The humid evening air vibrated with the excited chatter spilling out of the neon-drenched arcade. Kezha, ever the pragmatist, was meticulously strategizing his next move in Galactic Gladiators, his thumbs flying across the control buttons. Wankaz, perched on a nearby stool, was animatedly recounting the leaked plot details of the upcoming blockbuster.
"Dude, you won't believe it!" Wankaz exclaimed, his voice barely audible above the cacophony of laser blasts and digital roars. "Apparently, Kaito Nakamura's character, the Silent Wanderer, his magic isn't just elemental. It's tied to the very fabric of the cosmos! And the scene where he confronts the Void Empress, played by Anya Sharma? They say the visual effects alone will redefine cinema!"
Kezha grunted in response, his eyes glued to the screen. "Yeah, yeah, sounds epic. Just try not to spoil too much. I actually want to be surprised for once." He finally looked up, a triumphant grin on his face as his gladiator delivered a final, pixelated blow. "Ha! Told you I'd beat level five this time."
Wankaz grinned back, the excitement about the movie still buzzing in his chest. "You just wait, man. This isn't some low-budget CGI fest. They've been building this storyline for years across the comics and the OmniNet series. The payoff is going to be huge!" He pulled out his phone, intending to rewatch the latest trailer. "Speaking of the OmniNet, did you see that fan theory about the Void Empress actually being—"
That's when it happened.
A sudden, blinding flash of white light erupted from seemingly nowhere, bathing the arcade in an intense, searing luminescence that stole their vision. It was accompanied by a high-pitched, almost inaudible whine that resonated deep within their skulls. The world seemed to flicker, like a faulty holographic display.
Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the light vanished. The arcade lights seemed a little dimmer, the digital sounds a touch less vibrant. Kezha blinked, rubbing his eyes.
"Whoa! What the heck was that?" he muttered, looking around the arcade, where a few other patrons were similarly dazed. "Felt like a mini-power surge or something."
Wankaz, however, felt a profound disorientation, a strange sense of… wrongness. It wasn't just the flash. It was like a subtle shift in the air, a silent alteration he couldn't quite grasp. He shook his head, trying to clear the lingering echoes of the light and the sound.
"Yeah… weird," he mumbled, trying to recall what he was just saying. "Uh… right. The movie." He looked at Kezha, expecting the same excited anticipation.
"What movie are you talking about, dude? Never heard of that, brotha," Kezha said, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. He leaned back against the wall, scrolling on his phone, the neon glow of the arcade game signs painting streaks across his face. "You still on about that weird dream from last night? You were mumbling something about a giant robot, too."
Wankaz stared, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn't a dream. It couldn't be. "Huh? What do you mean by that! It's literally about to be released tomorrow! It has one of the best actors ever! You know, Kaito Nakamura? He's supposed to play the lead, the guy with the magic sword, and the alien princess is played by—" Wankaz cut himself off, his voice trailing as Kezha simply shook his head, a soft, pitying smile spreading across his face.
"Magic sword, alien princess, and a robot? Sounds like you had a wild one, man," Kezha chuckled, pushing off the wall. "Come on, let's just grab some noodles. You need a reality check, maybe."
The casual dismissal slammed into Wankaz, a cold dread seeping into his bones. This was far worse than the usual sting of being misunderstood. He remembered the posters plastered across the city, the online countdowns, the hyped-up trailers playing just moments ago on every screen. He could almost feel the phantom weight of his pre-ordered ticket in his pocket, even though his hand found only empty fabric.
"Reality check?" Wankaz's voice was barely a whisper, laced with a growing panic. He pulled out his phone, his fingers fumbling with the screen. "No, no, wait. I'll show you the trailer. It's trending everywhere, dude. Just search for it on the OmniNet—"
Kezha paused, raising an eyebrow. "OmniNet? Bro, it's just 'the Net.' And I just searched for 'that movie.' Got nothing but some ancient-looking historical document about squabbling tribes. You really okay?" Concern, tinged with that familiar, worried disbelief, finally colored Kezha's voice.
