The next morning, Kristina decided the house needed organizing.
This alone should've been my first warning.
I woke up to the sound of drawers opening, closing, opening again, and then a very loud sigh.
"Kris," she called. "Why do you have rocks in your sock drawer?"
I sat up, squinting. "Those aren't rocks. Those are… important."
She leaned into the doorway, holding one up between her fingers. "This one looks like a potato."
"It's a memory rock," I said defensively.
She stared at me.
"…You made that up just now, didn't you?"
"Yes. But I stand by it."
She laughed, that same bright laugh that made the room feel warmer. "You're impossible."
Still, she didn't put the rock back. She set it carefully on my desk instead, like it actually mattered.
I noticed that.
By mid-morning, Kristina had a notebook.
Not a fancy one—just an old spiral-bound pad with a bent cover. She sat at the table, tongue sticking out slightly as she wrote.
"What are you doing?" I asked, grabbing an apple.
She didn't look up. "Writing stuff."
"What stuff?"
She hesitated. Just a fraction of a second. "Important stuff."
I leaned over her shoulder. The page said:
Kris hates mornings
Grandma hums when she's worried
Mom burns toast but pretends she doesn't
I like lemon candy
We are the Bouie family
My throat tightened.
"That's… detailed," I said casually.
She shrugged. "I don't want to forget the small things. They're the good ones."
I forced a laugh. "You're acting like you're gonna forget everything tomorrow."
She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I know. It's silly."
Grandma watched from across the room, her expression calm but her hands clasped tighter than usual.
Training that day felt different.
Not harder. Not easier.
Just… slower.
Kristina still summoned her reflective energy, but instead of flowing naturally, she paused between movements, like she was checking herself.
"Okay," she muttered. "Step one. Dome. Step two… bigger dome."
I whispered, "You know you don't have to talk yourself through it."
She smirked. "Says the guy who narrates everything in his head."
"That's strategy."
"That's anxiety."
Grandma interrupted. "Both of you, focus. Imagination responds to confidence, not control."
Kristina nodded, took a breath, and raised her hands again.
The dome formed—bright, steady.
Then flickered.
Just once.
She lowered her hands immediately. "Did you see that?"
"I did," I said softly.
Her jaw tightened. "Okay. Again."
She tried once more, slower this time. The dome held.
She smiled, triumphant. "See? Still got it."
I smiled back.
But my stomach twisted.
Later, while we rested, Kristina nudged me. "Hey, remember when you tried to fight a shadow with a stick?"
I laughed. "That stick was legendary."
She frowned. "Wait… was it a stick? Or a broom?"
"It was a stick," I said gently. "You laughed at me for a week."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Right. Right. I remember."
She laughed—but it came half a beat late.
I wanted to scream at the world.
Instead, I said, "You still laugh the same."
She smiled. "Good. I'd hate to lose that."
That night, Grandma found me alone in the kitchen.
"She is compensating," she said quietly. "Writing. Repeating. Anchoring herself."
I nodded. "Is that bad?"
"No," Grandma replied. "It means she knows something is wrong, even if she won't say it."
I swallowed. "Can we stop it?"
Grandma met my eyes. "Not yet. Knowledge comes before action."
"That's not fair," I said.
She sighed. "Curses never are."
Later, Kristina knocked on my door.
She held the notebook.
"Hey," she said. "Can I keep this in your room sometimes?"
"Why?"
She hesitated. "In case I forget where I put it."
I took it gently. "I'll keep it safe."
She smiled, relieved. "Thanks."
Then, softly, "If I ever forget something important… you'll remind me, right?"
I didn't joke this time.
"I promise."
She nodded, satisfied, and leaned in to hug me.
Her arms were warm. Familiar.
For now.
Far away, Malachor observed through layers of shadow and silence.
"She prepares," one of his servants whispered.
"Yes," Malachor said calmly. "But preparation will not save her."
His gaze shifted—not to Kristina, but to me.
"The boy watches," Malachor murmured. "The boy remembers."
A pause.
"That is the mistake," he said. "Memory is power."
The shadows curled, eager.
The curse tightened—just a little.
And the world kept moving, unaware of how precious every remembered moment truly was.