Chapter One: The Train to Nowhere
The first thing I notice is the sound.
A soft, rhythmic churning—metal against metal, a whispering hum beneath my fingertips. I am sitting in a train compartment, though I don't remember stepping onto any train. Outside the window, the world is not a blur of trees or city streets. There is no landscape, no sky—only blackness, vast and endless, fractured with lines of light that shimmer like cracks in glass.
The sky is broken.
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to remember how I got here, but my mind feels slippery, as if my thoughts have been soaked in water and wrung out. Something is missing. Something important.
My hands are shaking. There is a small slip of paper clutched between my fingers, though I don't remember writing it. The ink is smudged, but the words are clear:
"Find the House That Remembers."
I stare at the note, heart pounding. The train rocks gently as it moves, its motion soothing, lulling. There is a book beside me on the seat—one I am certain wasn't there before. Its cover is black leather, worn and familiar, as if I have held it many times before. I reach for it, hesitating only a second before opening it to the first page.
There, in neat, elegant handwriting, are the words:
"You have been here before."
A chill crawls up my spine.
The door to my compartment slides open.
A man stands in the doorway, dressed in a long, dark coat. His eyes are shadowed, his hands tucked into his pockets. He tilts his head, studying me like I am a puzzle missing half its pieces.
"You're awake," he says. His voice is smooth, unreadable.
I glance at the book, then at him. "…Who are you?"
Instead of answering, he steps inside and closes the door behind him. "You should prepare yourself," he says, glancing out the window at the fractured sky. "We're approaching the first station."
I swallow. "Where are we going?"
A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but there is no amusement in it.
"The same place we're all going," he says. "To find what we've lost."
I don't know what I've lost. But as the train slows and the world outside shifts—revealing a station shrouded in mist, its sign too faded to read—I realize one thing with terrifying certainty.
I am not ready to remember.
The train slows, its brakes hissing like a long exhale. The compartment vibrates beneath my fingertips, and outside, the mist thickens, swirling around the station like it has a mind of its own.
The man in the dark coat watches me expectantly, as if he's waiting to see if I will step off the train.
I hesitate. "What happens if I don't leave?"
He shrugs. "Then the train keeps moving."
"Where to?"
"That depends. Some say it never stops again. Others say it only comes back when you're ready."
Ready for what?
The thought curls around my spine like cold fingers, but I push it away. I glance at the slip of paper still clutched in my hand. Find the House That Remembers.
I don't know where I am. I don't know what I lost. But something tells me I won't find the answers sitting in this compartment.
I stand.
The man steps aside, letting me pass. As I move toward the door, I feel his gaze on my back. Just as I step onto the platform, he calls out—
"Be careful with the echoes."
I turn, but the doors slide shut before I can ask what he means.
Then, with a low, haunting whistle, the train pulls away, disappearing into the mist.
I am alone.
The Platform
The station is old, its wooden planks creaking beneath my feet. Faded posters cling to the peeling walls, their messages unreadable. The air is damp, carrying the scent of rain, though the sky above remains fractured and dry.
There is a signpost near the entrance, but the name of the station has been worn away. The only thing still legible is a single word, scrawled beneath it in hurried, uneven handwriting:
ECHOES.
A shiver runs through me. I step forward, drawn to the only path leading away from the platform—a cobbled road that vanishes into the fog.
Somewhere in the distance, footsteps echo against stone. Not mine.
I freeze. The sound stops.
I am not alone.
"Hello?" My voice is swallowed by the mist.
Silence.
Then—
A whisper.
My name.
Spoken by a voice I do not recognize.
And suddenly, I understand what the man meant.
The echoes are not just sounds.
They are memories.
Memories that don't belong to me.
The First Memory
I take a step forward. Then another. The mist parts just enough to reveal a shape in the distance—a house, barely visible, its outline shifting like a mirage.
The House That Remembers.
I move toward it, but the closer I get, the more the air hums with unseen energy. The cobblestones beneath my feet blur, the world tilting—
And then, all at once, I am somewhere else.
I stand in a dimly lit corridor. The scent of old books and candle wax clings to the air. Ahead of me, a door creaks open.
A boy sits at a desk, a book open before him. His face is turned away, but I can feel the weight of his sadness pressing against the walls.
I do not know him.
But I feel like I should.
The book on his desk is identical to the one I found on the train. The same black leather cover. The same worn pages.
And as I step closer, he turns—
And I see my own face.