As the cunning king of Ephyra, Sisyphus famously cheated death twice—first by chaining Thanatos, and later by persuading Persephone to let him return to the world of the living. The gods, enraged by his defiance, condemned him to an eternal punishment in Tartarus.
He was forced to roll a massive stone up a hill.
Each time he neared the summit, the stone slipped free.
Down it rolled again.
Forever unfinished.
Forever repeated.
"You are awake."
The girl paused.
Her hand trembled slightly.
"Not quite right… since you were never asleep," she corrected softly.
A tear slid down her cheek.
For some reason—absurdly—I felt concern for her.
Concern.
That can't be right, I thought.
I looked around.
A shack of some sort. Clean—almost carefully so.
One bed against the wall.
A small table.
And a chair.
Mine.
Bolted to the floor.
My wrists were cuffed to the armrests.
A single gas lamp flickered above us.
Too dark.
The light fell strangely.
My eyes drifted to her shadow.
It did not match the direction of the lamp.
"What's wrong?" I asked before I could stop myself.
The urge to comfort her felt… intrusive. Like a foreign suggestion slipping through my thoughts.
"It's quite alright," she said, folding her hands together.
They continued to shake.
"My body simply seems to have its own ideas."
Fear, I noted immediately.
Dilated pupils.
Shallow breathing.
Trembling hands.
Yet despite the absurdity of the situation—despite being kidnapped—I still felt worried for her.
I spoke slowly, testing the thought forming in my mind.
"The understanding and the feelings are mine to keep," I said.
"But the emotion… is not."
Something moved.
Not her.
Her shadow.
It peeled away from the wall like wet ink separating from paper.
A tall shape stepped forward wearing a smiling white mask.
It looked at me.
Then gave a cheerful thumbs-up.
The figure began circling me with open curiosity.
"How did you pull it off?" I asked.
She tilted her head.
"Kidnapping you?" she asked.
Behind her, the smiling shadow quietly poured tea into her cup.
"Yes," I said.
"Kidnapping me."
She lifted the cup.
Her hand trembled so violently the porcelain rattled softly against the saucer.
"Why should I tell you?" she replied calmly.
Her voice was even.
Rational.
Almost conversational.
Another movement caught my attention.
A second shadow waited in the corner.
It was shaking.
Violently.
Just like her hands.
"Happiness… now fear…" I murmured.
My amusement surprised even me.
My mind should have been racing.
I should have been afraid.
But nothing aligned correctly.
Emotion.
Feeling.
Logic.
Three separate systems.
And right now they refused to cooperate.
I looked back at her.
She appeared pale.
Rigid posture.
Tense shoulders.
Tears continued to slide down her face as she drank.
From her shadow emerged another figure.
This one wore a mask marked by a single tear.
The pattern became clearer.
The shadows carried what her body could not contain, hers and others.
"So what you're left with," I said slowly, "is logic… deep grief… and pure terror."
Everything else had stepped outside her.
Joy.
Fear.
Excitement.
They lingered around her in the dark.
Like discarded pieces of herself.
"It seems you've figured it out," she said.
Her voice remained calm.
Her body did not.
Tears continued falling.
Her hands trembled uncontrollably.
"What do you want with me?" I asked.
"There's no reason to deny the obvious."
"Your emotions were low," she replied.
"So low I couldn't see them."
She took another sip of tea.
The cup rattled slightly in her grip.
"Almost like her… m—"
She stopped.
A brief silence passed.
"It was interesting," she finished.
She brushed a strand of hair from her face.
They did say playing with emotion could get one in trouble, I thought.
Recently I had been experimenting with it.
Like training a muscle.
Suppressing emotional spikes.
Flattening reactions.
Apparently I had become… difficult to read.
"How did you get everyone not to react?" I asked.
"Apathy," she answered immediately.
"The brain refuses to register events it cannot emotionally process."
"It filters them out."
Her trembling hand pressed against her tear-streaked cheek.
"I understand human beings very well," she whispered.
But her eyes—
Her eyes looked like they had already seen hell.
"Why did you make those people in the village kill themselves?" I asked.
The thought came suddenly.
My reports.
My paperwork.
My case file.
I had unknowingly written part of her story.
She showed no reaction.
"I wanted what they own," she said simply.
"In spirit."
"And in flesh."
I waited for something to surface.
Disgust.
Fear.
Anger.
Nothing came.
"Are you a cultist?" I asked.
She shook her head.
Behind her, a shadow wearing a mask of excitement burst into enthusiastic applause.
"Have you heard of—"
I stopped myself.
There was no clear motive yet.
"No matter your intentions," I continued carefully, "our organization will not ignore this."
In a blink, shadows surrounded me.
Masks everywhere.
Suddenly emotions flooded my mind.
Panic.
Love.
Jealousy.
Rage.
Grief.
Each wave crashing into the next.
"For I have dealt," she said quietly, wiping her tears.
"Collected."
"And now keep—"
Her voice softened slightly.
"A living archive."
The gas lamp flickered.
Beyond its glow there was only darkness.
The sun had long since vanished.
And yet the emotions still weren't mine.