Sasha

  5 years BA.

  ACC Serenia research facility at the Door.

  Today marked twenty-eight days without pain. Twenty-eight days without Chaos.

  It felt like I arrived only yesterday. And like I've lived here for a thousand years. I still couldn’t fully believe it. Humans, animals, plants—this enormous, living world entirely untouched by him. Kindness, sunlight, birds, water… even coffee - none of it should be possible.

  But I’d made a decision. It didn’t matter whether this was real or not. Eventually, Chaos would either reclaim me or he wouldn’t. If—no, when—he took me back, my existence would simply return to the baseline of endless pain. Even if losing all this kindness would hurt far more than never having known it at all; even if I knew Chaos would turn every moment of this respite into new, unimaginable horrors, twisting and corrupting these moments until they rotted into another nightmare—ultimately, it would all collapse back into what I already knew.

  I was terrified of what he'd do to me, of course. But he’d do it regardless of what I did. If I wasted this time doubting and waiting for his return, he’d torment me with all the things I'd missed. If I tried true self-annihilation, he’d immediately tear this reality apart, laughing.

  Yet, if Edgar was right—if Chaos truly was sealed behind the Wall, behind the Door, and unable to reclaim me, if this impossible story about my Vigil lasting only temporarily (though Chaos had stretched it into eternity) was actually true…

  Then I was free.

  Free to exist, to live. Free to learn, to grow, to experience… everything.

  And someday—eventually—to die. Humans die. I had read about it, and Chan told me. So, if I am human, I would too. Perhaps the pretense would fade then, and Chaos would come. After all, he did it so many times in all those endless illusionary lives, slowly rotting it from the inside out.

  (Yet… he'd never made anything so complex and vast. He cannot. Creating this world is beyond him.)

  But until then…

  Until then, there was no logical reason not to trust this reality. No reason not to believe I could actually be safe. To believe I could actually live.

  And—I think—I wanted to.

  Wanting felt dangerous, wrong, forbidden. Edgar kept saying it was "just trauma talking."

  He spoke a lot about "recovery" and "healing," as though my existence before was something from which I needed to rebuild myself.

  But I'd already rebuilt myself endlessly, across eternity, always in pain, always with Chaos whispering burning poison in my mind. I thought I’d been at the "high point," my most "whole," right before getting into this world.

  But maybe not. Maybe without Chaos, I could become more.

  That thought also felt dangerous. Edgar would say that feeling was trauma, too.

  * * *

  I was learning many things, mainly about the world and humans. Everything was far more complex than I could imagine, and the complexity never ended—each topic I tried to understand became more interconnected, more complicated. Like splitting molecules, atoms, and sub-atomic particles. No end, and things get weirder.

  And I was missing crucial information everywhere.

  Chan said I was trying to "digest decades of learning in weeks," and that there was "no rush," but I think she understood.

  I learned more about them. Chan liked to answer questions and explain things; her eyes got brighter when I asked stuff, and when I showed that her explanations helped. She liked her tea a bit cold. She had back pain from sitting too long, especially in "uncomfortable" chairs. She had no children but a pet parrot she promised to introduce to me one day.

  Edgar was the most important person here, the highest in the hierarchy. He had many important tasks. He was considered old for humans, but he wasn't frail. He was involved in politics and had societal prestige and power. He smiled rarely but very warmly. When he laughed, it felt good. And he smiled and laughed more when Chan was around.

  I learned coffee rules, at least I thought I did. It wasn't related to my frequent mistakes (which were still numerous), but was strictly correlated to time. No coffee after 6:00 p.m. I'd read about it in a medical text—it stimulated the nervous system. Perhaps that was the reason.

  Still, I didn’t ask Edgar or Chan directly. It would've been too much.

  I met many new people recently. They were all called "doctors," but they introduced themselves as psychologists, specialists in studying the human mind. Edgar and Chan explained that these psychologists would help to decide if I was ready to become "more integrated." I still didn't understand exactly why they wanted me integrated—why they wanted me here at all—but Edgar asked me to be honest and open with these people, even if their questions felt unpleasant.

  (Could anything in this reality truly feel unpleasant?)

  So I sat in silent rooms while doctors slid puzzles and pictures across polished desks.

  One asked me to match emotions to colours; another held up wooden shapes and said, “Which two belong together?”

  A third said, “Tell me about today.”

