Amy Weathers is in the town

Flora had no surname. When she was found in a dump, she even had no face. As astounding as that sounds, she had no face. Not the way it was shown in horror movies, of course. She just had a very flat face, with a small nose. Small heart-shaped lips, and almond-shaped eyes. It was the kind of face everybody saw and forgot in an instant. She always thought of herself as one of those very simple-looking girls who had no future prospects, one of those extra characters in a romance novel who always accompanied the heroine but was never seen or remembered.

Until one day she realised—it was her curse. Nobody would ever remember her face. Thomas Byrne had a lot to explain about it. "It is a blessing," he said, "That you can utilise to achieve a lot in your life." She learnt how to make people forget other things as well, such as the time they would spend with her, or how torturously they had been interrogated by her, or how she spent a night with them to steal valuable information, and many more moments.

According to Thomas, she was his asset. He had many assignments for her which earned her millions at times. She was the secret of his success, the mysterious weapon everybody knew of but nobody could ever find out, the ace he was proud of. She had bought a penthouse in NYC, another in Soho, plenty of land and jewels, loads of designer dresses, accessories, cosmetics, every skin care product she found on TikTok, and even things she never really used.

It was a dream life, a life every girl wished for, and it was a life forty-three years old Flora hated.

So, one morning, when she woke up, the first thing she tried was to drink poison and die a miserable death. She felt herself choking, her body trembled in pain, a strange, foamy substance gushing out of her mouth… after a second she found herself on the floor gasping for air, and water. Her eyes watered, her body started sweating, her fingers and toes curled in pain, and the torment went on until her eyelids grew heavier, and the world around her drowned in darkness.

After twelve hours, she woke up covered in her own vomit, urine, blood which she might have vomited sometime in her oblivion, and the last remnants of her dignity. She sat there, pulling her knees to her chest and placing her chin over her knees thinking about what she should do next.

She had tried shooting herself, and the wound was healed. She tried to cut her wrist, once again it healed. She tried to jump under a running train, but due to technical issues, it stopped midway. She hanged herself, but her broken neck healed. As painful as the suicidal techniques sounded, the healing process was the worst. Every time her body healed, the excruciating pain reminded her that suicide was a sin, and that she was pathetic.

It was established that she was rejected by death. The life she had was not livable. Being an asset of Thomas Byrne was getting boring and annoying to some extent. She needed something new, exciting, something to live for.

She looked into her tinder account. There were many unread messages. She browsed through all of them and decided none of them were interesting enough. She looked into her social media accounts–there were more than one, under different names and identities– and found nothing that could make her stay. She texted some of her friends, who again knew her by different personas, and ended up disappointed.

She stripped herself off and went for a shower. She took an unnecessarily long time to clean herself up. The room was still stank of vomit, which she could clean up later. She came out and checked her wardrobe. She chose a light, frilly, yellow dress that made her look sixteen years old. She chose matching makeup, a hairdo, and heels to wear with the dress.

It had happened before when people forgot her but they remembered the dress she wore, or the hint of the perfume she left behind her, or the laughter she had after a silly joke. She hoped something sweet would happen today. She put on the final touch, the bright red lipstick, and went out.

She had nothing special to do. She'd just take a walk, she told herself. Maybe, she'd stop by the flower shop, or buy another nice dress, or maybe try some street food. Whatever seemed to make her happy, she would do. That should help her forget the pain of not dying. She would just—

She couldn't understand what made her stumble, but if the strong hands had not caught her, she would be tasting the dirt now. "Are you alright?" A concerned, deeply masculine voice rang in her ears. She realised she was hanging in those hands like a pathetic heroine of a mushy romance novel.

"I am fine," she said in a breathy tone and blinked. "Thank you."

"That's quite alright." The man looked deep into her eyes and frowned. Her heart beat faster. It was like she was being read, and she had no control over it. "Would you like to sit down, maybe?" he said uncertainly.

"I am fine, really," she answered. She felt embarrassed of herself. Even without any confirmation, she knew that he had suspected something about her. Probably he thought of her as a troubled teen, like her last target. There was nothing wrong in playing along unless it hurt her ego. "Actually, it's my sugar level. I think it's dropping."

"How about we have something to eat? That would help both of us." His offer sounded sincere. She raised her brow questioning. "I am new to the town and have no idea where to start exploring. You could help me with that," he explained with an awkward, almost childish grin.

Flora thought for a second. He did not sound like a person offering pity. Besides, even if he did so, it wouldn't matter. He was going to forget everything about her tomorrow. She nodded and shared, "There is a pizzeria around the corner. You can start exploring from there."

The conversation turned out to be alright. Even if he had felt pity for her in the beginning, he did a good job masking that. After some random discussions about weather and road safety, Flora started telling him about Marco, the owner of the pizzeria.

"They say that he was a mafia boss in his youth. His mansion, and the number of cars he owns just add to the speculations. He is over seventy now, but still very active. His sons do give away the mafia vibes at times, but they are also very sweet."

"And which one did you like?" he asked with another childish grin.

She felt heat rushing through her cheeks. She had been liking one of the sons for almost eighteen years now since he started working for his father as an intern. He was a married man now, with a son and a daughter, and she was still stuck in her teen face, alone and depressed.

But he didn't need to know that. "Nobody. You realise that we are still, practically strangers, right?" She tried to sound as cordial as she could, but still, there was a hint of heat in her tone.

"Don't get upset. I didn't mean to intrude."

After an awkward silence, he said, "I dated one of the men a long time back. I don't remember which one was he, the father, one of the sons, or somebody else, but it was a man from this household."

Startled at his sudden confession, she asked, "What do you mean, you don't remember?"

"I have a problem with my memory. I forget events, people, and important things at times. Comes as a package with my age." He looked into her eyes again, holding the same piercing gaze that was reading her mind.

"And how old are you?" The question made her feel stupid. She had stepped in the exact direction she was being guided to, and that made her a little angry.

"I have been around for the last ninety years, or maybe more than that."

Some conversations stayed in her mind like the most interesting chapters of a gripping novel, or poetries read on a lazy afternoon. The first conversation between her and David Maxime was one of those. The conversation went on for an entire day until she discovered their common link. They met again the next day, and miraculously, he didn't forget her.

"Let's just say, my powers have overpowered yours," he said the next day. They continued meeting for several days afterward, sometimes to travel together, sometimes to eat out or have a glass of wine, sometimes to just watch people. "You remind me of another friend of mine," he mentioned one day.

It was not a romantic relationship, but she had come to like him a lot. So after almost another fifteen years when she received a call from Thomas Byrne and heard that someone needed her help, and the entire affair was related to David Maxime very closely, she couldn't refuse.

She checked the details of the hotel sent by Thomas and checked in as soon as she arrived in the small, ancient town. The Master's Inn welcomed her, and the receptionist seemed just too eager to have female boarders. She gave the platinum card provided by Thomas, and with a smile she answered the receptionist's queries.

"My name is Amy Weathers. Here are my id, and address details. I need a single room with the view of the mountains."