Chapter 376: The Real Past

She pushed the door open and stepped aside, light spilling into a modest but cosy home woven right into the trees."Sara", she said casually, as if reminding him of something obvious. "That's my name."

He blinked. "Oh. Hello, Sara." He said awkwardly.

Sensing his lingering stiffness, she waved a hand. "Relax. You're safe here."

She led him down a short hall and opened a door. "Guest room. The bathroom is through there. Make yourself at—" she paused, looking him up and down, then disappeared for a second.

When she returned, she was holding… Clothes.

Pink clothes.

Very pink clothes.

Satiny. Soft. Sleeveless. With shorts.

Arian stared. "…Those are yours."

She tilted her head. "Yes?"

"They're—"

"I'm taller than you," she said matter-of-factly. "They'll fit."

"They're girl pajamas."

She shrugged. "And what you're wearing looks like it's actively plotting to strangle you in your sleep."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I'm not wearing that."

—

Five minutes later.

Arian looked down at himself.

Satiny pink sleeveless top. Matching shorts. Cool, comfortable, not manly enough.

He slowly lifted his hands as if seeing them for the first time. "How did this happen?" he asked weakly, "I distinctly remember saying no."

The shade of his cheeks seemed to perfectly match the pyjamas.

"I think you look great," she giggled.

Arian did not say anything. His ears kind of went down.

Seeing that Sara stopped laughing, she did not want to be a bully, but it was fun. In cruder terms... It was her first time meeting a man quite feminine. He looked like a delicate beauty. The men in her clan were quite the opposite.

"Want something to eat?" She asked.

Arian shook his head, he felt more dejected than hungry. Where could he find his past? Or a trail that led him to it? He felt quite hopeless and alone.

"Don't worry too much. I will get your money back. She is a bit extra, but she is not a swindler." Sara assured Arian about that old shaman lady.

Arian just wanted to cry. To think he ended up in this position, almost homeless, if not for the kindness of a stranger.

"So," Sara said, settling beside him, legs tucked up comfortably. "What's your story?"

Arian shrugged. "I don't know. I don't remember."

She blinked. "So you weren't kidding earlier."

He shook his head. "Nope. Woke up in the middle of a forest. No memories. Met a man named Caius—very scary, turns into a panther, not important—he brought me here. Then he left."

Sara hummed, listening.

"What bothered me most," Arian continued, quieter now, "wasn't even losing the money. It was that old woman saying I chose this. Like I woke up one day and thought, 'Yes, I want to forget everything.'" His eyes flickered red for a moment. "That part annoyed me."

Sara patted his back once, firm and reassuring. She didn't interrupt.

After a second, she said, "She's not a swindler. Annoying? Yes. Dramatic? Absolutely. But she's good at what she does."

Arian gave her a doubtful look.

"I'll get your money back," she added. "And I'll make her check your past again. Properly."

He nodded. He still did not believe it.

The next morning was… Normal. Surprisingly so.

Sara didn't pull any tricks, didn't tease him, and didn't so much as comment on the fact that he had slept in pink pajamas. Instead, she handed him the clothes Caius had bought—clean, steamed, and neatly folded. They smelled faintly of soap and something woody.

She walked right next to him. He dreaded meeting that woman again, but Sara seemed to believe in her so much that he decided to give her another chance.

Arian asked, "Don't you have work?"

"I do," Sara said easily. "Afternoons to evenings. Nothing to worry about."

He slowed for half a step. "You don't have to do this. You know that, right?"

She glanced back at him. "I know."

That answer alone made him oddly grateful.

The shaman took one look at him, then at Sara, and let out a long, tired sigh. "I don't get paid enough for this."

Arian almost yelled. Almost. He inhaled, exhaled, and muttered instead, "I didn't pay you. You stole from me."

She waved a hand like he was background noise. Without another word, she turned and disappeared into the back room.

Sara leaned toward him. "That's an invitation. In her own way."

"So," the shaman said, her voice dropping just enough to be theatrical, "what do you want to know?"

Arian didn't hesitate. "My past. And what you meant when you said I chose this."

Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "Your past?" she repeated. "That's easy. The question is—which one?"

"That doesn't make sense," Arian said, frowning. "I only have one."

She reached for a small cup resting beside her. Inside it, red coals glowed faintly, alive but not burning hot. From a pouch at her waist, she sprinkled something dark and powdery onto the embers. The moment it touched, smoke bloomed upward—thick, curling, tinted faintly red. It smelled… Pleasant.

"Maybe," she said softly, lifting the cup, "you should start with the first one."

Before Arian could respond, she blew gently across the coals.

The smoke rolled toward him. He inhaled before he could stop himself.

His chest tightened. He coughed once, then again, eyes watering. "Hey—" His protest dissolved into a wheeze as the world tilted.

The tent blurred. The walls stretched, colours bleeding into one another. The ground beneath his feet softened, then vanished entirely.

And suddenly—

He saw a child, and he held his ears as he peeked out the window. With short, chubby hands, dressed in black fabric that felt too heavy for his body. He knew, without being told, that he was two years old. That the child he was seeing was him.

The air was cold. There was barely any light in that room, and beyond it, the sky was heavy with clouds. Outside, people gathered in dark clothing, their figures clustered together like shadows. Their voices were muffled, distant, carried by the wind.

A funeral.

He didn't know how he knew, but he did.

The child didn't cry. He didn't move. He sat perfectly still, watching from the window as if waiting for something to happen—or for someone to come back.

Below, a black procession passed slowly. Heads bowed. Face grim. An object draped in cloth was carried through the crowd, and though the child couldn't see it clearly, his chest hurt anyway.

Someone was gone.

Someone important.

The child pressed his small hand against the glass to get a better view. His reflection stared back at him. He did not seem to cry, he seemed to understand what a funeral was... In his own way. But he did not seem to know that once they were gone, they would not come back.

No one came to pick him up.No one came to explain.

This was his past?

A shadow lingered near the doorway.

It did not step inside at first. The room was dim enough that Arian couldn't make out a face, only the shape of a tall figure framed by the faint light spilling in from the hall. The child on the floor didn't turn. He kept staring out the window, fingers still pressed to the cold glass, as if pretending the presence behind him wasn't real.

The shadow moved.

Slowly, deliberately, it crossed the room until it stood just behind the child.

In that innocent, soft voice, he asked, "Mom?"

But no, his mother died. Leaving him alone with his father.