The House of Amber That Should Not Exist
The music played.
The chandeliers burned with golden fire.
And the masked guests danced—silent, perfect, inhuman.
Soren stood at the edge of the ballroom.
This was his memory.
Not something false.
Not something given to him.
Something that belonged to him.
And yet, it felt distant.
Like he was watching through someone else’s eyes.
The Woman Who Knew Him First
She stood in the center of the ballroom.
Unmasked.
Unmoving.
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Her dress was black silk, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in careful waves. Her eyes—they burned with recognition.
Soren’s throat tightened.
He knew her.
Not just from here.
From before.
But his mind fought against it.
Like something inside him was trying to push the memory away.
Her lips moved.
And though the music played on, though the dancers twirled, though the golden lights flickered—
Her voice was the only sound he could hear.
"You’ve come back to me."
Soren took a step forward.
His pulse pounded.
“What is this?”
The woman smiled.
A small, sad expression.
"This is what they took from you."
Soren’s vision blurred.
The chandeliers flickered.
The dancers stilled.
And suddenly—
The ballroom collapsed.
The Truth That Should Not Be Remembered
Soren gasped.
He was falling.
No ground.
No sky.
Just the empty, endless pull of something vast.
And then—
He was standing again.
Somewhere else.
The ballroom was gone.
The music was gone.
The city was gone.
Only darkness remained.
And in front of him—
A book.
Old. Bound in black leather.
And inside it—
His own handwriting.
The Journal That Was Never His
Soren’s hands trembled as he flipped through the pages.
The ink was thick, deep, like it had been burned into the paper.
And the words—they were his.
But he had never written them.
> They made me forget.
This is my last attempt.
If I fail, I will try again.
And again.
And again.
Soren’s breath hitched.
The pages continued.
More entries.
More warnings.
More versions of himself.
All trying to remember.
And all failing.
His chest tightened.
His pulse thundered.
This was real.
This had happened before.
The whispers returned.
Louder.
Surrounding him.
Consuming him.
And through them—
A single, final message appeared on the page, written in his own hand.
A sentence that broke him.
> You have already lost.
The ink was still drying.
The City That Won’t Let Go
The book vanished.
Ripped away by unseen hands.
The ground beneath him solidified.
The whispers receded.
The air changed.
And Soren found himself standing in his apartment.
The journal was gone.
The ballroom was gone.
The woman was gone.
But the knowledge remained.
The truth was inside him now.
And the city would never let him escape it.