“The worst kind of forgetting is the one you remember afterward.

Which version of you are you remembering from?”

Chapter 3: Marelle’s Version of the End

She had always known there was something strange about Kale.

Not in the way people whisper after tragedy. Not in the way grief settles on the skin like dust.
No, Marelle had known before the child died.
Before the hallway filled with rainlight.
Before the silence began to hum.

It was in the way he stared at things too long.

Like he expected them to blink.

That morning—if it could be called morning—Marelle stood at his kitchen doorway, the coffee between them gone cold.
The room held stillness like a confession.

She said it gently, not wanting to puncture the quiet:

“Any dreams?”

She asked because she always did.
It was a habit, a kindness, a curiosity.
It was also part of her routine diagnostic sweep, but she never thought of it that way. Not consciously.

And he said “No.”
But something about the way he said it made her heart twist.
He looked away as he said it.
Like the lie didn’t belong to him—but he was holding it anyway.

Later, she tried to remember that moment.
She was sitting in her own kitchen, wiping her hands with a dish towel.
A single thought bloomed:

Wasn’t I standing in the hallway?

She blinked.
The memory replayed. But… she was behind him now. Not in front.
The cup wasn’t on the table—it was in his hand.

She frowned.
Memories shouldn’t shift like that.

She opened her console pad—an old habit she never admitted to.
Buried in its system cache, she searched for any record of prior diagnostics.

[Query: SUBJECT: KALE IDRIS | MEMORY SWEEP | PERCEPTUAL INTEGRITY]
[Result: INCOMPLETE]
[Note: Subject’s memory architecture diverging from standardized loop pathways.]

She didn’t know what that meant.

But below it, in smaller font:

[Advisory: Do Not Engage Further Until Loop Reset]
[Loop Reset: PENDING]

Her hand hovered over the screen.

Then she closed the pad.
Gently. Carefully. As if it might shatter from sudden motion.

That night she stood at her window, watching the street outside.
It was too quiet.
No wind. No cars. Not even the ambient hum of the city’s spine.

She saw Kale step out of his building.
Not walk—step.
One frame to the next.
Like a skipped beat in reality.

And in the reflection of her window, she saw something impossible.

She was still in her kitchen.

But she was also standing next to him.
Watching herself from inside the glass.

“He’s not the only one unraveling,” she whispered.

And for the first time in her life, Marelle felt something she could not categorize.
Not grief.
Not fear.

Dissonance.

She did not know which version of herself was real.

And worse—
She was beginning to hope that neither one was.

---

Next Chapter:

The Seeded Self: Chapter 4