The feast was loud. Too loud.

You sat at the edge of the table. Your hands were shaking. You hid them under the tablecloth. The cloth was white. It smelled of rosewater and old stone.

Around you, they ate. They laughed. The laughter sounded like breaking glass. You looked at your hands again. They were pale. Too pale.

"Look at him," whispered a voice next to you. "The boy with the dead hands."

You did not turn. You knew who it was. It was Elias. He was your friend. Or he was supposed to be.

"Eat," said the host. The host was a woman. Her face was a mask. "The night is young. The stars are hungry."

You picked up your fork. The metal was cold. You tried to cut the meat. Your fingers slipped. The fork clattered on the plate.

Silence.

Everyone looked at you.

Elias leaned in. His breath smelled of wine. "You are doing it again," he said. "You are losing it."

"I am not losing it," you said. Your voice was small. A child’s voice.

"You are forgetting," Elias said. "Look at your hands."

You looked.

They were not hands.

They were wings.

Small, white, feathered wings. They trembled. They beat against the tablecloth. The feathers rustled. The sound was soft. Like snow falling on a grave.

The room tilted.

The feast dissolved.

The chairs vanished. The plates vanished. The laughter vanished.

You were standing in a field.

The sky was purple. Two moons hung low. They were swollen. Red.

The air was thick. It tasted of copper and dust.

You looked down. Your hands were normal again. Human. Pale, but human.

You were alone.

You were in the Hollow.

This was the place where the lost things went. The place where the forgotten things lived.

You had been here before. You knew that. But you could not remember how.

You began to walk.

The ground was soft. It gave way under your feet. Like mud. Like memory.

You walked toward the center of the field. There was a tree there. A single tree. It was black. Its branches were twisted. They reached out like claws.

Under the tree, there was a figure.

It was a girl.

She was sitting on the roots. She was picking flowers from her hair. The flowers were white. They were wilting.

"Hello," you said.

She did not look up. "You are late," she said.

"I am not late," you said. "I have just arrived."

"Time does not move here," she said. "It pools."

She stood up. She was tall. Taller than you. Her face was young. But her eyes were old. They were deep. Like wells.

"I am Elara," she said.

"I know," you said.

She smiled. It was a sad smile. "You know? Why?"

"Because you are the only one here."

She tilted her head. "Are you?"

"Yes."

"No," she said. "I am not the only one. There is someone else."

"Who?"

"Your husband."

The word hit you. A stone in the chest.

"Husband," you repeated.

"Yes."

"I have no husband."

"You do," she said. "He is waiting."

"Where?"

"Under the tree."

You looked under the tree. There was nothing. Only roots.

"He is hidden," Elara said. "He is hidden by the fear."

"What fear?"

"The fear of being known."

You felt a coldness in your stomach. "I do not know what you mean."

"You will," Elara said. "When you see him."

She pointed to the roots.

You looked closer.

There was a shape in the roots. A man. He was bound. Not by ropes. By vines. The vines were thick. They wrapped around his arms. His legs. His neck.

He was sleeping.

His face was peaceful.

You knew him.

You knew him better than you knew yourself.

It was Thomas.

Your name is Thomas.

Wait.

No.

Your name is not Thomas.

Your name is...

You could not remember your name.

You only remembered the feeling. The feeling of looking at him. The feeling of love. Primal. Blind.

You ran to him.

"Thomas!" you cried. "Wake up!"

He did not wake.

The vines tightened.

Elara watched you. She did not help.

"Cut them," she said. "Cut the vines."

"You have no knife," you said.

"Use your hands."

You reached for the vines. They were hard. Like iron. You pulled. They did not move.

"Pull harder," Elara said. "Pull until you break."

You pulled. Your muscles screamed. Your back arched.

The vines snapped.

One by one.

Thomas gasped. He woke up.

He looked at you. His eyes were clear. They were blue.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am..." you started.

"Who are you?" he asked again.

You did not answer.

He stood up. He shook off the dirt. He looked at you with suspicion.

"You look familiar," he said.

"I am your husband," you said.

He laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "I am not married."

"You are," you said. "Look at your hands."

Thomas looked at his hands.

He screamed.

His hands were wings.

Small, white, feathered wings.

He fell to his knees. He covered his face.

"No," he whispered. "No. This is not real."

"It is real," Elara said. She had moved closer. She stood behind you. "This is the truth."

"What truth?" Thomas cried.

"The truth of the Pale Protocol."

The words hung in the air.

"The Pale Protocol," you repeated.

