The Memory Vaults of Veridion were vast, stretching for miles beneath the gleaming towers of the city. The vaulted ceiling arced impossibly high above, made from a translucent material that shimmered like the surface of an otherworldly ocean. Every inch of this space was filled with ancient data streams, threads of light that swirled like wisps of energy, their patterns a silent song to those who could understand them. The Vault was a place where time itself seemed to bend—where the past was not just remembered but preserved.
Vero Zenith stood at the heart of the Vault, his fingers lightly grazing the surface of the nearest memory panel. He had always been meticulous in his work—after all, it was his duty to catalog the memories of Veridion's citizens, ensuring that each recollection, each moment of someone's life, was preserved for future generations. He was one of the best at what he did, known for his precision and efficiency. Nothing ever slipped through the cracks.
But today was different. As his hand hovered over the holographic display, something felt wrong. His eyes narrowed as he observed the memory that had materialized before him. It wasn't his—he was sure of it. The faces and scenes were foreign, yet oddly familiar, as if they belonged to some other life he had never lived.
The image on the panel flickered, briefly distorting before stabilizing. It was a street—a narrow cobbled road lined with tall, narrow buildings, their stone facades weathered by time. The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth, and a low mist clung to the ground. There were no signs of technology, no data streams or holographic ads that dominated the streets of Veridion. This was a place that seemed untouched by the future, a city from an era long past.
But what sent a chill racing down Vero's spine wasn't just the place—it was the person. Standing in the middle of the street, gazing directly at him, was a woman. Her silver hair cascaded down her back, flowing like liquid metal, and her violet eyes locked with his, unblinking. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something hauntingly familiar about her, as if she were waiting for him. No—expecting him.
Vero's breath caught in his throat. He didn't recognize this woman. Her face wasn't in any of the records. He was certain of it. Yet, the longer he stared at her, the more the unease gnawed at him. It felt as though this image—this memory—was meant for him, as though it had found its way into his mind, demanding attention. It shouldn't be here. He had cataloged every memory with precision, had verified each one for authenticity. There was no room for error in his work.
"Impossible," he muttered under his breath. "It must be a glitch. A malfunction."
He reached for the controls to remove the memory from the display, but before he could make contact, the image shifted again. The woman's eyes blinked, and then, in a gesture so subtle it almost felt like a trick of his mind, she raised one hand. It was a slow, deliberate movement, and she pointed directly at him. For a moment, everything went still. The hum of the Vault's systems seemed to quiet, the air growing heavy, as if the world itself had paused.
A surge of cold fear tightened in his chest, and Vero stumbled back, his heart racing. He couldn't explain why, but he felt as though she had truly reached out to him. Her presence seemed to linger in his mind, haunting him even as the memory faded from the display.
Vero's breath quickened, and he shook his head, trying to clear the image from his mind. He quickly deactivated the holographic panel, returning the Vault to its usual order, but the unease remained. The flicker of the memory—a glimpse of a world beyond Veridion—haunted him, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
For years, Vero had lived in Veridion, a city where time and memory were preserved with perfect order. It was a place where people could revisit their pasts, relive their most cherished moments, and even correct their mistakes. But now, for the first time, he felt a crack in the fabric of reality. Something was slipping through, something that shouldn't be there.
He exhaled shakily and turned away from the panel, trying to steady his mind. This wasn't right. Something was happening—something that went beyond a simple memory malfunction.
A soft ping interrupted his thoughts. It came from his wristband, a communication alert. His pulse quickened at the sight of the message—it was from Arin, his supervisor.
Report to the central chamber immediately.
Vero's stomach tightened. He had worked with Arin for years, and though they weren't close, the urgency in the message made him uneasy. Arin had always been calm, measured, and rational. For him to send an alert this severe meant something was wrong—something serious.
Without wasting another second, Vero made his way out of the Vault, the hum of the data streams fading behind him as he navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the facility. The Memory Vaults were a vast network of interconnected rooms, and it took several minutes for him to reach the central chamber. As he approached the doors, a strange feeling washed over him—a sense that something was watching him, something beyond the confines of the Vault.
When the doors finally opened, he found Arin standing in the center of the room, his expression grim. Arin was usually the one to greet him with a neutral expression, but today, his eyes held a flicker of concern.
"Vero," Arin said, his voice low. "I need you to listen carefully. We have a situation."
Vero's pulse quickened. "What happened?"
Arin hesitated before speaking again. "There's been an anomaly in the Vaults. I've seen it myself. The memories we've been cataloging—they're not... they're not just data. Some of them—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "Some of them aren't from our world."
Vero blinked, the weight of Arin's words sinking in. He wanted to deny it, to say it was impossible. But deep down, he knew. The crack in his own mind, the memory he had just encountered—it was real. And it was only the beginning.