His fingers clenched into fists, nails digging deep into his palm, not from pain but from the silent rage boiling beneath the surface, because even though no one here could see him, he felt the weight of every memory in motion, haunting the space like a ghost wandering the corridors of a past carved long before his mind could even grasp what it meant to be alive. He walked among them, his steps slow and measured, each one echoing across the quiet forest floor layered with blood, fear, and forgotten choices. The air shimmered faintly with illusion, thick with the fragrance of something half-remembered, but his eyes—his gaze—remained unwavering, sharp as a blade forged in truth.
At the very least, he could let them linger.
