The field was warm.

  The grass softly tickled his neck.

  Sheep wandered back and forth like white lumps the wind had scattered across the hill by accident.

  Greg lay on his back with his arms spread wide.

  The wind tangled his almost white hair.

  He stared at a cloud—long and lazy, like a dragon that had gotten tired of living.

  Greg understood it perfectly.

  With his eyes closed, he could imagine himself as an ordinary shepherd.

  A simple life. Even. Flat.

  If not for one thing.

  Greg opened his eyes again.

  Holes in his memory.

  Not the small kind—I forgot where I put the scissors—but real voids.

  He didn’t remember childhood.

  Didn’t remember how he got here.

  Didn’t remember what he was doing fifteen years ago.

  Like someone had erased his brain in big chunks, leaving a smooth surface behind.

  “Stupid,” he muttered under his breath.

  He pulled a strand of hair in front of his eyes.

  White. Weirdly white for a fifteen-year-old.

  Recently it had been greenish—like young grass.

  Now—sterile snow.

  Sheep number seven bleated indignantly.

  Greg propped himself up on his elbows and saw her stubbornly stomping toward the edge of a drop, chewing on someone’s boot as she went.

  “Seven…” he sighed. “There’s not even grass there. And the boot isn’t yours. Who even are you?”

  Getting up felt like work.

  His whole body ached like he’d been walking for a week.

  Maybe he had. He didn’t remember.

  He just snapped his fingers.

  Pop.

  The sheep vanished from the cliff and appeared right in front of him, flopping onto her side.

  She didn’t even stop chewing the boot—only blinked in surprise.

  “Eat quietly,” Greg told her, and stretched out in the grass again.

  He wasn’t surprised.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He was never surprised by his “tricks.”

  Being surprised would be weird—like being surprised you can breathe.

  Grass rustled on his right.

  “Showing off again?” a bright voice asked.

  Greg glanced over.

  A boy—maybe ten—plopped down beside him. Local kid.

  Tim? Tom? Timo?

  He forgot every time.

  The boy tore off a blade of grass and stuck it in his mouth.

  “I saw it go bam—teleport. Are you a mage?”

  “I’m a shepherd,” Greg grunted. “Mages wear stupid hats and talk in riddles. I wear normal clothes and say stupid things. Fair trade.”

  “You’re weird,” the boy concluded.

  “I’m not weird.”

  Silence.

  The wind tugged at Greg’s gray hair.

  And somewhere under his ribs, slowly, almost unnoticed, the emptiness rose—not pain, not fear, but like hunger.

  Only hunger for something he couldn’t remember, but always felt.

  He knew: if he tried to remember the past, his heart would clamp down like wire wrapped around it.

  He didn’t try.

  Greg looked away and noticed a beetle on his arm.

  It crawled up his sleeve like it was in a hurry.

  Small. Useless. Stubborn.

  Greg brought his hand closer to his eyes.

  The beetle climbed, clinging with its tiny legs to the fabric, over and over.

  Its purpose was simple: live and move.

  Live at any cost.

  “Look,” Greg said quietly. “This beetle probably has… its own life too. Tiny, but his. Maybe he’s got kids, a housewife beetle, a house made of leaves… whatever they’ve got.”

  He flicked his finger lightly—and the beetle dropped into the grass.

  Nothing cracked.

  Nothing shattered.

  The beetle was fine.

  “Does the beetle even understand why it exists?”

  “And if I kill it…” he continued just as calmly, “I won’t regret it. I don’t care. Its kids—if it even has any—probably won’t care either. They don’t even know that was their father or mother.”

  So what then? Who’s going to be sad?

  He stared at the spot where the beetle vanished, still not blinking.

  “Turns out its life changes nothing. And its death changes nothing. It lives because it lives. Instinct. Just a set of commands: crawl, eat, survive. There isn’t even meaning.”

  “And that’s the question…”

  Greg pressed a hand to his chest.

  “How are humans different?

  If the reason to live is the same—hunger, fear, warmth, habit…

  is it even worth holding onto that kind of life?”

  He said it without gloom—just out loud.

  “Living just because of instincts?

  Pfft. Pretty weak motivation,” he shrugged.

  “Hey, kid…” Greg said, not changing his position.

  “Hm?”

  “Why do you live in this world?”

  The boy stopped chewing the grass.

  “Huh?..”

  “No, seriously. Is there a point?” Greg spoke calmly, no drama. “I look at the sky and think… I could kill myself easily.”

  Snap—and my heart stops.

  Or I vanish, disperse—technically not hard.

  He lifted his hand and stared at his fingers for a long time.

  They looked normal—teenage fingers.

  But whenever he tried to feel what was wrong with them…

  the sense dulled, slipped away.

  “Only the fear of death…” Greg continued softly. “It’s animal. Stupid. It gets in the way.”

  “So yeah. I just don’t have the guts.”

  He expected the boy to get scared.

  To crawl away.

  To yell, to call adults.

  But the kid just frowned.

  “Greg, why’d you get so depressed?”

  That hit harder than any philosophical question.

  The whole dark mood just collapsed.

  Greg sat up like he’d been launched.

  “Hey! I’m not depressed!” he snapped. “I’m mysterious! Girls like mysterious. Probably. I don’t remember, but it sounds logical!”

  “You’re just whining. And your hair looks like a grandpa’s.”

  “It’s style,” Greg sniffed. “And respect philosophy. Philosophers have smart faces.”

  The boy stared at him.

  “You’ve got a dirty face.”

  “Where?” Greg panicked and started rubbing his cheek.

  The boy burst out laughing.

  Greg grunted.

  “Alright… got me.”

  Problems don’t get solved—well, whatever.

  He flopped back into the grass.

  But he shoved his hands into his pockets fast—so the kid wouldn’t see his fingers shaking.

  His fingers brushed a warm leather cover. A small notebook.

  The Book of Oblivion.

  He didn’t remember when he started keeping it.

  But he knew it was his.

  “Greg?” the boy called.

  “Hm?”

  “Why did your eyes turn blue?

  A month ago they were gray.”

  Greg froze.

  His heart skipped.

  He didn’t notice his breathing go shallow.

  Blue.

  Too bright.

  “It’s…” he swallowed. “It’s just the lighting. The sun’s going down.”

  His heart clenched and released again.

  The sun was high.

  And both of them knew it wasn’t the light.

  Something pricked inside him—fast, sharp, like a needle.

  I don’t know why they change, he thought. I don’t know what happened. I don’t even know why I’m here. I think… I had a goal. An important one. But…

  He exhaled heavily.

  …I don’t remember. And whatever.