The next morning Izu woke to the sound of his mother’s voice, low and steady, calling him for breakfast. His room was bathed in early morning light, with the curtains moving softly in the breeze. His body felt strangely heavy, as though he had been awakened from a deep, never-ending dream. He blinked at the ceiling, his mind unusually quiet. There was something he was supposed to remember — something important. But when he reached for it, his thoughts slipped away like water through open fingers.

He sat up slowly, rubbing at his temples, waiting for the weight in his chest to settle. His mother's voice called again, her tone light, casual. There was no urgency, no sharpness. It seemed as though nothing had happened. As if yesterday had simply folded into today with no resistance, gaps, or loose threads.

At the dining table, his parents sat in their usual spots—his mother placing plates of pap and bean cake (akara) in front of him with the same quiet efficiency as always. But his father, who would usually have the day’s bulletin spread open in front of him, did not read this time. Instead, he traced the rim of his cup with a slow, absent-minded finger, the liquid inside untouched. His glasses sat at the roof of his nose, catching the light as he stared ahead with an expression that revealed nothing. Izu picked up his spoon, dipping it into the soft pap, feeling the warmth spread across his tongue. The food tasted fine. The world was as it had always been. There was no ache in his chest, no restless unease pressing against his ribs.

He didn't notice how his mother paused before sitting down, or how her eyes lingered on him, searching, waiting. If he had, maybe he would have questioned it. Perhaps he would have asked why she looked at him as though she were waiting for him to speak or notice anything. But he only ate, swallowing mouthful after mouthful, allowing the usual rhythm of morning to take him along.

He was Izu. Eighteen years old. And the Eclipse stretched over him, absorbing the Bloom's last traces.

Everything seemed to be crystal clear by the time he left the house. His motions were measured, purposeful, unhurried. He walked down familiar streets, nodding to neighbours who greeted him. His thoughts did not stray. His emotions did not stir unduly. When he arrived at school, the classroom felt smaller than he remembered, with desks and walls reduced to their bare essentials. His friends still spoke in the same tones, still laughed at the same jokes, but none of it seemed urgent, none of it seemed to require more than mild amusement.

He was steady. Controlled. Balanced.

This was how it was supposed to be.

This was what it meant for the bloom to fade.

The thought settled in his mind like a weight, and yet—something felt wrong.

The first night after the Eclipse, he dreamed.

It was a bizarre dream, the kind that left a weight in your bones even after you woke up. He was standing in a field, the air saturated with the scent of rain mixed with dust. The sky above him churned with thick clouds, shifting and pressing down as though the entire earth were holding its breath. A girl stood in front of him, dark eyes watching him with quiet amusement, her figure partially veiled by the mist that curled around his ankles. She reached for his hand, her fingers brushing across his, and though the touch was light, something inside him jolted as if struck by lightning.

Her lips moved, forming a name.

Olanna.

He woke with a start, his breath catching in his throat. The ceiling above him was smooth, white, and unbroken. He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to shake the lingering feeling. He didn't know that name. He was certain of it. And yet, it sank inside him like an echo, like something that had always been there, waiting to be remembered.

The dream did not fade the way dreams were supposed to. It clung to him, trailing behind him like a shadow.

But the next morning, when his mother asked how he had slept, he only said, “Fine.” His voice was even, devoid of uncertainty. When his father asked about his studies, he responded with quiet confidence. The unease sat somewhere beneath his skin, but he did not reach for it.

His elder brother had been like this after his own Forgetting. Steady. Clear-headed. Unbothered by the shifting haze of the bloom. Izu had never understood it before, had never been able to grasp how someone could change overnight, but now, sitting at the breakfast table, moving through the day with practiced ease, he understood.

This was the Eclipse.

By the next night, the dream returned.

This time, it came in flashes, like light passing through water. A dirt road stretching endlessly beneath the afternoon light.The bright laughter of a child.The rough feel of a wooden toy, its edges smoothed from years of handling. The sensation of running, of breathless joy, of something slipping through his fingers before he could hold it tightly.

And then, just before waking—

A voice, whispering, soft yet urgent, curling around the edges of his consciousness like a thread waiting to be pulled—

Remember.

He sat up, gasping.

The name burned in his mind, the dream pressing on his ribcage like something trying to crawl it's way out. He clenched his fists and pressed them against his temples, trying to push away the sudden, creeping unease.

By morning, the unease was gone.

Or at least, that was what he told himself. 

He went about his day in the same way his elder brother had always done—calm, cool, and unaffected. When his mother watched him, waiting, he only met her eyes and asked, "Is something wrong?" in a voice so smooth, so detached, that she could only smile and shake her head.

And yet, the crack had formed.

The third night, the dream returned, clearer than before.

A girl running beside him, feet kicking up dust. A whispered joke, followed by shared laughter. Fingers brushing against his wrist, a presence so familiar it made his chest ache.

The sound of his own voice, younger, softer. A promise made beneath the orange glow of an evening sky.

And then—

Pain.

A sharp, splintering crack in the world. A tearing away. The weight of loss, pressing, pressing, until—

He woke with a gasp, his body trembling, his sheets damp with sweat.

He pressed a hand to his chest, panting.

This was not just a dream. It could not be.

Because for the first time since the Eclipse, something inside him whispered—

This is real.

He turned, reaching for the bedside table, for something—anything—to anchor himself. His fingers brushed against the smooth wooden surface, and then—

He felt it.

A small, carved figure, no larger than his palm. The edges were worn, smoothed by years of touch. His breath caught as his fingers traced the shape, recognition sparking like a flame.

A toy. A memory. A truth buried beneath the forgetting.

He exhaled, slowly.

His elder brother had never hesitated after the Eclipse. Had never reached for something beyond it.

But Izu was different.

The forgetting had taken everything.

But somehow, something had remained.