There was no ceremony.
No speech.
No tribute.
The island never existed.
Officially, the "survival test" had taken place under "difficult but controlled conditions."The losses were labeled "tragic accidents."
Families received plain, impersonal letters written like administrative reports.
No names carved into stone.No minutes of silence.No public grief.
The Academy enforced silence.
Not a word in class.No questions tolerated.No tears allowed to linger too long.
Forgetting became an unspoken rule.
And then time passed.
A full semester.
A real one.
Weeks where life resumed as if it had the right to. Lessons, drills, exams, training—days similar enough to fool the mind. Some faces began to fade from other students' memories, as if repetition could cover blood.
But not from mine.
Not from ours.
By the end of the first semester, they allowed us to breathe.
Not out of compassion.
Out of calculation.
The selection had already been made.
The exclusions stopped.
The threats stopped.
The Academy no longer needed to announce fear.
It had already entered us.
And now—
the second semester began.
The main hall was full.
Too full.
Students laughed, talked, shoved past each other as if the year had only just begun. The new faces—those who had never set foot on the island—still carried that lightness in their eyes.
An innocence that felt almost obscene.
The professors were unchanged.
Upright.
Immaculate.
Untouchable.
As if war had never passed through their voices.
I moved through the crowd without really being there.
I had trained for months.
Not to improve.
To stop thinking.
Carmine Fire answered easily.
Too easily.
It came without anger. Without resistance.
Stable.
Obedient.
It should have reassured me.
Instead, it terrified me.
Because it meant I was getting used to it.
That evening, I left the dormitory.
The conversations were too loud. Too hollow. I couldn't pretend to care about upcoming exams while, somewhere in my mind, an island was still screaming.
I ended up in the inner courtyard.
Lanterns cast a soft glow over pale stone. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of night and clean dust.
A peaceful night.
Unfairly peaceful.
"You running too?"
I turned.
Serah.
She approached slowly, arms folded around herself as if shielding against the cold. Her shoulder had healed, but her movements were still slightly stiff. Her hair was tied back carelessly.
Her eyes—
tired.
But alive.
"I needed air," I said.
She nodded.
"Me too."
She sat on the edge of the dry fountain. I remained standing for a moment, then joined her.
Not too close.
Not too far.
"It's starting again," she said softly.
"What is?"
She tilted her chin toward the lit dormitory windows, toward the distant laughter.
"The noise. The routines. People who think 'new semester' means 'new beginning.'"
I didn't answer.
Because I understood exactly.
"They succeeded," she murmured.
"Who?"
"The Academy."
Her fingers tightened over her knees.
"They turned the island into… a parenthesis. Something you set aside. An inconvenient detail."
I stared at the ground.
"They want us to forget."
"No," she said, colder. "They want us to get used to it."
Silence settled between us.
Then she turned slightly toward me.
"You train too much."
I blinked.
"How do you know?"
"Because I do the same."
A small laugh escaped her. Joyless.
"And because your eyes never really rest."
I looked at her.
Her cheeks colored faintly, as if she regretted being that direct. As if my presence unsettled her more than she intended.
"Does it help?" I asked.
She shrugged.
"It keeps me from standing still."
I nodded.
"Me too."
She hesitated.
Then:
"I'm afraid when you train."
I turned fully toward her.
"Afraid of what?"
"Not of you," she said quickly. "Not exactly."
She searched for words, then forced herself to continue.
"I'm afraid you'll disappear. That you'll become nothing but… that hatred."
I stayed silent.
Because it struck true.
"I'm careful," I said quietly.
"I know."
She looked at me then.
Really looked at me.
Her gaze was serious. And for a moment, she looked away, almost embarrassed. Her cheeks flushed deeper.
"It's just that… when you're here," she said more softly, "everything feels more… real."
My heart faltered.
"Real how?"
She laughed nervously.
"Less empty."
Silence fell.
Heavier now.
More fragile.
Her hand rested near mine on the cold stone.
Not touching.
But close.
Very close.
I didn't dare move.
"Serah…"
"I know it's not the time," she said quickly. "And I don't want to complicate anything. Really. I just wanted you to know that…"
You're not alone.
She didn't say it directly.
She didn't need to.
The island returned to me.
The blood.
The screams.
The fear of losing again.
So I did something simple.
I placed my hand over hers.
Just that.
She startled slightly—
then relaxed.
Her fingers closed gently around mine.
Not an embrace.
An anchor.
She blushed harder, turning her head away.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I'm not very good with—"
"Neither am I," I cut in softly.
She smiled.
A real smile.
Small.
Sincere.
We stayed like that for several minutes.
Without speaking.
Listening to the wind.
To the distant sounds of the Academy resuming its performance.
"Do you think they'll remember?" she asked.
"Who?"
"The ones who died."
I looked up at the dark sky.
"Not them."
Her grip tightened slightly.
"Then we will," she said. "We'll remember."
I nodded.
"Yes."
The curfew bell rang somewhere in the distance.
We stood slowly.
Our hands separated.
Too quickly.
"Good night, Aydan," she said, glancing back one last time.
"Good night, Serah."
She walked a few steps, then stopped.
Turned.
Hesitant.
"And… thank you."
"For what?"
She blushed again.
"For staying."
She left.
I remained there a moment longer.
Forgetting had been decreed.
Silence had been imposed.
But that night, at the start of the second semester—
something resisted.
Not an oath.
Not a promise.
Just a presence.
And for the first time since the island—
I didn't feel entirely empty.