“… sister.”

“…”

“….my dear sister, please reconsider your ways.”

“…get out.”

” I might be the oldest, but i feel like i can’t get through any of you two. ”

‘ She’s at it again. ‘

” I know it is not my domain to interfere, but you should hear me out even for a moment… ”

” Are you deaf? Get out. You won the second sister over, now you are after me, arent you? ”

“…”

” And still, you know it is my domain, but still got the gust to interfere with my choices, Nona. ”

“…”

‘Don’t give me that gaze’

” Aisa. ”

‘Not again’

” You’ll understand me one day, Aisa. Even if i have to be the one who opens your eyes. ”

‘Not again.’

” You already hate me, anyway.”

“NONA-”

” Gasp-”

I jump, sitting onto the bed i was laid. I felt anger and nausea.

What was that dream? It felt too real. And usually, i have dreamless nights.

In front of me, there was a dimly lit fireplace. I knew too well that fireplace. Damn it, im back to square one. Back to that house, with that man.

I look at the fireplace, defeated.

Onto the table, it was that damned bibble for vegetables – The Guide for ‘All the Vegetables There Are’.

Why did he leave it here? To mock me?

I fight with my nausea to get off the bed and approach the book. That heavy thing must have been rolling in the mud outside, why is it here?

Blankets tangling around my legs. The room was dim; only a dying glow of embers in the fireplace. I blinked into its orange haze , and approached the table.

Surely, he’s doing it on purpose. Burning the inn down to lure me out like a bug, bringing me back into that house, and now showing me that book.

I laugh and open the book, to tear at its pages.

I laughed — a harsh, bitter sound. Tomatoes? I flipped to the page and saw it: glossy picture of bright red tomatoes. I tore it out. Then pumpkins. Torn. Spinach, peas, carrots — one by one I ripped pages, ripping them in half, in quarters, until the book was gasping open in my hands, pages fluttering.

Like this, i wish i could tear his hair. No one dares to make fun of me, and he does?

No, surely, everyone thinks of me as a joke, right? Even that woman from my dream.

Tears of rage, tears of frustration, tears of something I couldn’t name rolled down my cheeks. I wanted to scream. I wanted to—

But instead, only silence filled the room, except for my ragged breathing.

I pressed both hands to my ears, as if I might block them out. I didn’t remember being someone’s sister, except in fragments.

But one thing was clear, even without those memories, i could feel it in my bones – the resentment and anger. I wished I could remember. But my memory was cloudy, fractured.

The ripped book lay at my feet. Pages scattered on the rough wooden floorboards. After a long moment, I forced herself to stand. I gathered what remained of the book and dragged it to the fireplace. The embers glowed weak, but there was enough heat. I held the pages above the fire.

Flames caught the edge of the page. The smell of burning paper filled the room. I watched, almost detached, as the fire consumed the pages. One by one.

The crackling of fire was loud. The walls seemed to lean in. My breathing slowed. The tremor in my legs quieted. I closed my eyes, letting the heat wash over me. Evening shadows danced, cast by the fire, on the ceiling and walls.

And Atlas — he was in the house, surely.

Truth be told, I couldn’t trully hate him.

And surely, I could say that I hold a bit of affection for him, maybe that’s why i m not tearing at his face yet. Maybe its ingrained in my bones and unconsciously, i know that he holds a place in my heart – even a tiny bit.

I opened my eyes. The book was mostly ashes now, flickering embers in my palm. I let them fall to the stone hearth, the ashes scattering.

Exhausted, I sank onto the hearth’s ledge, wrapping my arms around my knees. I closed my eyes, listening to the soft hiss of the dying flames. The guilt. The shame. The anger. They all mingled, heavy in my chest.

I forced myself to think. What did I want? What did I choose?

I remembered, though, that once, before the forgetting, I had loved someone. Or maybe someone had loved her. Maybe I was a sister in a family, a real one.

