retention
'Remember, Simba,' the voice orders him. 'Remember me.'
But how do you remember someone, or something at all, when you're not even sure who you are yourself (anymore)?
Simba has no response to that, so he runs. He runs out of an old instinct, an impulse he believed to have lost already a long time ago, as dusty flickers of old, care-free days reappear in front of his eyes. Along with a face that is both awfully familiar and grotesquely distant at the same time. He chases after it, faintly knowing that it used to chase him.
There's nothing behind him, nothing in front of him, and nothing beside him but the haughty laughter of some crazy, old baboon guy Simba desperately pretends to ignore. Apart from that it actually feels nice, somewhat, simply to run until your lungs burn, without being hunted down. It's just this apparent urgency of the face that stops him from enjoying the moment.
Suddenly, he can't breathe, he needs to halt but can't control his feet, he's stumbling, and there's this weird light blinding his eyes and—
'Father...' The word leaves a damp, nostalgic taste on his lips.
FIN.