  Each test fascinated me, yet I never cracked its true purpose.

  Perhaps they were checking if I was dangerous. If I were to fight. But I promised Edgar I wouldn't. Besides, there were no attacks, so why would I?

  Even these mages who were always around weren’t attacking. They had shadowed me everywhere—I’d learned their energy patterns, their essence trails, the scent of their magic. They followed me from my room to the library, the park, the training grounds. Always close, always ready, though their numbers dwindled every few days. I began to suspect they didn't really want to fight me.

  Edgar said, "They're for safety."

  Eventually, I stopped waiting for them to attack. If they ever did, I'd be ready.

  * * *

  Some of the new people behaved strangely, though. They lied, and I didn’t know why. I could sense lies —Chaos always lied, and his lies burned into my mind, familiar. But these humans’ lies felt different, gentler somehow.

  One person pretended to have a problem and asked me for help, but he didn't actually have any issue. Another appeared in the library, making noise and striking up random conversations, claiming she was "bored and wanted company." That wasn’t true either. Then a man intentionally bumped into me, said it was my fault, and demanded I apologize. I did, but I knew he didn't believe what he said.

  Stolen story; please report.

  I didn't know how to react. I asked them why they lied. Edgar said there would be "tests." Maybe those were it. I think I failed.

  But they didn't punish me. They never did.

  Lies were strange, and they were everywhere. I think "society" had them incorporated into its very fabric. Yet they didn't hurt.

  After those three encounters, there were no more. Instead, the next day, psychologists asked me to participate in "social training." They presented scenarios—things like: "You're lost; how do you find your way?" or "Someone asks you for the time; how do you answer?" or "How should you greet someone depending on where you meet?"—and I was supposed to respond naturally.

  It was lying, but also not? They said it was "acting," which was explained as lying when everyone knows it's a lie. Somewhat similar to "good illusions" in fairy tales and fiction. I still couldn't fully understand how that was supposed to work, but these lies didn't hurt.

  I couldn’t act very well, but I learned a lot regardless. They gave detailed feedback each time I tried. I liked feedback—rules, clear explanations, precise corrections. It made learning easier. Yesterday, I greeted a new person perfectly for the first time. Nobody looked startled or confused, and the psychologists smiled warmly. It felt strangely satisfying.

  There was also a lot of movement, even physical fighting, although it was carefully controlled. They instructed me to fight without magic against artificial constructs. It wasn't easy; most of my existence had been spent bodiless, wielding magic directly, though Chaos had sometimes forced me into physical forms and blocked my powers, leaving me to fight with whatever limbs I had.

  Here, they called this fighting "physical rehabilitation" and "anger management." I wasn’t sure exactly what anger had to do with it—how could I be angry without Chaos?—but fighting in this controlled way felt… almost pleasant, I suppose. There was no pain, no cruelty, just permission to move freely, to strike, to release something buried deep inside. They even praised me when I broke the constructs—"mannequins," they called them. The hardest part was remembering not to use magic, but since there was no threat, it was manageable.

  Then there was Kiara—Doctor Kiara, but she insisted I call her just "Kiara." They explained she was my "therapist," here to help me "adapt." I didn't think I needed her help, but they knew better.

  So I went. Twice a week, four times already. It was very different from the tests. Kiara was impossibly kind, just like Chan. Each session, she poured coffee and set out a plate of fresh cookies—different every time, all warm, soft, and sweet, baked in her own kitchen. I thought they could only come from "factories.", but apparently not.

  Kiara mostly listened, occasionally asking about small things: how my day went, what I had read, how the tests felt, what I learned, what I thought about the weather, or even just how lunch was. She also talked about her three dogs—large, friendly animals who seemed entirely unpredictable yet safe to live with, somehow. I found myself strangely curious about them. One of the memories I had from "past Sasha" (supposedly) was about a dog. She felt an overwhelming intensity towards the creature.

  I shared this memory with Kiara. She listened. Chan and Edgar both told me I could share anything I wanted with Kiara—even negative thoughts about them. I didn’t understand that. Why would I ever speak badly of Chan or Edgar? They had been nothing but kind. Too kind.

  (And if I ever wanted to speak badly about Kiara herself, who would I go to then?)

  Still, every time I left her office after talking about seemingly pointless details—about my day, about the weather, about food, or her dogs—it felt like some small weight lifted, just a little. It made no sense. Maybe it was because Kiara always looked at me as if I were important, even when all I talked about was what I ate for lunch. It was confusing. But I didn’t dislike it.

