Digging Through the Ash
Dæmon slowed. He didn’t ask what this place was. Not now.
The man didn’t move as Dæmon approached.
“You said you’re here to find something.”
“Yes.”
The man turned fully toward him. No smile now. Just weariness.
“The original pattern. Buried when the world grew too loud. Before we forged someone to move forward. To forget. With no past. No burden. A union of the best in us. Without the baggage. But look at you now. Digging through the ash.”
Dæmon blinked.
“Oh,” he said. “You were talking about me.”
The rest of it played back in his head—no past, no baggage, best of you.
“I thought that was an explanation at first,” he said, his voice edged with doubt. “But now it feels more like a crazed confession—with a trace of flattery, I think, buried somewhere in there.”
He laughed once—short, cracked.
“If you were real, I’d ask if you’d been hitting something strong and illegal. But since you’re just in my head…"
His eyes narrowed.
"Have I been drugged?”
The man chuckled.
“Drugged? No, I'm sure it would have affected me too. No—you’re just confused.”
His brow furrowed, as if he were processing something too. Then his gaze sharpened.
“And arrogant—thinking you're real but I’m not? That’s like saying the song is real but not the one who sang it.”
The hallway seemed to tighten. Shadows stretched from the corners. The music cut off mid-line, like someone had yanked the plug.
“No,” he said. “You are so very confused. And you’ll see that quite soon.”
He stepped forward—not threatening, but with weight.
“You’ve felt it for as long as you remember. That something wasn’t quite right. That something fundamental was off—not just in the world, but in you. And that is why you are here.”
Dæmon didn’t respond. Not with words. But something shifted in his posture—his stance wavered, his jaw softened. He wasn’t convinced. But he wasn’t dismissing it either.
The man didn’t wait.
“Tell me something simple. Do you remember your childhood? Who taught you to read? How you got those scars? Do you remember a single teacher? A birthday party?”
The words sat heavy in the space between them. Dæmon opened his mouth—but nothing came out. He searched for answers—and found only a void.
He staggered a half-step back.
“I must have... birthdays. School. I—”
The words broke.
“Why can’t I remember?”
He grasped for something solid.
“I’ve seen pictures. Me as a kid. Playing, smiling...”
The man raised one eyebrow, almost imperceptibly.
“...but pictures don’t mean much, do they? If I can’t remember it... how do I know it was really me?”
He hesitated, the thought slipping darker.
“...or even the same me inside?”
Dæmon paused for a long uneasy moment, as if lost in the recesses of that thought, until pulling himself out.
“It's common to not remember your childhood.”
“True,” the man replied with a single nod.
The man’s voice stayed level, almost gentle.
“But it’s rare to find someone who can’t remember their twenty-first birthday. Or even their thirtieth.”
Dæmon barely considered it before turning the accusation outward.
“It’s this place,” he said quickly. “It’s messing with my head.”
He paused, trying to find his bearings as the hallway began to spin and warp. He tried to close his eyes as he reached up to cover them, but he failed. He no longer seemed to have eyelids—or hands.
The man didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just wasn’t surprised, or didn’t care?
“It’s you! Some kind of sorcerer—twisting my mind, hiding my memories.”
The man said nothing. His expression wasn’t guilt—it was fatigue turning sharp with impatience.
And in the silence, something clicked.
Dæmon’s mind flashed back—the lecturer’s voice:
“Listen to the voice within... but don't always believe it.”
He took a slow deep breath and stared at the man.
“That was about you, wasn’t it? You’re the voice inside.”
