Page 74 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

MEMORIES FORGOTTEN UNTIL DEATH KNOCKS ON ONE’S DOOR

~NYX~

The alarms pierce through layers of consciousness like distant thunder, urging me to wake. But something holds me under, pulls me deeper into memories I've fought so hard to recover.

Remember.Remember while you can.

The scene unfolds like watercolor bleeding across wet paper:autumn colors in impossible shades, leaves dancing on a breeze that carries the scent of ending and beginning all at once.

I'm outside Ravenscroft's walls —— one of the rare times they've let me beyond those sterile confines. The memory feels fragile, like butterfly wings I'm too afraid to touch lest they crumble to dust.

But I need to see this.

Need to understand.

The guards in their tactical gear march beside me, their weapons trained and ready. Every step is measured, and controlled, down a narrow path that winds through the forest like a ribbon of fate.

"Move," one of them orders, pushing me forward with the barrel of his gun.

The valley opens before us, a natural amphitheater surrounded by trees wearing their fall colors. But these aren't normal autumn shades - instead of reds and golds, the leaves shine in hues of ivory and magenta, as if nature itself has been twisted to match Ravenscroft's experiments.

We reach the center and they force me to stop, the message clear in the way their weapons remain trained on vital points:

Stay still or die.

The shadows writhe in my mind, agitated by the memory.

They know what's coming, and try to show me more clearly, but something blocks their efforts - like static on an old television, interrupting the signal at crucial moments.

"Don't move," another guard warns, though the command is unnecessary.Where would I run? What would be the point?They've made sure I understand the futility of escape through countless "lessons" in pain and consequence.

So I stand there, waiting for whatever new trial they've devised. Waiting for more pain, tests, and attempts to push me past human limits.

But that's not what happens.

Instead, movement catches my eye — a figure emerging from the shadowed forest. A woman, her approach deliberate but somehow hesitant, each step carrying weight I can't quite understand.

She comes closer, and frustration builds as I try to see her face clearly. The memory refuses to cooperate, keeping her features shrouded in darkness as if my mind itself is censoring crucial information.

But not everything is hidden.

I can see tears tracking down what's visible of her face, can make out the trembling of her lips as she fights some internalbattle. Her sadness hits me harder than it should, resonating with something deep inside that I can't quite grasp.

Why does my heart ache at her pain?

For a stranger, I’ve never crossed paths with?

Why does her sorrow feel like my own?

The shadows surge in my mind, desperate to show me more, to break through whatever barrier keeps this memory fractured and incomplete. They sing of importance, of connections, and truths I need to understand.

But all I can do is stand there in my memory, watching this mysterious woman's tears fall while guards hold me at gunpoint.

The contradiction of it strikes me –– such genuine emotion in the midst of clinical cruelty, raw humanity in a moment controlled by those who seek to strip all humanity from me.

Her hands - I can see those clearly - shake as she lifts them slightly, as if wanting to reach for me but holding herself back. They're elegant hands, marked with small scars that speak of work with delicate things.

Artist's hands, maybe, or...

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