  ***

  Now I was sitting alone in the park. They allowed me this now, though I knew Red, Shimmering, Heavy, and Silent were close. The mages never introduced themselves, so I named them after their magical essence. I wondered if I'd ever meet them properly. Should I thank them? Apologize? Did they resent watching me?

  Why exactly were they there?

  I was feeding koi again. The little fish gathered around my shadow the moment I approached, their tiny mouths opening as though whispering something secret and urgent. I came here every day. Sometimes Edgar or Chan joined me. Apparently, they also enjoyed feeding the fish.

  This time, Edgar arrived just as I’d run out of bread.

  He seemed more tense than usual. Over the past few weeks, I had watched him brighten steadily, smiling more often, laughing softly, his eyes relieved as if some impossible burden was slowly lifting. Today, however, shadows clung to his face again, a familiar heaviness returning to his gaze.

  "Sasha," he said warmly, his expression brightening the instant our eyes met. He always seemed genuinely pleased to see me, which remained deeply confusing. I offered a smile in return, hoping it appeared right.

  "Enjoying the weather?" Edgar began, engaging in what I'd learned humans call "small talk." They did this at the beginning of conversations, possibly as a way to gauge the threat level of each interaction.

  "It’s warm," I replied carefully. "The sun and sky are here. I fed the fish again. They ate everything. How was your day?"

  He spoke briefly about a meeting with a "PR representative." I didn't fully understand the reference, so I stored it away to research later.

  Then Edgar paused, his posture shifting subtly, seriousness creeping into his voice. "Sasha, I actually came here to discuss something important."

  (What did I do wrong? Would they finally punish me?)

  I straightened, preparing myself.

  "You're doing incredibly well." His voice softened, trembling slightly with emotion I couldn’t decode. "I'm so proud of you."

  He wasn’t lying, though his words felt illogical. This word again—"proud." Why?

  "I think it's time I give you something." His hand dipped into his coat pocket, retrieving a small, ornate box wrapped intricately in magic. I sensed the complexity immediately, unable to decipher its purpose at first glance.

  "Sasha, this is a soul-lock," he explained quietly. "It opens only for one particular soul—yours. You sealed it yourself, just before your Vigil."

  Not me, I thought immediately. Her—the real Sasha. The human girl everyone was certain I'd once been.

  He met my eyes carefully. "I know you don't remember her. And I know you don't believe you ever were her. Believe me, I truly understand—I still struggle to accept that I had a life before my own vigil." Edgar's gaze grew distant, tinged with quiet sadness. "But this lock is coded to your essence, and despite everything—despite what Chaos did to you—it will still work."

  He fell silent for a long, heavy moment.

  "Inside this," Edgar continued softly, "is a recording. You made it specifically for yourself, for who you are right now. Exactly as you are." He swallowed, emotion making his voice strained and careful. "Twenty-two years ago, you told me to give this to you 'when it's clear you're going to live.' And now—I think it's time."

  His eyes held mine, searching deeply for something I couldn’t comprehend. What was he looking for? Did he expect me to recognize something I no longer possessed?

  A message from her—to me? From this Sasha everyone else knew and loved, the girl who had crafted these memory anchors that saved me? The real person who was destroyed but did everything to ensure I'd survive?

  Edgar produced a bundle of connected papers—loose sheets, not quite a book. "You also left these diaries," he said gently. "I encouraged you to keep them, hoping they'd anchor you to yourself. They might be… overwhelming at first, but they're yours."

  He took a careful breath. "Sasha, listen. You don't have to watch the message. You don't have to read the diaries—not now, not ever." His gaze was intense, trying to communicate more than words alone. "It's completely your choice. No one else has seen the recording. The diaries…" He hesitated, guilt coloring his voice. "We read them—myself, the psychological team—before, and again recently. Only to help your recovery. I'm deeply sorry that we had to."

  Sorry? Was there something wrong, something dangerous inside them? Why did he sound so sad?

  My thoughts tangled. The message was from her—from the real Sasha, the person I'd spent these weeks trying desperately not to think about. The owner of memories I inherited and tried not to look into too often. Her life, her choices, her existence before me—it felt wrong to touch any of it.

  Slowly, I took the box and the diaries from Edgar’s hands.

  They felt heavier than they looked.