what it costs."
Then she turned and walked away.
She didn't look back.
But if she had, she would've seen Lior hold the letter to his chest like something precious. Like maybe, even without the memory, his heart still recognized the weight of her.