Echoes of the Forgotten

Jack sat against the low stone wall at the edge of the orphanage garden, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and the faint smell of sweat. His hands were folded tightly in his lap, eyes flicking over the children scattered about the grounds. Each movement was a calculation, each face scrutinized for something useful, a potential crack in their facades that could yield answers.

His mind didn't pause, constantly assessing—what was this child's weakness? What about that one? Who had the ear of the matron, Lila Fairbrooke?

Jack didn't have the luxury of indulgence. Not when Amon's fractured memories and emotions were constantly pressing against his thoughts, when his every step could lead to a mistake.

The world outside the orphanage was cold, indifferent, and unforgiving. Jack had learned that quickly. But the warmth here—the occasional smile, the simple moments of tenderness between the children—unnerved him. A moment of weakness could be deadly.

As he stared out, a figure caught his eye. A girl, not much younger than him, walked past him without sparing him a second glance. Her brown hair was tied back neatly, and her eyes—dark brown, piercing—met his for a brief moment. For a split second, the world around him seemed to fade, the noise of the children, the whisper of the trees, even the gnawing emptiness inside him—everything stilled.

It was a strange sensation, not entirely foreign, but unsettling. His chest tightened, a faint flicker of something far too human igniting in the pit of his stomach. But before he could grasp it, it was gone. A wisp of smoke in the wind, fleeting, meaningless. Yet it lingered, taunting him.

The girl, Stasha, continued walking, oblivious to his scrutiny. Jack's eyes followed her for a moment, and then he quickly shook off the lingering unease. His thoughts snapped back into focus.

Lila approached him from behind, her soft footsteps barely making a sound on the gravel path. Jack's gaze flickered up to meet hers, his expression an unreadable mask. She was observant, and that made her dangerous.

"I see you've noticed Stasha," Lila said with a kind, almost amused smile, sitting down beside him. Her voice was soft but carried an edge, the warmth of her words masking the suspicion underneath.

Jack didn't respond right away. His eyes tracked Stasha's retreating figure, his thoughts still clouded by that brief connection—if you could even call it that. He had no use for feelings, no patience for distractions. But there was something in the girl that gnawed at him.

"She's a bright one," Lila continued, clearly unbothered by Jack's silence. "Stasha Lysandir. She's the only child of the Lysandir family, though her parents…" She hesitated, her gaze shifting to the children, before returning to Jack. "Well, they haven't been around much lately. Quite the tragic story, really."

Jack's eyes narrowed, his mind snapping to attention. A tragic story? That could be valuable. He wanted to push, to ask more, but he kept his voice neutral, careful. "What happened to them?"

Lila sighed, a deep, almost tired sound. "Her mother passed away a few years ago, and her father... well, he disappeared one night, and no one's seen him since. Some say he left because of the grief. Others... whisper darker things. But Stasha, she doesn't complain. She's strong. Independent."

Jack's mind processed the words quickly, the pattern already forming. A missing father. Grief. No one here was untouched by sorrow. His eyes flickered back to Stasha as she disappeared further into the grounds. Her isolation, her silent resilience, echoed something too familiar within him. His lips pressed together as the sensation of her presence—her quiet defiance—pulled at him again. For a second, it felt like a mirror. A reflection of himself, only softer.

"You remind me of her," Lila said, as though reading his thoughts. "Both keep to yourselves, don't you?" She studied him for a moment, a flicker of understanding in her gaze.

Jack's response was sharp, cold. "I don't need pity."

Lila smiled again, this time less warmly. "I'm not pitying you, Jack. Just observing." She stood up, brushing off her skirts. "Stasha's a good girl. A bit of a loner, but that's no fault of hers. If you ever want to talk to her, you'll find her around."

Jack didn't answer, his mind already turning, his thoughts circling back to the puzzle in front of him. Stasha Lysandir, an orphan with a tragic past and a missing father. It was too neat, too familiar. He couldn't afford to get caught up in her story, but something about it gnawed at him—something unspoken, like a thread that could unravel everything.

As Lila walked away, Jack remained on the stone wall, eyes distant. The weight of his own past pressed down on him, suffocating. Amon's memories surged again, and the cold, final image of his own death flashed before his eyes. Blood. Pain. A sharp, overwhelming release of control as Amon opened his stomach—cutting too deep to survive.

His hand instinctively pressed against his side, feeling the phantom sting of the blade. The death had been his escape, his solution. A final, ruthless act of severing his connection to the world. But now, in this new body, Jack was trapped. Bound by the fragile, haunting memories of Amon's life.

His fingers tightened into fists, the anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. He had no time for empathy, no patience for lingering emotions. Stasha's story, Amon's memories—they were nothing more than distractions. His only focus was the hunt for answers.

But as he stared at the distant horizon, he couldn't shake the feeling that, somehow, Stasha's presence would be a part of the answer. And that thought, unsettling as it was, gnawed at him in ways he couldn't explain.