Happy birthday to our amazing leader, yours truly's bias and the train yard's wise man: Namjoon!

May your day be filled with all the affection you deserve and be surrounded by loved ones to celebrate your twenty-fourth year, an anniversary that shall hopefully only add up in number as you give us, alongside the rest o' the lads, amazing music to listen to, to keep us dreaming and fighting for those dreams.

I certainly know you do that for me.

Happy Birthday, Joon.

***

Lethe or lethe (n.)

There is a safe haven to be found in thoughts, simply letting consciousness fade away as imagination takes over and the pen scribbles down the ideas unconsciously interwoven with one another, turning them into a poem to add to the rapidly growing collection in the newly bought notebook, the latest addition to the growing stack at home.

Home, an odd phenomenon since the memory of taking up residence at the cottage by the sea is vague and strange. The only clear details that were perceived with hazy eyes were platinum strands being gently swept to and fro by the waves lapping at the golden shore, rough sand stuck to the side of the face and deflated lungs glad to finally be able to breathe again. Other than that, there had not been a clear indication as to what lead to being cast away nor any recollection whatsoever of anything before, not even a true name to call the self. Nevertheless, there was a mental push to choose an abbreviation of or, rather, a play on a certain name that kept milling around in mind, Calliope, but it seemed wrong so the other one lurking behind the various confused thoughts was chosen and henceforth I was reborn as Y/N.

Fortunately, the decision to take on the new identity came at precisely the right time since not shortly after I was found by a young sun-kissed tall man with plump rosy lips, hazelnut hair covering the forehead with a darker blackish undercut and wisened eyes, which strangely prodded at a sense of recognition somewhere within though, alas, it merely remained at a suggestion. The attire worn that day is one of the finer described aspects of the odd remembrance: a navy and white-striped loose-fitting blouse on top of winter white shorts with a necklace of tiny gemstones smoothed out by the sea around the throat.

A yellow storm was kicked up the moment the stranger saw me making an effort at getting up from the sand, weak shaking arms endeavouring to pull the body exhausted by the journey to the coast upright yet immediately falling down again as muscles gave way, clearly not strong enough at the time to work in unison with willpower. Almost tripping whilst running and inevitably almost doing so again when coming to a halt to bow down into a crouching position to lend aid, the man extended a helping hand that was gladly taken.

There was no way around the question marks popping up in the observant chlaro walnut gaze taking in the overall picture of the sight come across, the drenched pale hair split apart into individual messy strands thanks to the rough sea salt, visage caked with sand and a simple wrapped gown, that seemed foreign in this day and age although the exact reason for this evaluation cannot be given, leaving practically nothing to the imagination. However, the unsuspected saviour averted focus elsewhere further up when noticing the body was barely covered up safe for the sticky fabric.

'Thank you.' Hands let go of each other, the breeze immediately cooling down the touched skin and causing goosebumps all over. Offering gratitude for the good deed was the least that could be done, aside from answering some pressuring inquiries which all came flooding the mind at once like the waves at the shore as senses sharpened.

Nonetheless, before a chance to acquire answers about anything could be had, the stranger spoke up first with a surprisingly baritone voice, smiling playfully. 'No problem, it's not every day I get to help a beautiful lady washed up on the beach.' When there came no reaction aside from a glare, the conversational partner obviously annoyed at the reminder of the perilous situation albeit with a slight flush to the cheeks, he continued the investigation: 'Who are you? How did you get here?'

And the chance of the right guess was equal for the both of us because neither had the knowledge to tell the truth, and that has not changed over time. He already seemed to think so when a reply containing an elaboration on the circumstances did not come, merely awarded with a doubting shrug and hopeless stare. 'I don't know who I am or why I'm here, but call me Y/N.' A glance down at the soaked attire lead to the dawning of the realization truly nothing was hidden deepened the rosy blush into a fiery red, arms rapidly crossing before the chest and thighs squeezing together to hide the most feminine parts as best as possible in spite of the young man's eyes visibly attempting with Herculean strength to not let them wander.

Herculean... Hercules... why does that ring a bell? Why should I be able to know this name? Is it connected to the place I've come from?

'Y/N.' The name was tasted like the wine from the lush vineyards on the rolling hills, grand royal purple grapes hanging from vines with beautiful dark green leaves, the scene strangely vividly lurking on the edges of the mind, exerting the same pressure to be recognized as the irises of the brown-haired saviour, the same person who took no notice of the brief confusion showing in attitude at this seemingly misplaced recollection of the past. 'It suits you, even though it's not your real name. Oh, sorry, where are my manners? I'm Namjoon, Kim Namjoon. Nice to meet you.' The same hand that provided help in getting on feet which had sought and found firm grip in the sand to remain standing because taking a step felt quite risky, was now offered again for a handshake. It was merely a polite gesture, but nevertheless, it was not met since it would have meant showing more skin than was to be desired, a fact that the other fortunately understood immediately though the slight hint of disappointment could not have been denied. 'Is there anything else you know?'

Who was this self really aside from a body washed ashore without a recollection of life prior to this awful event? What did need to be known other than the name to survive here?

