You Will Forget This Story

He stood in the room with the burnt dress for a long time.

The silence pressed on him from every side.

There was still no door behind him. Only a wall. A pale, blank wall that looked too smooth, too deliberate—like it had replaced something.

He turned back to the chair.

The dress was gone.

He didn't look away.He didn't blink.

But it was gone.

"I'm glad you made it this far," said a voice behind him.

He turned.

She was standing by the window.

The Girl in Red Shoes.

Her dress was clean now—no burns, no tears—and her hair glowed faintly in the dull light, as if the room had been waiting for her to step into it.

She looked at him with the calm confidence of someone who already knew the ending.

He tried to speak, but she only shook her head.

"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to," she said gently.

She walked toward him, her shoes making no sound on the floor.

"You're getting close," she whispered. "But not quite ready."

He didn't know what she meant. He didn't care. He just wanted to hold onto this—whatever it was—because something inside him knew it wouldn't last.

She smiled.

And the floor vanished beneath him.

He didn't fall down.

He fell out—like the world had turned itself inside out.

There was no pull. No rush. Just a slow drift through hollow space. Memory blurred past him—moments that felt like echoes more than truth.

A white dress burning.

A locked box.

A laugh he couldn't place.

Then nothing.

Then light.

He landed softly.

He was in a library—but not one built for reading.

It felt like a graveyard for thoughts.

The shelves reached forever in every direction. Some sagged under the weight of forgotten things. Others tilted like they were trying to fall but hadn't yet been given permission.

Books lined every inch. But many were damaged.

Some with pages torn out.

Some with their titles scratched off.

Some with pages pinned to the walls like warnings.

He turned.

There it was.

His name, etched in fading gold, on a black leather cover.

He stepped closer.

Opened it.

Inside: missing pages. Whole sections gone. A dozen blank ones left behind like placeholders.

He ran his hand across one. It was warm. Breathing, almost.

Then he noticed them:

Pages.

All over the room.

Plastered on shelves, nailed into wooden beams, draped across ladders and chairs.

One fluttered gently as he stepped near.

He reached toward it.

"Don't," said a voice behind him.

The voice was deep. Dry. Measured.

He turned.

A tall man stood by a desk—dark coat, gloves with open fingers, spectacles reflecting nothing. He hadn't been there a moment ago. Or maybe he had.

The man looked at him calmly.

"You're early," he said.

"I don't know where I am."

"I do," said the man. "You're in the Archive."

The man stepped forward.

"I'm the Archivist."

He gestured to the room around them.

"These are what's left of you."

The protagonist looked down at the book again.

"So many pages missing."

"Not missing," said the Archivist. "Just… unwilling."

He pointed to the pinned pages.

"They haven't forgotten you yet. But they will."

The air shifted.

The protagonist reached toward one of the pinned pages anyway.

It was torn on one edge. Familiar. His hand trembled.

"Don't," said the Archivist again, more softly.

"You'll forget this part anyway."

His fingers touched the page.

And everything collapsed.

He gasped awake.

The room was quiet.

He was sitting on the stone bench again.

The swing still creaked gently.

But the trees were taller now.

The sky was a deeper shade of gray.

And there were two swings, not one.

He stood up slowly.

There was no sign of her.

But he could still smell ash.

And his hands were clean.