We had once shared the same despair together.

  Some long-forgotten memories slowly rose from the dark depths, fragmented at first, then gradually merging into a continuous whole, like the flickering frames of an old, deteriorating film reel.

  The faces in her memories constantly shifted, alternating between a man and a woman—both appearing to be in their forties or fifties, with faint wrinkles and an increasing number of white strands in their hair.

  Those two, whom she had once called "Dad" and "Mom" in another world.

  The sealed fragments flickered incessantly, sometimes even becoming a rapid succession of flashes: He had a new side job—driving for rideshare services after work to earn extra cash. His hospital visits dwindled, and whenever he did come, he’d barely exchange a few words before dozing off beside the bed. Other times, the scene would shift to the woman peeling fruit while optimistically explaining a supposedly highly effective new treatment.

  All of this weighed on her with a leaden, suffocating sense of responsibility. And some memories simply brought sorrow.

  A medical report stained with water droplets, reddened eyes, hurried phone calls that needed to be taken outside, or an overheard conversation: "…You know anyone looking to buy a house lately? I happen to have one I’m trying to sell."

  The past was a straight blade, pointed directly at the figure lying on the hospital bed—but the double-edged sword also wounded the one who wielded it. No matter what, at least they were united in one thing: self-loathing.

  "Enough!" The person in the bed clenched the sheets, her expression dark and shifting.

  "'I created you to split away the pain, to make you bear it for me'—that’s what you told me. But the truth is, as terrible as the pain is, it’s not what you fear most. What you truly dread is the hopeless waiting, the fear that you’ll devour everything like a bottomless pit before finally dying, ruining their lives completely... For someone as weak and incompetent as you, the idea of facing everything optimistically like the truly strong, overcoming illness, and recovering—that was never a possibility. You suspect that no amount of money could do anything but delay your death, only prolonging everyone’s suffering… You’d pick up the pills, then put them down again, torn between ending it all or continuing to endure. How could someone always looking down, always considering surrender, ever climb to the top? So you needed someone—someone to face what you truly feared in your place..."

  "But isn’t that better?!" she shouted, cutting her off. "No one likes a pessimistic, miserable person! I carried the pain and despair so you could face adversity with grace. We became perfect through separation. If we hadn’t done this, what do you think would have happened?"

  Had anyone ever paid attention to the windows in hospitals? For the first twenty years of her life, she had never once noticed. But after her diagnosis, lying in bed with nothing to do, she finally saw them: designed to open only wide enough for a head to pass through. The grim implication hidden in that detail—What happened, what kind of people had led to this design?

  Those people must have faced the same despair as her. And after they made their choice, did they truly find eternal peace?

  The macabre temptation pulled at her endlessly, a relentless weight, urging her to let go and leap…

  "But now it’s different..." Her fingers slid along the blade, its sharp edge chilling her fingertips before warming again. Bright red blood dripped. "What's happening in this world is far more complex and sinister than before. Hiding won’t fix anything."

  "You’re right... Hiding won’t fix anything," the woman on the bed giggled weakly, "but it can stop things from getting worse..."

  "How much have you kept from me? What do you want to achieve—or avoid?"

  "Are you happy here, in this world?" The woman on the bed didn’t answer, instead posing the question—but then continued without waiting. "I suppose you must be. Even if it’s all acting and pretense, compared to the past—feeling yourself slip closer to death, despairing inside, yet forcing optimism—now you only have to play the kind, warmhearted savior. Much easier, isn’t it?

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Have you ever thought of going back to that world? A healthy body, even keeping the extraordinary powers you have now—if there were a path to that in the future, would you take it?

  Or do you prefer it here? If so, what if you could gain immortality, erase the looming threats—the Old Gods, the creatures of the abyss? With your connections and abilities, you could steer history itself, shape this world into the paradise you desire...

  You could have anything you want. But would you really want that?"

  With every word, the woman painted visions of glorious futures—yet for some reason, her tone was laden with grief and hesitation, until finally, a single tear trailed down her cheek.

