189

189
Arvin pov

I wake up cold, almost like my own body is rejecting me and I’m wearing something that was never meant to be mine. I don’t remember when I fell asleep or how I even found this little hiding spot under the roots, but it’s safer than the last place.

The fire’s gone out, that’s the first thing I notice. The second is the silence around me.

I sit up slowly, blanket clutched around me like it’s the only thing keeping me from unraveling completely. My hands are shaking, but I don’t want to say it’s not fear, but it’s fear. I’m not scared of what’s out there, but of what’s in me.

The dreams are getting worse. They don’t start with forests or voices anymore. They start with names - dozens, maybe hundreds, whispered over and over again until I can’t tell which one belongs to me.

Some of them sound like mine, like versions of Arvin twisted through too many mouths. Some of them don’t sound human at all, but none of them feel right.

The worst part is that I can’t even remember how I used to sound when I said it out loud - Arvin. My own name.

Now it feels like a costume someone stitched to my skin with borrowed thread.

I try to steady my breathing as I rise and take a step outside the roots. The ground is soft, damp with last night’s storm. The trees here are older, taller - they lean too far in, like they’re listening, watching and judging me.

I walk, I don’t know where to, just away from the place where I woke, because the silence behind me is too loud and the air ahead at least promises something.

The whispers follow me, not real voices, just the soft movement of leaves that fall into rhythm like breath, and then syllables, and then sound.

“Valen.” That one again. I heard it yesterday, and the day before, echoing across the water in the stream I nearly drowned in.

“Vael...” It twists this time, changes letters.

I shake my head and pick up pace. “I’m not-” I start to say, but I stop myself before finishing it, because the moment I say who I am, the forest will ask why and I don’t know if I have the answer.

Later, I stumble across a cottage. It’s nothing more than a slanted stone box covered in ivy, half-swallowed by moss, but there’s a fire burning inside and smoke curling upward. I hesitate at the edge of the clearing.

I don’t trust it, but my feet don’t stop moving either and the door creaks open before I reach it.

“Don’t just hover,” a voice calls from inside. “You’re letting the cold in.”

I step forward slowly, every muscle braced for a trap. The inside is dim and warm, lined with books, blankets. The man in the chair is old. Human, I think, but I can’t tell a human from a beast anymore.

He glances up at me over the rim of his mug. “Well, come in then, I don’t bite.”

I close the door behind me. “You live out here?”

He grunts. “I die out here, same thing, isn’t it?”

I don’t answer, I don’t think it was a real question anyway. He gestures toward a bench by the small fireplace. “You look like shit.”

I blink, surprised. “Thanks.”

He shrugs. “I mean it. Pale as bone, eyes like someone’s been clawing at your sleep. What are you running from, boy?”

I almost laugh. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.” The old man grunts.

I sit down, but I don’t speak. Something in me wants to, even needs to, but the words don’t line up right in my head anymore. Everything sounds like someone else’s sentence, spoken in a voice I’m borrowing.

Eventually I whisper, “I don’t know who I am.”

He looks at me, then sets his cup down. “That’s a start.”

The old man gives me soup and bread, chased with water that tastes like old stone and roots. I eat quietly and he watches me with the kind of silence that weighs more than words. “You got a name?”

I hesitate, my hands tighten around the cup. “I… did.”

He leans back. “Ah, one of those.”

I frown. “One of what?”

“Ones who run from a name. Or worse, the ones who had it stolen.” He says nonchalantly.

I set the cup down harder than I meant to. “It wasn’t stolen.”

“Then what was it?” He asks.

I look at the fire. “Given. Then… twisted and finally, buried.”

He doesn’t ask again, he just nods like he’s heard worse. After a while, I stand and start pacing. The cottage is small, every shadow in the corner looks like it wants to say something to me but forgot the language. “Do you have a mirror?” I ask suddenly.

The old man looks confused for a second. “Back room. Why?”

“I need to see.” I mutter and rush to the cracked mirror to look at it. At first, I see myself - dirty face, hair longer than I remember.

But then, the reflection twitches, just for a second. I blink and it twitches again. Then, it smiles, but I don’t. I stagger back, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. “No-”

The mirror shows a boy - almost me, but it’s not me. His skin is a little too smooth, his eyes the wrong shade and his smile too sharp. “You’re not me,” I whisper.

He tilts his head. “Aren’t I?”

“No.” I gasp, clutching at my chest.

“Then who are you?” The reflection asks but I don’t answer. The mirror version of me steps forward, though the real me doesn’t move. His mouth opens again and more names spill out. “Vaelen. Ashrik. Maruin. Ell. Vaska. Arin. Arvid. Vel. V-”

“Stop!” I scream.

The mirror shatters, glass hits the floor like rain. I stand there, panting, staring at the empty wall. My reflection is gone and I feel something warm trickle down my palm. I cut myself on a shard - blood drips onto the wood, red at first and then darker, almost black.

The old man finds me a few minutes later, sitting on the floor, glass around me, hand bleeding and smile gone. “You saw it, didn’t you?” He asks softly.

I nod. “It smiled.”

He nods back. “They always do.”

“What is it?”

He sits beside me. “Your name, twisted through too many mouths.”

I look at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means the world doesn’t let you stay who you are if too many people want to change you.” He picks up a shard and tosses it away. “Names aren’t just words. They’re chains - you snap enough of them and you forget which ones kept you alive and which ones were meant to strangle you.”

I sit in silence while he studies me. “You’re not cursed, you know. You’re just cracked.”

I whisper, “But what if something else is inside the cracks?”

After I calm down, the old man sets a place for me, but I can’t sleep. Instead, I lie awake on the floor, blanket wrapped tight, eyes wide open. In the morning, the old man is gone, no trace of him, but at least I know I managed to fall asleep after all.

When I sit up, I notice a note left behind. “There’s a stream west of here. Follow it until you see your reflection again. When you do - choose who looks back.”