Instead of endeavouring to make things appear different than they obviously were and having had no knowledge of this peculiar environment, the truth was told. Perchance Namjoon's appearance, so strangely familiar, would make lost memories resurface via a mere change of expression at the words about to be said. 'I don't recall anything else, in all honesty. I already told you everything I can, all that can be recalled beyond the point of waking up here. The name I have chosen for myself is the first that came to mind, so I suppose that must mean something.'

'Your guess is as good as mine, but if that particular name keeps coming up it could hold significant meaning.' A brief glance was thrown in the direction of the rocky part of the coast where the foam stuck to the rocks dressed in deep green algae and seaweed, evaporating before the next wave hit, where the beach forms the border between water and the lush green land, at a cottage built with white brick to offer resistance against the strong winds before turning to me once more while rubbing the back of the neck sheepishly, voice grown soft with awkwardness. 'If you have nowhere to go, I have an unoccupied guest room, so if you want- kind of a weird proposal, I know and you don't have to agree, but- you could, and only if you want to, of course, live with me.'

'You offer a complete stranger your home?' An eyebrow rose in genuine curiosity at this sudden development of the conversation, highly tempted to consent to the idea since there was nowhere else to go but the guy's place. 'You are an odd man.'

'And you are an eccentric woman,' came the chuckled response, dimples showing when laughing, clearly not fazed by the annoyed expression features contorted into. However, Namjoon's gaze turned inquisitive when the mirth faded out of the blue, seemingly suddenly having noticed something about the haphazard appearance created by the ocean.

A blush began to colour the cheeks coated in dried salt once more, feeling very aware in that instant of the scarce coverage by the drenched gown resembling a muse's from Ancient Greece, lips pouted beneath an averted gaze, wanting the water to wash the situation away as it always does the temporary writings in the sand. 'What?'

Ancient Greece... why does that sound as something I should be able to remember?

A shake of the head, quickly dismissing every thought that arose and could possibly have had a sort of explanation for an unseen bond. 'No, never mind. I just thought you looked familiar somehow. But you haven't accepted nor refused the proposal, Y/N. So, will you stay with me?'

It would have been foolish to reject the generous gesture with having nowhere to go, not to speak of any means of survival, and thus residence was taken up with Namjoon, who is apparently a scholar of myths with a specialization in those stemming from the Greek and Romans and whose extensive library, old manuscripts with crumbling yellowed paper and publications with broken spines filling up the shelves built into the alcoves of the far left wall in the bedroom overlooking the rocky part of the coast or, if they are newer books, stuffed in the drawers underneath the bed alongside various journals containing all sorts of notes, forms an office from which he regularly has to be dragged for primary needs such as sleeping and eating.

With a smack the diary in which a new poem has just been written, a hobby that strangely comes as naturally as breathing, closes while feet stuck in comfortable red Converse, which at first were looked at with disdain when we went out to buy a basic wardrobe in the first week of staying at the coastal house so the drenched muse-like dress could be discarded yet weirdly proved to soon have become and remain a favourite, scramble over the rocks in a sudden haste to return to the cottage to report the details which had never been recollected before.

The sail was wrapped about in the same fashion those women wore it in that painting.

Ever since we have been living together, there has been this undefinable sense of recognition which seems to grow stronger each time the researcher is caught once again staring at a particular image in one of the tomes about mythology, a painting by Baldassare Peruzzi that is titled "Dance with Apollo", the name of which had been discovered after an extensive Google search that did not go smoothly in the beginning due to the magical workings of technology, that were kindly explained by the professor when the dazed look at a screen as black as Nyx was noticed, absolutely clueless about what on earth to do with the funny piece of metal apparatus collected from the television cabinet and placed on the coffee table.

Nyx, a beautiful woman with ebony skin and sharp features, stars adorning limbs and forming a spray over a stern though friendly face. Even her tears are stars. Wait, I have never seen a woman like that. Nonetheless, it feels as if I know her. As if she is part of a forgotten past.

Fortunately, like everything else that people apparently do in this day and age, using the internet was picked up easily after telling a white lie and paying attention as to how to navigate the thing apparently called a ''laptop'', thus keeping the actual goal shrouded in mystery until a proper reason for the continuous sense of kinship was found because it could not be discovered in the extensive sea of ink. However, what has been won in the way of regaining lost knowledge among all those papers held together with paperclips if they were torn out of notebooks, are comparisons and references to Greek mythology that in turn are related to me because it seems the man from the beach has been doing more extensive research than normally is the case from the moment our paths became intertwined. The findings of physical likenesses are uncanny, but the information gained from portraits is nullified by the other writings about the finer details of possible identities, none of them ringing a bell.

The white cottage comes into sight, soon bursting through its baby blue front door into the small hallway, its walls a paler shade than the entranceway, completing the journey from rough rocks to soft grass still wet with last night's downpour to the redwood floor of the house and rushing up the steps to the well-known intellectual place isolated from the actual world, only the crashing of the waves on the shore the sole noise disturbing the tranquillity enjoyed in the company of voicelessly speaking friends. As per usual, the space looks as if a paper tornado has rampaged through it, but whereas the brown-haired tall man was once again busily reading whilst scribbling before a brief announcement of going outside for a bit made him briefly look up, dark circles of yet another night spent on whatever occupied him although the reason can very well be the origins of the mysteriously appeared persona living with him clearly showing and causing a sense of intense worry for his well-being, and nod in acknowledgement only to return to the mental palace filled with chronicles, he is now sound asleep, chin resting on a broad chest and full lips slightly parted.

