Chapter 7 — The Hollow Gift

Empty frames • A man without a past • “Freedom has a price”

“Decide quickly,” she murmurs, her breath sharp as winter. “It doesn’t wait long… and neither do I.”

The mirrors flicker. From behind her, another figure emerges—older, slower, with eyes like smoked glass. His presence drags the air down. The reflection of a man who’s forgotten how to cast one.

“He is empty,” Lilith says softly, without looking back. “Too long among us. His own memories turned to dust. To keep him, something must be given.”

Dio hesitates, his pulse stuttering beneath her touch. The man steps closer, the glass bending around him like water pulled by gravity. When he speaks, his voice is the sound of pages tearing.

“You’ll be free of what hurts,” he says. “No past. No grief. No ghosts calling your name.”

Lilith’s hand tightens. “It’s mercy,” she whispers. “And it’s rare.”

The chamber hums. His memories shimmer out of him—sketches, laughter, his mother’s hands, the sound of pencil scratching paper. They drift like motes of gold toward the older man, who breathes them in as if drinking sunlight. Color returns to his skin. Dio’s eyes glaze, unmoored, serene.

When it is done, Lilith releases him. He sways, blinking, mouth parted as if to ask who she is. The older man kneels, whispering thanks, his shadow now whole again.

“He’ll wake up soon,” Lilith says. “And he won’t remember this place.”

The mirrors dim. The chamber exhales. Somewhere far above, sirens thread through the night.

Hours later, a city worker finds a young man lying in an alley near the river, clothes soaked through, hands stained faintly with graphite. No ID. No phone. No name.

At the hospital, they call him John Doe. He opens his eyes to the morning light and feels only quiet. No faces, no fear, no weight behind his heartbeat—only the strange peace of being no one at all.

Outside the window, a faint reflection lingers in the glass—a woman’s smile, tender and unreadable— before the light swallows it whole.