Walking through the forest, she was surprisingly adept at identifying a plethora of wild herbs and plants, plucking them with a care and reverence that spoke of deep-rooted knowledge. She picked delicate blueberries, sun-ripened and sweet, and tart raspberries nestled against wild thyme and rosemary. Each time she recognized a plant or berry, a sense of familiarity welled up; but the origins of her knowledge remained elusive. It was as if she was uncovering pages from a forgotten chapter of her life.
After what felt like ages, the woods opened up to a small clearing where a timeworn cottage sat. The structure was swallowed by nature: ivy and moss clung to its grayed wooden panels, and wildflowers sprouted between the cracked cobblestones leading to the entrance. The windows were dusty and opaque, but the remnants of faded lace curtains hinted at a time when the house had been lovingly tended.
Approaching cautiously, she pushed the creaky door open, its moan echoing the sigh of the ages. Inside, the once-cozy living space was in disarray. Tattered remnants of furniture, a hearth blackened by soot, and dusty old books scattered about painted a picture of a home long since abandoned. The place had an air of melancholy; but beneath that, there was a foundation of warmth and history.
A strange pull settled in her heart—a desire to restore this forgotten haven. Perhaps it was a projection of her own fragmented self, seeking solace and reconstruction. Each broken chair or vine-invaded window mirrored her own shattered memories and lost identity. By mending the cottage, maybe she could piece together parts of herself.
She began with clearing the overgrowth, allowing sunlight to penetrate the gloom. Then she worked on patching the roof, fixing the doors, and cleaning up the interiors. It wasn't just about physical labor; it was a therapeutic endeavor, letting her feel a connection with something tangible in a world where her own identity was so intangible.
Taking a break, she kneeled on the grass, her attention fully engaged with the little creature that had accompanied her as they played fetch with a stick. She decided to name the little flying puppy Plume in honor of the soft feathers that ran along her back; but unfortunately, Plume wasn’t very good at coming when she called.
Thinking of names, she couldn’t remember her own, so she decided to temporarily name herself. Hopefully, she would figure out who she was someday; but for now, it was some way to create an identity when she had none.
She spoke aloud to Plume, enjoying her companionship. “I will call myself Forge after the forget-me-not flowers and how I am forging a new life for myself. They are so pretty and very poetic in my current circumstances. Although, that’s odd that I can remember a flower when I cannot remember myself. It’s almost like I have memories, but everything personal was stripped away.”
Plume barked and ran around her. She was the most energetic and friendly companion she could ask for. She was company that didn’t ask questions or expect her to remember what she forgot. With bright, curious eyes that sparkled with mischief, Plume chased with delight every small pinecone or ball of moss she tossed to her.
Playing fetch with the creature was no ordinary game. Instead of simply running after the tossed item, Plume would spread its petite, feathery wings. With a few flaps, she would lift off, soaring into the air gracefully. Her flight was a mesmerizing dance of swirls and dives, captivating her each time. It was as if the forest had shared one of its most magical secrets with her in the form of this fantastical creature.
After a particularly playful toss, the creature flew up and landed gracefully on the cottage's roof. Its claws, looking more suited for perching than for running, gripped the edge of the roof tiles securely. Turning her head almost owl-like to look at Forge from her elevated perch, Plume let out a series of chirps that sounded eerily like laughter.
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Forge chuckled, her heart lightened by their play. "Show-off," she called teasingly, hands on her hips, her face alight with amusement.
The creature responded by fluffing its feathers and wagging its tail, clearly enjoying its rooftop vantage point.
This simple, playful moment in the tranquil clearing with the partially restored cottage as a backdrop encapsulated a brief pause in Forge’s complicated journey—a reminder that amidst uncertainty and lost memories, there were still moments of pure joy to be found.
Behind the aged cottage, a small patch of open land lay nestled between large forest trees. This space, while overgrown with wild grasses, received a lot of sunlight. Drawn to this serene nook, Forge decided it would be perfect for a garden.
The next morning, as the first light of dawn painted the horizon, Forge ventured out into the forest, collecting plants that she recognized instinctively. From wild strawberries to delicate chamomile and bold sage, her hands became filled with nature's bounty. With each herb she discovered, there was an uncanny sense of familiarity, as if her hands had once known the touch and texture of these plants in another lifetime.
Upon returning to the cottage, she carefully planted each herb in the soft, loamy soil, making sure they had enough space to thrive. As her fingers worked the earth, she would often find herself lost in thought; and more than once, Forge would look down to see that she had absentmindedly sketched unicorns in the dirt.
The unicorns she drew varied in size and pose: some were majestic, standing tall with flowing manes, while others were playful, frolicking amidst imagined meadows. Each sketch, though simple, had an undeniable grace about it. The curve of the unicorns' necks, the arch of their backs, and the playful flick of their tails were all rendered with a subtlety and care that suggested a fascination with the creatures in her previous life.
As the days passed, these mindless sketches became a ritual for Forge. The act of drawing these graceful creatures seemed therapeutic, a way for her to connect with memories she couldn't fully grasp. The garden behind the cottage not only became a sanctuary for herbs but also a temporary canvas for her innermost thoughts.
In the heart of the night, when the world around her was cloaked in a velvety darkness, Forge’s mind took her on a journey to a land where reality and fantasy blurred. She had a reoccurring dream where the sky, a vast expanse of lavender and periwinkle, was the canvas upon which playful, flying pigs danced. Their ears, delicate and feathery, flapped gaily as the pigs soared. Their cheerful grunts and playful spirals through the air left behind a trail of twinkling stardust, adding to the mesmerizing spectacle.
On the ground below, levitating goats floated lazily, eating everything in sight. Their serene expressions and the gentle bobbing motion as they floated a few inches above the ground were a sight to behold. It was as if they were in a state of deep meditation, their hooves never touching the ground, their fur billowing softly like clouds.
But amidst this magical realm, it was the unicorns that drew her attention. They galloped gracefully, their manes flowing like liquid silver and gold and their hooves barely touching the ground, leaving behind a trail of sparkles. They were the epitome of grace and majesty, and their presence imbued the dream with an ethereal quality.
However, beyond all these magical creatures, it was the gaze of a kind-looking man that captivated Forge’s soul. His eyes, deep pools, shimmered with warmth and understanding, as if they held the secrets of her memories and only wished to share them with her. Each time their gazes met, a comforting warmth spread through her, as if she had known those eyes for a lifetime.
But just as the serenity of the dream reached its peak, the landscape began to shift. The once-bright sky darkened, and storm clouds gathered ominously. The jubilant cries of the magical creatures faded, replaced by an eerie silence. From the shadows emerged glowing eyes of malice surrounded by fire, their crimson hue piercing through the darkness, turning the dreamlike realm into a nightmarish landscape.
The kind man's face became obscured by a swirling mist; and as Forge reached out to him, the glowing malicious eyes multiplied, surrounding her, their presence threatening to drown out all the warmth and magic of the dream.
In this twisted dreamscape, the battle between warmth and cold, light and dark, played out, leaving Forge caught in the tension between memories of kindness and looming threats of malevolence.
***
As days turned into weeks, the cottage began to reflect her efforts. The hearth roared to life, chasing away the dampness and cold. The windows gleamed, and Forge fashioned new curtains from wild grasses. Bit by bit, the cottage transformed from a relic of the past to a sanctuary in the present. This place was home, and as far as she could recall, there was nowhere else she would rather be. Even Plume started to respond to her name.