DISCLAIMER: SERIOUSLY GUYS, I OWN NOTHING. DON'T SUE ME.

He is lost. The thick mist that curls around the trees creeps further up his legs, obscuring his lower body from view, and making sure that he cannot see further than his own outstretched arm.

"Hello?" His voice cuts through the mist, sharper and higher than he intended it to sound, tinged with a note of confusion, and accompanied by an edge of- what? Desperation? Fear? So far, he cannot tell.

His own emotions are a mystery to him. He is alone and has no inkling of where he is. By all rights, he should be terrified, but try as he might he cannot feel anything other than a steady calm that radiates from his centre and keeps him warm despite the chilly fog. He feels- safe?

Before he has the time to further analyze his thoughts, he hears a soft whimper coming from further in front of him. Somewhere deeper in the forest, perhaps?

"Hello?" he calls again. For the first time, he begins to feel unsettled.

There is no answer but the surrounding mist seems to recede slightly in the direction he is facing, curling enticingly like fingers motioning him forward. His stomach tightens in anticipation. This confounded mist is obviously not natural in origin. Whatever is controlling it wants him to move forwards in that direction, he is sure of it.

He casts a look behind him. He contemplates cutting back into the mist and heading in the opposite direction. It would be a feasible decision if the mist were normal. But the same gut instinct that lets him know the mist is of magical origin also tells him that to turn back would be a very bad idea.

A gust of wind comes out of nowhere and blows against his back, pushing him forward once more. Annoyed, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and grumbles, "Alright already, I've got it."

Tentatively, he begins to march in the direction cleared by the surrounding fog. It is a straight path leading onwards and the thought occurs to him that whatever entity that is manipulating the elements around him clearly does not care about keeping its presence a secret. The magic that lights up the path is practically screaming in his mind by now, blinking with the luminescence of a thousand neon lights.

Wait. What is a neon light anyway?

The question materializes out of the calm that has blanketed his mind and is quickly followed by the tail of an answer involving a flash of memory or a lingering dream of a darkened street hemmed in by a row of shops. The smell of oil follows then the roar of an accelerating motorcycle.

Motorcycle? He doesn't own a motorcycle, whatever that is. What is it again?

He comes completely to a stop as the niggling worry that has been steadily tugging at the back of his mind blows up into full-grown anxiety. What is he doing in this place? What was he doing before he ended up here? And most importantly, what is his name?

Before he has time to completely freak out (freak out?) over the loss of his memory and identity, he hears another soft whimper. This time, the source sounds a lot closer.

"Hello?" he calls for the third time, voice hoarse with fear and worry, "Who's there?"

The answer comes in the form of the rapid disappearance of the mist from around him as he looks on in disbelief. Before he has a chance to regain his wits, the mist is gone and he is left completely alone at what seems to be the end of the path.

Or almost alone.

The path leads out onto a small clearing, the size of his apartment living room. Apartment? Seriously, what was it with all these words that make no sense to him popping up in his head? Is he going insane?

Meanwhile what is amazing about the clearing is that the opposite end of the path appears to be a cliff's edge looking out onto the ocean. (Since when was he anywhere close to the ocean?)

Another soft whimper wrenches his mind away from the confusion and draws it to the small figure seated with its back to the cliff edge. It is a child that looks about 5-years-old with inky black hair that flops over his eyes and a floppy-eared stuffed bunny by his side.

"Kid?" he calls out tentatively, afraid to startle the child from his precarious position on the edge, "Um, are you alright? Where are your parents?"

The child sniffles, still looking down and saying nothing.

He almost jumps out of his skin at the high childish whisper that comes just as he has given up hope of an answer to his question.

"I'm waiting for somebody," the child says simply, full lips falling into a pout. "He forgets. He always promises but he always forgets. When is he going to remember and come for me?"

"Erm," he says, unsure of what answer to give. "Who are you waiting for, kid? Maybe I can help you find him." Not likely. Not when he can't even remember his own name.

The child stiffens then murmurs, "You'll help me? Really?"

He forces a smile on his face. Cute or not, this child's entirely too mature way of speaking is beginning to creep him out, "Sure kid. Whatever you wish, I shall provide."

He jumps, surprised by his own words. Where did that come from? He was starting to sound just as creepy as the kid did.

Speaking of the kid, the boy lifts his head and stares him full in the face for the first time in their entire encounter. The boy's bright blue eyes draw him in, shining with an almost otherworldly light as they take him in.

He shifts, not really sure what to do next.

"You came," the kid says satisfaction evident in his tone.

"What?"

One look at the boy's expression tells him that it was the wrong thing to say. The child's face darkens, turning thunderous as his eyebrows furrow together in fury. Instead of narrowing, his eyes grow larger so that anyone can clearly see the red bleeding out of the boy's pupil into the surrounding whiteness until there is nothing but red. Even then, the blood-red liquid wells up like tears until dark streams are running down both his cheeks.

"You forget again," the boy says, pointing an accusing finger at him, his voice low and pained. "How dare you forget again? You! You who have promised me to remember forever!"

"Whoa, calm down kid," he says, raising his hands, placating.

Again, it is the wrong thing to say. The mist from earlier returns and morphs into sleet, hitting him on the head and shoulders viciously. The wind blows as if trying to tear him apart. Behind the child, the ocean is storming, its waves lashing against the cliff.

"Don't you presume to tell me to calm down," the kid roars. "Don't you dare, Jason!"

The sudden silence that descends on him is eerie. It feels like the moment of rest in a piece of music before it enters the next line of sound. And then comes the crash.

The memories rain down on him like a ton of bricks, hitting with the force of a speeding truck, and he bows his head under their weight.

He blinks his eyes, trying to see through the curtain of rain at the child in front of him.

"Tim?"

A/N THIS IS A TWO-YEAR-OLD PIECE I DON'T REMEMBER WRITING. WHO KNOWS, I MAY BE INSPIRED TO ACTUALLY PLOT SOMETHING, IF ENOUGH PEOPLE SHOW INTEREST IN MY RAMBLING. THANKS FOR READING THIS FAR. TOODLES!