  "What are you trying to say?" The idea stirred something in her. To claim those futures held no appeal would be a lie.

  Were her past-life parents doing alright? Had they moved on after her death? And when they grew old and needed care—would the nursing home staff treat them well?

  And the things that might soon unfold in this world… In the original timeline, the Great War was only decades away. Would this world, too, descend into bloody power struggles, where nations became game boards and countless lives mere pawns? And with the Outer Gods’ influence, would it be even worse?

  If I had the power to change all of that...

  "I knew you’d think of that..." the woman murmured softly. "I’ve seen such possibilities. But I’ll keep them a secret… I’ll never tell you..."

  "Believe what you want. But this has to end now."

  "Are you trying to get rid of me? Am I the only flaw in your otherwise perfect self? It’s true… Compared to you, I’m weak, cowardly, unpleasant… But even so, some beings in this world find me… far more delicious."

  She hadn’t moved the blankets, but from beneath the white sheets, countless crimson tendrils, vein-like and pulsing, began to stretch outward, spilling onto the floor, spreading across the room.

  "Hah… Did you really think you’d never been here before? But you forgot… all of it. This time won’t be any different. Forget this place. Forget me. Go back where you belong—keep playing the kind, beloved child you're meant to be."

  The tendrils coiled around her ankles, yet she didn’t move.

  "I’ve felt this place slipping for a while… I was too optimistic, thinking courage alone could conquer everything. But this world is different. And if things truly go wrong, the ones suffering the consequences won’t just be us. I feel myself becoming like the monsters I once killed. Something inside me is breaking—something I don’t understand and can’t stop. I think… one of us has to disappear." She reversed the blade, aiming it at herself. "It could be you. Or me."

  "You can’t—"

  "I can." Her voice was gentle. "We’ve run away for too long. We nurtured this monster ourselves… It’s time to fix our mistakes. We were meant to die long ago, weren’t we? We’ve lived so much in this world—more than those twenty years in the last. I’ve had my fill… I already left Alison a letter. If I go missing or die, she’ll open it—there are instructions inside. As for you… If I vanish, you’ll mutate. The organization will deal with you. Execution, maybe. Or life imprisonment… Not that you’ll be sane enough to care. It’ll be a hassle for my colleagues, but this place is isolated. Better than if it happened in London. Though I always suspected it might end like this—I just didn’t expect to be so lucky. At least here, few will see…"

  "You’re running away again," the woman in the bed said, disappointment and fury mingling in her voice.

  "No. This is a calculated decision. The dream has to end. We were never the people we dreamed we’d be… In the end, I’m just a phantom. A flawed imitation. A false face. A jester in a crown could never be a king. No more self-deception—let’s return to what we truly are."

  She drove the blade into her throat. Slowly, she dropped to her knees—but upon hitting the ground, her body shattered into a burst of crimson, scattering like liquid into the creeping red tendrils.

  "...Goodbye, ‘me’." The woman in the bed buried her face in her hands, curling into the blankets like a wounded snail. The white sheets darkened as blood seeped through.

  When Yvette woke, her face, neck, and the back of her hands tingled faintly, as if something as delicate as eyelashes were brushing against them.

  She blinked open her eyes—only to find her vision obscured by moth wings. Startled, she sat up sharply. A cloud of startled moths erupted from her body, scattering into the trees like leaves caught in a hurricane.

  How could there be so many? Thousands of moths, more than she’d ever seen in her life.

  In Albion folklore, moths were death’s messengers—creatures that sought out the dying at night, drinking in their souls.

  But she’d seen a modern science program once that explained the truth: human sweat contained nutrients moths craved. Many in their final hours perspired heavily, drawing the insects near.

  Then why were they all over her? Her skin was dry, and beside her lay Edwin’s body—dagger buried in his throat, long dead.

  That manner of death reminded her of what she’d seen in her dream.

  She had killed herself. So why had the false self awakened—not the original, lying on that bed?