The city slept, but shadows moved beneath its surface—hidden voices, murmurs that tugged at the edges of my mind. I walked in the quiet, keeping to the alleys, tracing the invisible path the Weaver had left. The air was thick, dense with whispers, fragments of lives lost yet unwilling to fade.
I could feel them pressing in around me, like hands reaching from beneath still waters. Not all memories, it seemed, were content to remain forgotten.
One voice stood out, sharper, more insistent, weaving through the rest until it wrapped around me like a shroud.
"I died for this city. I fought for its soul. And you, memory-bearer, would let me disappear?"
I turned, expecting to find someone behind me, but there was only darkness. The voice continued, echoing from somewhere deep within.
"You tread the Middle Path, yet you turn your back on those who sacrificed everything. Is that honor? Is that balance?"
A figure materialized in the mist, cloaked in shadow, eyes burning with a fierce, unyielding light. This wasn't the Weaver. This was someone—or something—else. A memory that refused to fade, a spirit bound by its own story.
"I am what remains," it rasped, stepping closer, its form flickering with an unnatural intensity. "A soldier in the city's last stand, erased from the annals of history, unwept and unburied. Will you let me disappear, memory-bearer? Will you turn a blind eye to those who bled for a world that now forgets them?"
Its gaze cut through me, a demand for remembrance, for justice. I felt its pain, its anger, and an insistent pull to honor its story—to give it a place among the living once more.
But as I held its gaze, the Weaver's words echoed in my mind: "Not all memories will be so forgiving. And when that time comes, you must decide…"
I swallowed hard, standing my ground. "I honor you," I said, my voice steady. "I feel the weight of your story, your sacrifice. But there's a line between remembrance and resurrection, and if I cross it, the past will consume the present."
The figure's eyes narrowed, its voice a cold, biting whisper. "Balance? You call this balance? You leave us to rot in silence, condemned to oblivion while the living carry on without us."
I felt a pang of guilt, the lure of his words slipping through the cracks in my resolve. The memories were not passive—they had desires, ambitions, a hunger to be seen and heard. And I realized that some of them, like this soldier, would go to any lengths to be remembered.
"You're not forgotten," I whispered. "Your story is part of me, woven into the fabric of this city. But bringing it to light would unravel more than you know."
The soldier's form wavered, his anger seeping into the darkness. But before he vanished, he spoke again, softer this time, with a strange note of understanding. "The path you've chosen is a lonely one, memory-bearer. Be wary of your silence, for there are others… others who will not accept it as easily."
With that, he faded into the mist, leaving me alone once more, his final words lingering like a warning.