Are we only real because others remember us?What if you have no name? Do you lose your identity?Who holds the right to write history? And who is erased from the final line?Can a person leave a mark without being recorded?
Some stories begin with birth, others with death.But hers… began with erasure.
It was no mercy granted by time, no silence woven by age into the curtains of forgetfulness.It was a living erasure — while she still walked.She breathed, crossed streets, stared at strangers' faces, left footprints in the snow.Yet… she ceased to exist.Not in memory.Not in records.Not even in a passing dream.
They said her name was never written.Not in any family ledger, nor in official registries, nor in a single unblemished photograph.No past, no identity, no roots.She became a ghost walking among us — voiceless and unheard.
When she closed her eyes, she awoke in unfamiliar places.Strange beds. Walls she never knew. Windows that looked out onto nothing.And that feeling…That she had been there before.
They say the world is governed by a hidden rule:For every name written… another is erased.A truth never spoken aloud, but whispered in shadows where forgotten souls dwell.Is there a book?The Book of Names?A myth? A curse?She doesn't know.But she believes there is a system… and that she lies outside it.
In some lives, she was a silent student, staring through empty classrooms, unnoticed in her absence.In others, a hospital patient, her memories wired and questioned, labeled as broken.Yet in every version… she was herself.The same, despite not remembering how it began.Or how it ends.
Fragments replay in her mind like broken dreams:
A gray bird perches always on her window, bearing a scar on its left wing — an exact match to a mark that appears and vanishes on her shoulder.
A city… that doesn't exist on any map, shrouded in mist, its streets drawn by a hand that forgot its destination.
People calling her names she never chose, only to forget her moments later.
One evening, she wrote her name on a mirror.With trembling fingers.With a desperate whisper.
The letters distorted, reflected oddly, then vanished.The mirror… cracked.
Even she could not recall what she had written.
She wandered through a world that refused her existence.Images erased themselves, words evaporated, memories replaced by hollow copies.No one remembered.Not even time.
But this time, something changed.
There was a rhythm in forgetting…Like a clock ticking backward.
There were signs:A book she wasn't meant to read.A stranger who hadn't forgotten her.A dream seeping into waking life.And the bird… no longer flying away.
This is not her first life.But it may be her last.
The story begins where it ends.In a place that does not exist.With a girl… whose name was never written,Yet who still tries… to be read.
[End of Introduction]✦ The page is blank. The pen awaits. The world forgets.