"What is it?" Thomas asked.

Elara turned to him. "It is the curse."

"We are cursed?" you asked.

"Yes," Elara said. "We are cursed with memory."

"Memory?"

"Remember," Elara said. "Remember the night before the feast."

You closed your eyes.

You tried to remember.

The images came. Slowly. Like clouds moving across a dark sky.

You were in a room. A hospital room. The smell was antiseptic. Sterile.

Thomas was in a bed. He was hooked to machines. Beeps. Monitors.

You were holding his hand.

His hand was cold.

"Thomas," you had said. "Stay with me."

He had not answered.

The doctors had entered. They wore white coats. Their faces were masks.

"He is going," one had said.

"No," you had said. "He is not going."

"His time has come," the doctor said. "The protocol is in effect."

"What protocol?" you had asked.

"The Pale Protocol," the doctor said. "We cannot save him. The damage is too great."

You had pulled away from the bed. "No. You are lying."

"We are not lying," the doctor said. "Look at him. Look at his hands."

You had looked.

His hands were changing. The skin was peeling. The fingers were fusing.

You had screamed.

You had run.

You had run into the forest.

And you had come here. To the Hollow.

And Thomas had followed.

But he did not know why.

He did not remember.

The memory faded.

The field returned.

Thomas was still on his knees. He was crying.

"Why?" he asked. "Why did I follow you?"

"Because you love me," you said.

"Love?" he said. "I do not know you."

"You do," you said. "You loved me in the world before this."

"Before what?"

"Before the end."

Thomas looked up. His eyes were red. "The end?"

"Your death," you said. "My death."

Elara stepped forward. "It is not over," she said.

"It is over," Thomas said. "We are dead."

"No," Elara said. "You are here. You are in the Hollow. This is the place between."

"Between what?" you asked.

"Between life and death," Elara said. "Between memory and forgetting."

She pointed to the sky. The two moons were rising.

"You have a choice," she said.

"What choice?"

"You can stay," Elara said. "You can live here. In the Hollow. You will not die. You will not change. You will be together. Forever."

Thomas looked at you. "Forever?"

"Yes," Elara said. "But you will be like this. With the wings. With the curse."

"Or?" you asked.

"Or you can leave," Elara said. "You can go back to the world of the living."

"Can we?"

"Yes," Elara said. "But you will forget."

"Forget what?"

"Everything," Elara said. "The Hollow. The curse. Each other."

Thomas looked at you. He reached out his hand. The feathers on his hand trembled.

"If we forget," he said, "will it matter?"

You looked at his face. You saw the love in his eyes. It was deep. It was strong.

"Yes," you said. "It will matter."

"Then we should stay," he said.

"No," you said.

He pulled back. "Why?"

"Because we are not supposed to be here," you said. "We are supposed to be gone."

Elara nodded. "You are wise, child."

"Child?" Thomas asked. "I am not a child."

"In this place," Elara said, "you are a child. You are young. You are new."

She looked at the moons.

"The tide is turning," she said. "You have until the second moon sets. Then the door will close."

"Where is the door?" you asked.

"It is behind you," Elara said.

You turned around.

There was a path. A narrow path. It led out of the field. It led into the light.

The light was white. Blinding.

Thomas stood up. He walked to your side. He took your hand.

His hand was warm.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"I am not sure," you said.

"Then we are not ready," he said. "We will do it together."

He squeezed your hand.

You felt the feathers on his skin. They were soft. Like silk.

"Come on," he said.

You walked.

Elara watched you go. She did not say goodbye.

The path was long. It seemed to stretch on forever.

The air was cold.

The moons were setting.

The second moon touched the horizon.

The light was brighter.

Thomas stopped.

He looked at you.

"I am afraid," he said.

"Me too," you said.

He kissed you.

It was a quick kiss. A desperate kiss.

Then he let go of your hand.

He stepped onto the path.

You followed.

The light swallowed you.

You fell.

You fell into silence.

You opened your eyes.

You were in a bed.

The smell was antiseptic.

You were alone.

The room was empty.

You looked at your hands.

They were human.

You looked at the door.

It was closed.

You did not remember your name.

You did not remember Thomas.

You did not remember the Hollow.

You did not remember the wings.

You only felt a hole in your chest.

A small, empty space.

You closed your eyes.

You waited.

You waited for someone to come.

But no one came.

You were alone.

You were safe.

You were free.

You were nothing.

The monitor beeped.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

You slept.

You dreamed of white feathers.

But when you woke, they were gone.