Kal'tsit and Folinic stood in the dimly lit room that had once served as Atro's office. The shelves were toppled, and medical supplies lay scattered across the floor, remnants of chaos and abandonment. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, disturbed only by their movements. The silence was thick, almost suffocating, as if the room itself mourned the absence of its former occupant.
Folinic knelt down, brushing aside broken vials and torn bandages, her fingers trembling slightly. "She was here," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "She worked here, saved lives here..."
Kal'tsit, ever composed, began to methodically search through the debris. Her sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail. Suddenly, she paused, her gaze fixed on a small, leather-bound notebook partially hidden under a splintered cabinet. She reached for it, fingers brushing against the worn cover.
"I think I've found something," Kal'tsit said, holding up the notebook. The cover was marked with stains, the pages within yellowed and brittle.
Folinic stood up, brushing off her knees, and took the notebook from Kal'tsit. She opened it carefully, as if afraid the pages might disintegrate at her touch. The handwriting was familiar, a neat script she recognized immediately. "It's Atro's," she confirmed, her voice thick with emotion.
Kal'tsit nodded, her expression unreadable. "Read it," she instructed softly.
Folinic took a deep breath and began to read aloud.
Today I treated an Oripathy patient, a young woman named Elara. Her condition has worsened significantly; the crystals have spread from her throat into her lungs. Each breath she takes is a struggle, a painful reminder of the progression of her disease. We're running out of inhibitors, and the situation is dire. I look at her and see the fear in her eyes, the same fear I see in so many others. If we don't get more supplies soon... I don't want to think about it. Elara's family waits outside, their faces a mirror of her suffering. They asked me if there's hope, and I had to lie. What else could I do?
...
We had a brief respite today. A supply convoy managed to make it through the storms. I saw Elara's face light up when I told her we had more inhibitors. It felt like a small victory, but I know it's temporary. The town is tense; everyone feels the weight of the Catastrophe hanging over us. Severin is doing his best to keep spirits up, but I can see the strain in his eyes. How long can we hold on?
...
Several patients have been brought in, comatose or muttering gibberish. Their eyes are vacant, as if they've seen something that shattered their minds. I don't know any sort of arts or creature capable of inflicting something like this. Tatjana, Severin's aide, told me that the Sarkaz mercenaries managed to contain the monster responsible under a mound of dirt and rock. They don't know how to kill it permanently. It's… unsettling. The town is rife with rumors. People say it sings, that its voice can drive you mad. I wish I could dismiss these as mere tales, but the evidence is lying in the beds before me.
...
I worked late into the night, trying to stabilize the new patients, and remembered something strange. I looked at my previous entries and can't remember anyone named Tatjana. Severin never had an aide. When I asked Severin about them, he seemed confused. He doesn't remember anyone like that in Wolumonde. Is it possible that I'm misremembering? Or is something else at play here?
...
Severin never had any children. So who is that young man in the picture he has?
...
More people have disappeared from memory. They were here, I know they were. I see their beds, empty now, and the notes I wrote about them. It's like they were erased. I know this town should a catastrophe messenger, but I can't remember if Wolumonde ever had one. The patients I treated, the conversations I had with them, they're all slipping away. How can memories be so fragile, so easily manipulated? I found a list of names in my drawer, names I don't recognize but in my handwriting. Who are these people?
...
After I, and several others had informed him about it, Severin is growing increasingly paranoid. He's organising the town, trying to create some semblance of order. We're writing down who we remember and what we did every day, but even these records seem to fade. I asked about Elara today, and no one knew who I was talking about. Her bed is empty, her family gone. The only evidence of her existence is in my notes. What is happening to us?
...
The tension in the town is palpable. People are scared, whispering about another monster, one that erases memories. I don't want to believe it, but what else explains the disappearances? Severin's face is a mask of determination, but I can see the fear in his eyes. We're all afraid of forgetting.
...
Wolumonde's main Originium reactor broke down. Severin is getting everyone to construct barricades and take watch in shifts. We're all writing down who we remember and what we did every day. The marketplace is a ghost town, the bakery closed, the streets empty. It feels like we're the last people on Earth. I'm joining a group to travel to the reactor and attempt repairs. We have to do something, anything to fight back.
Folinic's voice trembled as she closed the notebook, tears welling up in her eyes. "This is... this is a nightmare."
Kal'tsit nodded, her gaze distant. "This is definitely the work of an abnormality," she began to say, but her words were abruptly cut off.
A dark red drop of blood splattered onto the ground between them.
Both women looked up, eyes wide with shock. The air seemed to grow colder, the shadows deeper. They were not alone. The oppressive silence was broken only by the slow, rhythmic drip of blood falling from above. The atmosphere thickened with an almost tangible sense of dread, each second stretching out interminably.
Kal'tsit's eyes flicked upward, following the trail of blood. Folinic gasped as her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in horror.
"Mon3tr, meltdown!"