I wake up in a bed that does not remember my shape. The sheets are a map of all the places I have never been. The mirror swallows my reflection like a beast too tired to chew. Outside, the wind stutters, forgetting the name it was given at birth. You stand at the edge of the world, barefoot on the splinters of yesterday. Your hands are full of ghosts that never learned how to whisper. Your lungs stretch thin, swelling with air that tastes like missing letters. Somewhere, someone is erasing you, one syllable at a time. She walks through the city where street signs have no letters, where names slip through the cracks of cobblestone and fall into the underbelly of forgetting. Her shadow lags behind, uncertain. She once had a destination— but it was stolen while she slept. I forget how to say ‘remember.’ My tongue is a withered page in a book that burns itself. Every sentence curls at the edges, blackened, turning to dust before it can reach my lips. A child tugs at my sleeve, asks me for a word. Just one. Any word will do. I reach into the hollow of my throat, pull out silence. You watch the sky collapse inward, folding like an origami swan that never learned to fly. You taste iron and ink, the residue of all the things that should have been spoken. The wind no longer sings. It only swallows. He kneels in the ruins of a dictionary, palms pressing against verbs that no longer move. He tries to stitch meaning back into the air, but the thread is too thin, and the needle too cruel. The language of forgotten things does not forgive. I open my mouth, but the sound that comes is not mine. Not anyone’s. Just the echo of a word that once meant everything— but now means nothing at all.