Carefully and as silent as the summer land breeze, the dreamer is approached and a hand put on a tanned knee shaped by many hours of walking when not being holed up indoors, gently shaking it to wake Namjoon up. 'Joon, wake up. There's something I need to tell you.' Slowly, lashes flutter in drowsy confusion, sight endeavouring to register who is beheld as hearing returns. 'It has to do with your research. About who I am.'

'What?' Long limbs stretch after rubbing the last remains of slumber from eyes unintentionally closed when the realm of dreams called out. For a split second a sharp wary glint treks over a handsome face, undoubtedly wondering as to how the investigation that should have remained secret for some kind of reason has nonetheless been discovered, but is quickly replaced with an overpowering curiosity at the prospect of possibly being led closer to a conclusion answering the questions that remain despite the efforts to avoid loose ends. The baritone calm voice is filled with eagerness upon talking. 'Did you remember something, Y/N?'

'I remember a gorgeous woman, Nyx, who seems to be made from the night sky, the universe shaping her entire body, and her tears are the stars in it. And that dress I wore when you found me was wrapped around me in the fashion of the Nine Muses. I know it's not much to go by, but-' The enthusiasm fades at the mention of the randomly recalled pieces of the person lingering within, who has seemed to grow weaker each day alongside the experience of truly being here, feeling as if slowly wasting away whenever Namjoon is off to the university or there is not a pen nor piece of paper nearby to compose prose with. Trembling fingers enclose the ones resting on the leg clad in denim, squeezing as if holding on for dear life, begging eyes shaded over with a watery haze. It is heartbreaking to see the normally composed professor suddenly broken down due to an unknown reason. 'What's wrong?'

The words come out shivering, sharply inhaled breaths cutting them up in miserable pieces which are attempted to be strung into a coherent story regardless of the loss of calm. 'It all makes sense now. Nyx was there when you were forced to drink from Lethe, heartbroken because she could not protect her best friend, you, from Zeus's wrath caused by laying with her brother, her one true love, Apollo. She pleaded with the king of gods, but to no avail and thus had to watch your ritual of exile. Yet, in a sense, it saved you because all the gods and goddesses nor their pureblood offspring are alive. They're dead, erased with the people's memory of them, but you continue to exist because I remember you. But, it was also part of the sentence that if you were to recall anything of your former life and try to return to it, you would be cast into the Styx and left to drown.

'Nonetheless, the goddess of the night has prevented that from happening by meeting you every time you remembered, descended from the sky with Lethe's water that she collected after the punishment was executed to make you unsuspectingly drink it and cast your mind into oblivion once more. I guess she either did this merely to protect you from death by the fatal river in Hades or knew that Olympus and all those connected to it would one day perish, making sure you had a chance at survival because, if nobody would remember them after they're gone, surely you wouldn't too. Nevertheless, perhaps she overlooked the detail that involved your disappearance as well.'

'Who am I?' It comes out harsher than intended, but the urge to find an explanation for all that has happened causes an impatient unrest that shall only be toned down when the curiosity haunting from the beginning has been satisfied. Furthermore, the story sounds so familiar, so vivid in a repressed memory that tries to surface yet cannot due to a significant powerful detail connecting it to this assumed self missing: a name.

My name.

A mere whisper, that is all the reply is, and still, it betrays the burden shouldered all this time of playing pretend for some kind of reason while working day and night in the pursuit of an answer. All for me. 'Calliope, the muse of poetry. The one cast out for falling in love with its god, my father.'

Sound fragments combined with images flash by of screamed pleads behind the one who I used to be asking for mercy, a clear crystalline river flowing tranquilly towards Elysium from which the demand to drink is repeated before rough hands break through the strong resistance of legs that remain standing upright in their refusal to come closer to that which ends an important aspect of eternal life, being forced to the knees as another set of fingers form an improvised cup to bring water from the broad stream to the rosy lips firmly sealed. Notwithstanding, it is forced open at a vicious jerk of platinum hair, the liquid compelled to be drunk when the nose is squeezed shut and there is no other way to breathe but via the mouth after swallowing the mental poison.

With the impending darkness of unconsciousness, memories of a love that had lasted too shortly already begin to fade and the last thing which is heard, the last bit of awareness keeping reality intact, is the heart- wrenching baritone cry of a man losing a beloved.

Right here in the chair overlooking the rough rocky coast, is a guy who has formerly never spoken of family, avoided the seemingly important subject at all times by rapidly changing it into insignificant to create small talk, until now. That is why there has been a pressuring need to connect the dots regarding Namjoon, whose gaze has kept lurking in memories at the edge of the mind, visibly there but blurry and smudged, and began to feel more involved with all the lives, for it has always felt like many had been lived, forgotten at a certain point.

It has been there all this time, hidden in those wise eyes.