The Blade of Memory
“Scent is the strongest trigger of memories, binding us to what was.”
“You know well what the night holds for us.”
“Don’t worry, Mum. We’re on the first floor, and I left my window open.”
I rushed to the hardware store, whose roof was the floor of our apartment. I scaled its iron awning and leapt onto my balcony, only to find that the flowers I had carefully planted were gone, leaving me with a deep sense of alienation, as if I were returning to a place that no longer felt familiar. Again, I checked the window, hoping to open it, but it was sealed shut. How could that be? And —what if I told my mother I couldn’t get inside? That would be a death sentence.
With all my strength, I kicked the window until it shattered and stepped inside, immediately struck by a room that felt foreign to me. Out there under a dim light, my mum sat with two girls I had never seen before. One had fiery red hair, while the other had a face as familiar as those we meet in dreams, her hair as white as snow. Amidst the chaos, a scream erupted: “Thief! Thief!”
At that moment, my mum, in the same tone we knew from our arguments, told the white-haired girl to seek her father for help. But why did I feel he was my father too, the one who left this world a decade ago?
I couldn’t make sense of all that strange contradiction before me, and so I began to scream: “It’s me, Mama! I just forgot the key!” In that instant, I glimpsed a giant figure rushing toward me from the corner of my eye – something from the past, invisible yet undeniably there. I couldn’t see his face, but finally, I felt its blade sink into my heart, as the familiar scent of his perfume filled my nostrils.
