Glass memory

(Perspective: Antagonist – Aerith Neral)

There is no sound at first.

Just light. Soft. Cold. Too white.

Then a crack — subtle, high-pitched — like the glass of time finally giving way.

My eyes open.

I forget what I'm seeing. My brain hasn't caught up. But I know I'm awake.

I lift my hand. Bones ache. Skin cracks. I cough dry air from lungs that haven't tasted it in centuries.

Ten thousand years.

I should be dust.

But I am not.

I shift inside the pod, the glass lifting with a hiss. Condensation runs off it like tears.

Beside me, two things.

A message etched into a steel plate:

"Don't forget what they took from you."

And the capsule.

Round. Glass. Familiar.

My memory.

I reach for it.

It slips.

Cracks against the floor.

Not shattered — but leaking. Wisps of silver vapor coil into the air and vanish like ghosts.

"No, no, no," I mutter. I drop to the floor, grasp it, fingers shaking.

I press it to my lips.

Swallow.

The world stutters.

---

Memories slice back like razors. Faces. Laughter. Cruelty. My ideas mocked. My voice dismissed. The plan. The Sleep. The memory bottle—the real one.

But something's missing.

Where did I put it?

I knew this might happen. That I'd forget.

But I left myself clues. I must have.

I scramble back into the pod, searching drawers, compartments, anything. One steel plate remains, bolted to the underside of the pod:

"It's where no one dares look. A place you hated most."

I blink. What does that mean? Where? Why be vague?

I clutch the capsule tighter. It's still warm. It's all I have.

My ears catch something.

Movement. Voices.

---

I climb out of the pod chamber.

And I see them.

Humans.

Hundreds, maybe thousands, in ragged clothes. No uniforms. No organization. No peace.

They're screaming. Fighting. Fists, sticks, makeshift weapons. Children watching from behind cracked walls. Others already bloodied.

I stumble forward, through moss-covered tiles, half-collapsed corridors, metal vines hanging like veins.

They're not just chaotic.

They're lost.

No language. No memory. No connection.

Just fear. Instinct. Dominance.

I approach one of them cautiously.

A young man, maybe twenty. Holding a curved metal shard like a blade.

"Wait—" I start. "Please. I know who you are. I know who we are."

He turns sharply, eyes wide. Then—he snarls.

Before I can say another word, he lunges.

I duck. Barely.

"Stop! I'm not your enemy! I remember—"

Another figure shouts. "Whisperer! Kill the whisperer!"

What?

Hands grab me. I thrash, shove them off, stumble back.

"I remember the world before! I held your memories! I saved them!"

"Liar!" a woman yells. "Thief!"

"You're the reason we forgot!"

I step onto a pile of rubble and raise the capsule.

"This—this is proof! I remember who we were. Let me help you remember too—"

A rock flies.

It slams into my temple.

I collapse. My hands scrape concrete. The capsule rolls, clinking against a pipe.

Blood runs down my face.

The crowd surrounds me. Chanting. Pointing.

"Kill him."

"Entitled freak."

"He talks like he knows better."

"No kings."

I reach for the capsule. My hand touches it. Trembles.

I run.

---

I don't know where I'm going. Just away.

My feet hit roots, metal, glass, ash.

My lungs burn. My side sears. My mind spins.

Every corner of the city is choked with vines and rust and screaming.

Humanity has turned into tribes. Wolves.

No structure. No shared truth. Only survival.

So this is what we become without memory.

Maybe they're right to hate me.

But I still remember.

That has to mean something.

I reach a long-collapsed overpass, hidden beneath ivy and twisted pipes. I duck under it, breath ragged.

A child sees me. Points.

"Whisperer!"

I lock eyes with him. He looks no older than six. A necklace of bottle caps around his neck. A slingshot in his hand.

He doesn't shoot.

He just watches.

His father, I assume, shouts, "Where!?"

I throw the capsule into the trees as hard as I can.

A flash of silver arcs through the canopy.

They all rush in that direction.

I sprint the other way.

---

I find shelter beneath the collapsed hull of a hospital dome. Ivy and darkness. Echoes and wind.

I press my back against the wall. Sit.

I am not a savior.

I am not a villain.

I am the only one left who remembers what it was like to be.

Ten thousand years ago, they slept for peace.

And woke up to war.

I close my eyes.

Someone will come.

Someone will need to know.

And when they do, I'll be waiting.

I'll help them remember.

Even if they hate me for it.

---

To be continued...