‘The dream had pulled her toward something, a longing she couldn’t yet grasp.’

My tears had dried; my breathing slowed. I felt hollow, and tired.

And i passed out on the floor.

–

I could swear that i woke up shortly after that. It was warm, and someone was covering my eyes from the light. I was not sitting on the floor against the wall, but onto a confortable bed. The pillow was firmer than i remembered. A soothing hand was moving against my back.

I felt like crying again, but my eyes were dry.

I tried to speak. My lips parted, but only a rasp came out. My throat ached as if I’d screamed for hours.

“Don’t,” a low voice murmured, close enough that I felt the breath against my ear.

The hand at my back slowed, tracing a small circle between my shoulder blades.

“You burned the book,” he said quietly.

Not a question. A statement.

I swallowed, the memory flickering sharp behind my eyes—the torn pages, the flames, the smell of smoke.

“Good,” he added after a pause. “It needed to burn.”

That startled me more than anything else he could have said. I turned my head slightly, but his hand was covering my face.

“You… wanted me to?”

His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “It was yours to destroy and do as you please.”

The calm in his voice made my stomach twist. I thought he would feel pity at the very least. But there was only a strange approval, as if he’d been waiting for me to do exactly what I’d done.

“Why?” My voice cracked, dry and small.

Atlas didn’t answer right away. His hand continued its slow pattern against my back, as though the question required no urgency. Finally, he said, “ Everything is yours to dictate their ending, even if it means to be teared apart. I am no exception.”

His words settled over me like a fog. I wanted to scream at him to make sense, and to stop using criptic words.

“…what? Are you crazy? Besides… it was only a book.”

He remains silent, like there was more to it than i could see. So i decided to change de subjectm

“Who… who is that woman” I whispered. He surely might know who is the woman in my dream who called me ‘sister’.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Woman?”

“In my dream,” I said. “She called me sister—” My breath hitched. “She knew my name.”

For the first time, something shifted in his expression.

“…it was just a dream. Don’t mind it too much.”

My voice rose, thin and sharp. “ A dream?!”

His hand stilled against my back. The silence stretched so long I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he said, almost gently “Yes.”

I hated how calm he sounded. I hated that I wanted to believe him.

His fingers slipped from my back and rested lightly on my shoulder. The warmth of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of my shirt, grounding and infuriating all at once.

” All i do, is for your own good-”

“No,” I snapped, surprising myself with the strength in my voice.

Atlas studied me in silence. His eyes—silver and gray like storm clouds, darker at the edges—searched mine as if weighing something unseen. Finally he withdrew his hand and sat back, the sudden absence of warmth making me shiver.

“A dream or not, i can’t lie to you forever. And one day, you’ll remember,” he said at last. “But it will hurt.”

The room seemed to tilt. My head throbbed, and behind my eyes came flashes—three figures standing in a circle, their faces blurred but their presence undeniable. One reached out, palm open to the other. Another turned away. The third stood far away, lost. A faint echo of my dream:

‘You’ll understand me one day, Aisa.’

I pressed my hands to my temples. The fragments burned like sparks against dry wood.

“What are they to me?” I whispered.

Atlas rose slowly from the bed. His shadow fell across me, long and heavy. “They are the pieces of you that the world tried to scatter,” he said.

He turned toward the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough for a blade of morning light to cut across the room.

The light from the window struck his profile, outlining him in gold.

Atlas let the curtain fall and faced me again. “Rest,” he said.

He moved toward the door.

“Atlas,” I blurted, the name sharper than I intended.

He paused with his hand on the frame.

” Why do i feel so hollow?”

For a long moment he didn’t look back. Then he said, quietly but firmly, “ Only you can answer that question.” and stepped into the hallway, leaving only the faint scent of woodsmoke and the echo of his words.

The room felt larger without him, but not emptier. I lay back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. My chest ached with unspent tears, but my eyes stayed dry.

” …I really don’t know.”