NOT ONCE, NOT TWICE, BUT FOREVER

"You were here before. You just forgot."

The words kept going in an endless loop in his memory as he tried to figure it out.

"Oliver... I am waiting!"

The voice slithered through the darkness, mimicking Hazel's—but beneath the sweetness, it gurgled like wet rot. Frost prickled his cheeks. But this time with great urgency in it.

He was caught in the midst of the voice and the inscription with his name and a date attached to it. Comparing the urgency in the voice, he rushed into the dark.

Just as his half body entered into the door's dark corner, a sharp, calm voice passed by his ears. 

 Be careful what you long for...!

Quickly, he turned. But to his surprise, no one was there.

The words seemed like an applause and also a warning, but his actions were already in motion. The void yanked him in. His ribs cracked, his breath vanished—then silence. 

'Why does it feel completely different in the inside...?'

'Why can't I hear the whispers that were calling unto my name...?'

'Why is everything so black…?'

As he looked around trying to find a clue, everything seemed out of the human race.

'Was it really Hazel...? Or, did I leave her and followed a wrong person?'

His mind was drowned in longing, trying to give himself hope.

"Hahaha...!"

A soft, calm, airy laughter filled the room, like being in a musical feast. It carried her scent—jasmine and amber, lingering like a forgotten memory. Oliver's heart leapt as the mirror reflected a slender figure gliding toward him, radiant as a bride. 

As she got closer to a particular angle, the room got filled with soothing pleasure. One side of him wanted to resist, while the other part of him still held on to Hazel's memory.

With the anticipation of fighting it, he turned, and his eyes bumped into something.

The walls had frames with no pictures; some had pictures but were blurry, and those that had clear pictures had their tops wiped off, only revealing the half structure of a person.

The torn pictures made his chest ache—half a wedding picture and half a family picture with countless people. Still the soothing pleasure clung to his mind, not ready to let go.

Upon turning his head one more time, Oliver's gaze caught sight of a picture that seemed to resemble his own fatigue. But then, the voice carrying the laughter voiced out his name.

At the mention of his name, the voice softened, sinking into him like a feather pillow.

The other side, which was fighting to overcome the soothing pleasure, left its guard, allowing it to be overthrown.

His heart raged in an instant just as his mind replayed the message he received before appearing, moving fully into the dark corners.

His eyes got closed, his body weakened, and his mind went dull. Nothing seemed to be familiar anymore; the picture he had thought to be carrying his fatigue started to rot in an instant.

In his mind were relentless questions.

Why do some of the things feel familiar and some don't?

Why are the pictures blurry and also seem to be rotting in an instant...?

Where is the other part of the torn pictures...?

As his mind roared with questions, a light, foamy, ghostly palm touched his chest—sending signals to his heart—like electric waves. The touch shivers down his spine, chilled sweat prickling on his skin. 

"Oliver...!" The voice purred, then cracked, "Why?"

The words melted into him, dissolving his resistance like warm honey.

As his mind began to slightly give up its defense, the voice that seemed to be right at his face.

He felt all the air after every word on his lips like a kiss.

His eyes widened, and his heart rate began to slow down. He marveled just as he felt another touch on his shoulder.

His head tilted, unwilling, as if pulled by a quiet curse. A cozy, smoke-like airbrush was brushed on his cheeks. Then surged into his nostrils after a short inhale.

That's when he felt something moving through his body like a snake. His eyes opened in an instant, breath caught in his throat, and body stiffened.

For a while he wasn't in control of his own body, but whatever had entered him was. Now he moved per the direction it took him.

Turning towards a two-foot brown lantern, his mind triggered some source of remembrance.

He could hear the memories play in his mind like it was happening right in front of him. Then, just as her face moved, Oliver lunged forward to hug her.

But what he wrapped his arms around wasn't the same person in the memory.

Regaining consciousness, he was holding a wall adorned with remains of bloodstains. He staggered back in an instant, but the stain had already been drawn on his skin, from his forehead to his arms.

"Hahaha...!" A chill laughter wrapped around him just as he stepped back. Due to its high pitch, he covered his ears.

Then, it dissolved like an acid poured on a materialized cloth.

"Hihihi...! Are you tired?"

Giggling echoed around him, high and fluttery, as if children were hiding just behind the wall, the very wall he had hugged.

 Oliver kept turning; the voice and the laughter were all ear-dripping, mind-blowing, and heart-melting.

"Oliver!" Just as he struggled to maintain focus, he heard it again. This time, he was sure it was her.

"Don't be too sure of yourself…" Just as he became sure of hearing Hazel's voice, another one blasted him straight in the face. He felt great air blown on him as if the person was right in front of him.

"Oh! Dear Oli... Remember!" The voice coiled through the air, thick as church incense—sweet and suffocating.

It grew louder and louder, wanting him to uncover something. Since he was stuck in a confused manner, the memory started to fade out all the joys, replacing it with a deep sensation of longing.

But something stood amidst the picture he skipped. A frame that seemed to hold something that lingered in all the memories that had flowed in his mind.

It held a portrait of a woman—dark curls cascading over her shoulders, smile too perfect, too serene. He began to brush his finger on the cheek.

Then, just as he touched the eyes, noise began to fill his mind.

The noise built like a tide—sharp, white, endless. His mind screamed, but no sound escaped.

Then—nothing.

Not silence.

Absence.

Time folded in on itself. The rotting room faded. The laughter dissolved. Even the bloodstained wall, even the framed woman with the too-perfect smile—gone.

In their place: warmth.

A breeze.

A scent—cinnamon? Roasted chestnuts?

He blinked. When his eyes opened, the darkness had unraveled into light.

Music floated on the wind. Children's laughter sparkled like fairy lights. Lanterns hovered above him in soft, golden orbs.

And yet—

Something inside him stayed frozen, whispering:

You are not where you think you are.