The wooden shack was something that you had never noticed before. Although you had spent quite a bit of your time exploring the woods, you had somehow never wandered to the edge where the shack stood, a lone piece of human presence amongst the overwhelming sea of nature.

The door only took a little push to swing open, revealing the shadowy, musty interior. It only contained a bed, a box, a fireplace, and a cupboard that was tucked away in a corner. One of the cupboard doors was ajar, almost as if it were inviting you to look inside.

You couldn't help but hesitate when you pressed your fingers against the smooth, polished wood. No-Face didn't really tell you anything about the cabin—was someone living in it? Is it full of traps? Is the entire thing a trap that you willingly walked into? Despite No-Face's seemingly innocent intentions, you couldn't bring yourself to trust him completely.

Not giving yourself time to panic or back out, you opened both the top and bottom cupboards, scanning each and every item with a light muttering of, 'What the fuck?'

The bottom half of the cupboard was full of clothes: your clothes. A hoodie, a jumper, and a pair of shoes that you were sure you put in a charity bag. The top half contained a stack of crumpled paper, a broken mug, a sock with a hole in, and a photo. The picture itself was covered by a folded note, and you could make out your handwriting on its inside.

Naturally, it piqued your curiosity, and you took it, scouring its contents as your blood charged to your face and ears, heating them up uncomfortably quickly. You only made it about three-quarters of the way through the letter before swiftly folding it back up. You had never ever written something so heartfelt before, and seeing your exact feelings compiled in a letter to the exact person you had feelings for seemed to bring forth a torrent of memories that you weren't even aware existed.

The force with which the memories returned made you stumble a bit, and you slumped down on the ground, your back pressing against the ruinous frame of the bed for support.

Casserole. Warmth. Breathing against your neck. An arm over your sleeping form. They were so vivid that you could practically feel the weight of someone's head on your shoulder. All the memories were benevolent, and if you could have touched them, they probably would have felt like marshmallows—delightfully squishy. Not one memory stood out to you, but that doesn't mean you didn't take interest in each and every one of them, because you did. If you could have played them out on a screen, you would have done. You would have sat there for hours until they started to loop, and you were drunk on nostalgia.

Then came the guilt.

Knees pulled up to your chest, you hugged them tightly as your mind asked a dozen questions you weren't sure if you would ever get the answer to. How much did it hurt Jack to realise that, after everything, your memories of him had been taken away by a malicious force? How did he manage to keep a smile on his face every time you were in his presence?

The tears were impossible to stop. It was like living in a romantic tragedy: whenever the two of you finally get close to being happy, something saunters in and ruins everything, sending you both right back to square one. How unfair was that?

You got to your feet, trembling, hands desperately grasping for the stack of crinkled paper like you needed them to survive. Shuffling through them, another broken cry echoed around the cabin as you read some of the things that you had said to Jack before you sacrificed a part of yourself.

'I don't mind just staying here with you.'

'You'll be fine.'

'You're so warm.'

'You should become a chef.'

'I think you found your secret calling.'

It was like discovering a hoard of childhood photos that detailed events you were too young to remember. It had the same soft domesticity that you had craved as a teenager, and being drowned in it ignited a renewed vigour that drove you to close the cabinet (after returning the stack of paper to its original location) and march out into the woods and in the direction of your home.

With your newfound memories, you also (vaguely) remembered the symbol Ophelia drew to transport you to Chernabog's realm. If you got it right, you could go there and demand that he stop meddling in your life. You would finally, finally be free of that demonic piece of shit ruining and ruling your life. It was as if he was a puppeteer, tugging on the strings of his favourite marionette, reigning over the stage and altering things so they were to his liking.

You faltered for a second. Your memories were back. You had no reason to tell Chernabog about their return—he had taken them away once, and it was impossible that he had suddenly developed a conscience; he would take them again, there was no doubt about it. Would it not be better to search for Jack and start having a peaceful life?

The sound of ringing static brought you to a halt. No-Face was back.

'' he said. ''

'I'm not planning anything! Anyway, you didn't take long. Where'd you go?'

''

'No, no, I'm interested. Tell me. Please?' You gave him the best doe-eyed look that you could muster, silently cheering when he gave in.

''

Not even the rustling of the leaves or dirt broke the stunned silence that now surrounded the two of you.

You opened your mouth to say something, closed it, then finally said: 'I...didn't expect to be told that, but okay. Good for you, I suppose?'

'' For once, the threat held no malice. ''

'I did. How much of it did you know?'

''

It felt slightly embarrassing to spill out your memories to him. It was like you were telling your dad about a first date. 'Pretty much everything. Nothing feels missing or out of place, but...there is one from a while ago. I told someone the password into the library back in my first year of uni; who was it?'

''

'I was just checking! I thought it was, since I didn't realise I didn't remember it until, like, five minutes ago. I have a more important question, though. What's with the weird cupboard?'

No-Face hesitated. ''

'I suppose?' You gave a mix of a shrug and a head shake. 'It's not something we talk about, really.'

''

you:

hey jack

are you okay?

'Oh my God, it went through.'

we've all been worried to death cause we can't find you

please please please let me know you're okay

and alive

please

Never in your life had you experienced such a dazzling and intense sense of stress. It wasn't as frantic as panic, but not as still as anxiety; it was instead a roaring middle, and it settled in the place where your internal organs should be, making itself at home in your torso. Whatever it was, it made your throat squeeze while your fingers began to shake like they were possessed.

Desperation overwhelmed you, and you turned to No-face and begged.

'Tell me where he is. Please! Can't you do that?'

All your cries were ignored. You were alone in the forest, with nothing but the judgemental gaze of the trees and the sadistic amusement of the wind.

Sobs returned once more—had you ever stopped crying since leaving the shack? You didn't know, and, to be honest, as you sank in despaired shock to the ground, you didn't care. A distorted, strangled wail came from your vocal cords as your mind twisted the situation into something far, far worse.

He's dead. He doesn't want to be around you anymore. It's all your fault.

Before you knew it, you were frantically navigating through your phone to call Jack. Surely he would pick up. He had to.

...Nothing. It dropped onto voicemail. You tried again, and again it led to the same, automated message. You were a hair's width away from throwing your phone at the wall of the wooden cabin.

The strange, beast-like emotion that had filled your core spread. It clambered up into your mouth, your brain, and all the down to your ankles, curling around the variety of nerves that ran throughout your body.

When your legs pushed themselves upright, you had no choice but to relinquish control to whatever was now living inside your skin.