The orb pulsed in Ayame's palm like a secret heartbeat — slow, steady, and unnerving.
She and Kael sat in their usual rooftop spot, backs pressed to the fence, the sky above them dusted in soft clouds. Students below bustled through Cultural Festival prep like nothing was wrong. Like a whole stolen memory wasn't sitting in Ayame's hand.
Kael reached for it, then thought better. "It's kind of freaking me out."
Ayame nodded. "Same. It doesn't just feel cold… it feels *wrong.*"
She held it up to the light. The mist inside swirled with uncanny grace, forming vague shapes — a flower blooming, a silhouette running, lips parting in a laugh that vanished too fast.
Then nothing.
The shapes dissolved like they never existed.
Kael scratched his head. "So. We've got a memory. But no idea whose it is."
"No name. No clue," Ayame said.
She tucked the orb carefully into the velvet pouch she used to store her stardust pendant. "But the girl — the version of me — said it belonged to someone in our class."
Kael's brow furrowed. "So we just, what, line up our classmates and start scanning their brains for gaps?"
Ayame shook her head. "No. We do what we're best at."
Kael looked skeptical. "Which is…?"
"Noticing what others overlook."
—
They started at lunch.
Liora joined them, her tray untouched, eyes sharp. When Ayame and Kael explained the encounter and the orb, she took it all in without blinking.
"You saw her?" she asked Ayame. "A version of yourself that stayed behind?"
"Yes."
"And she wasn't hostile?"
"No," Ayame said. "She looked… sad. But not dangerous."
Liora tapped her fingers rhythmically on the table. "Fragments like that — memory echoes — don't usually last long. They're supposed to fade when the original reclaims her path."
"Guess I'm broken," Ayame said with a weak smile.
"No," Liora said. "You're connected. And if she came through, it means something bigger's happening."
Kael leaned forward. "She said someone's stealing memories. Editing people like… like stories."
Ayame nodded. "We think someone in our class lost something — maybe something that shaped who they were."
Liora closed her eyes. "Then we observe. Patterns. Gaps. The *absence* of rhythm."
—
It didn't take long to find the first crack.
Mio Tanaka — usually the class's loudest, most enthusiastic voice — was quiet. Too quiet.
Mio, who'd once led an impromptu hallway conga line just to avoid a math quiz, was now folding origami stars silently in the corner of the classroom.
Ayame watched her for a few minutes. Her hands moved precisely, but her eyes were blank.
"Mio?" Ayame asked gently.
The girl looked up, startled. "Oh. Hey."
"You okay?"
Mio hesitated. "Yeah. Just tired, I guess."
Kael appeared beside them. "No new boy drama? No five-minute TED Talk about your cat's Instagram?"
Mio blinked. "My… cat?"
Kael froze. "Mochi. Your fluffy terrorist. The one who photobombed your last three projects?"
Mio frowned, genuinely confused. "I… I don't have a cat."
Ayame and Kael exchanged a glance.
"Yes, you do," Kael said carefully. "You've had him since middle school."
Mio shook her head, growing unsettled. "I think I'd remember that."
She stood abruptly, leaving the unfinished stars behind.
Ayame whispered, "It's her."
Kael looked stunned. "But how do you just forget a pet? Her whole *personality* was built on being Mochi's emotional support human."
Liora appeared at their side, unseen by anyone else. "Because that memory was cut clean. Not just removed — *revised.* And not just one. I feel more."
She stepped closer to Mio's desk and placed her palm lightly on it. Her eyes fluttered shut.
"She had a sister," Liora whispered. "Younger. She died. Mio coped by adopting Mochi. The cat helped her laugh again. It changed everything."
Kael inhaled sharply. "So someone didn't just steal a pet. They stole *healing.*"
Ayame pulled the orb from her pouch.
The swirling mist quickened at their proximity to Mio's desk. Shapes reformed — a child's laughter, a feline paw tapping against tears, a blanket fort in the moonlight.
"Then we give it back," Ayame said.
Liora reached out, then hesitated. "It's not that easy. The memory's been locked out. Rejected by her mind. We can't *force* it."
"So what do we do?" Kael asked. "Stand by while she drifts further away from who she was?"
Ayame stared at the orb.
"No. We remind her. Not all at once. Not directly."
She picked up one of Mio's origami stars.
"Kael — you're on cat picture duty. Liora, find the song Mio used to hum when Mochi slept on her keyboard. I'll make sure these stars find their way back to her story."
—
They called it "Operation Memory Bloom."
It was subtle.
A doodle of a fluffy cat slipped into her locker. A ringtone set as a soft purring sound. A sticker — one Mio had given Ayame years ago — left on her desk, featuring a cartoon cat holding a balloon.
Mio didn't react at first.
But the second day, she paused.
By the third, she frowned.
By the fourth… she cried.
Not loud, not openly. Just a sudden wetness in her eyes when she saw a folded blanket on the windowsill. One that looked like it belonged in a child's room.
That night, Ayame felt it.
The orb warmed.
In her dreams, she heard a bell jingle softly — and the faint purr of something coming home.
—
The next morning, Mio looked different.
Her voice was still soft. But it *carried.*
She wore a tiny paw-shaped pin on her bag.
"Mochi," she said to Ayame during lunch, out of nowhere. "That was his name, right?"
Ayame smiled. "Yes."
"I think I dreamed about him. But it felt like… more than that."
Kael raised a hand. "That's called a cosmic nudge."
Mio laughed, and it was real this time.
"Thanks," she said quietly. "I don't know what you did, but… thank you."
When she walked away, Liora whispered, "That was the first."
Ayame nodded. "We're not done."
She reached into her pouch.
The orb was no longer black.
It had cracked — and inside, light glowed like sunrise through tears.
Ayame crushed it gently in her palm.
It dissolved into stardust, disappearing on the wind.
—
That evening, Ayame stood by her bedroom window, letting the breeze comb through her hair.
Kael's voice buzzed through the phone beside her.
"So, how many people do you think got rewritten?"
"I don't know," Ayame said. "But we'll find them."
A pause.
"You okay?"
She hesitated. "I thought we were done."
"Yeah. Me too."
Another pause. Softer.
"But maybe this is what it *means* to come back changed. We're not just students anymore, Ayame. We're… weavers."
She smiled faintly. "You and your metaphors."
"I learned from the best."
Ayame looked out at the stars.
Somewhere out there, someone was undoing stories.
And here they were — mending them.
"I'm glad we're doing this together," she said.
"Me too," Kael replied. "Always."
The line stayed open between them.
And the night sang quiet lullabies — not of endings, but beginnings.
---