Wankaz's screen glowed back at him, empty search results mocking his certainty. The chilling truth, a truth he'd first glimpsed in tiny, fleeting shifts over the past few weeks, solidified into a monstrous, undeniable weight. It wasn't just a movie. It was everything. The memory of the OmniNet, the very name of the global network he used every day, was also gone. Replaced by a simpler, duller "the Net."
His world was subtly, horribly wrong, and he was the only one who knew it. The arcade lights, once vibrant, now seemed flat, artificial, like a stage set. The sounds of Galactic Gladiators and laughter from other patrons felt distant, muffled, as if filtered through thick glass. He looked at Kezha, his best friend, and saw a stranger inhabiting a familiar face, a stranger who remembered a different past, a different present. The shared history between them, the inside jokes, the countless nights spent discussing that very movie franchise – it was all gone for Kezha. Erased.
A cold, creeping certainty wormed its way into Wankaz's gut: he wasn't just losing his memories, or sharing a strange glitch. He was seeing the seams of reality unravel. And the terrifying part wasn't just that no one else remembered, but that no one else cared. There was no alarm, no confusion beyond a mild "weird dream" dismissal. They simply accepted the new reality, unburdened by the weight of what had been.
He felt a terrifying, growing isolation, like being cast adrift in an ocean where all the stars had shifted, yet the other sailors slept soundly. He wanted to scream, to shake Kezha, to force him to see the glaring holes in their collective memory. But what would be the point? Kezha would only look at him with that same, pitying smile, the one that said, You're losing it, bro.
Wankaz looked down at his trembling hands. The phone, still displaying the empty search results, felt suddenly alien. He could almost feel the phantom touch of a forgotten world pressing in, a universe that had just ceased to be for everyone else, leaving only him as its last, fragile echo. The silence of the forgotten past roared louder than any arcade game. He was trapped in a world that was both intimately familiar and profoundly, irrevocably wrong. And the scariest part was, he had no idea what had changed besides the movie, or what else was still to come.
Later that evening, the unsettling calm in his apartment felt oppressive. Wankaz paced, the cheap linoleum cold beneath his bare feet. He needed confirmation, another point of reference, someone else. Kezha's dismissal had stung, but maybe his family would be different. His mother, especially. She remembered everything. She had to.
He found her in the kitchen, humming softly as she chopped vegetables for stew. The familiar scent of warm, savory broth usually brought comfort, but tonight it felt like a fragile veneer over a crumbling reality.
"Mom?" Wankaz tried to keep his voice even, but a tremor betrayed his anxiety. "Remember that old banyan tree by the market? The one where Grandpa used to tell us those crazy stories about the forest spirits?"
His mother paused, knife hovering over a piece of daikon. She turned, a gentle smile on her face. "Oh, that tree! Of course, sweetie. You loved those stories. Though Grandpa always made them sound a little too real, didn't he?"
Relief, sharp and sudden, flooded Wankaz. "Yeah! And remember when we were kids, and that storm hit, and the tree split in half? It took them weeks to clear the path, remember?"
His mother's smile faltered. Her brow furrowed, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows. "Split in half? No, sweetie, that tree is still standing tall. It's older than our family. You must be thinking of the old oak tree by the elementary school. That one fell down years ago." She gave a soft, knowing chuckle. "You always did mix up your trees, even when you were little."
The relief evaporated, replaced by a cold, sickening plunge. Not the oak tree. It was undeniably the banyan. He could almost feel the rough bark under his hands, the specific shape of the jagged split. Yet, for her, it had never happened.
"But... no, Mom, the banyan tree. It had that lightning scar, and the branch that looked like a giant arm. We used to climb it after the storm..." Wankaz pressed, his voice rising, desperate.
His mother put down her knife, her eyes softening with that same look Kezha had given him. "Sweetie, my memory is fine. Maybe you need to rest. You've been on that phone too much, filling your head with strange things." She reached out, gently touching his forehead. "No fever. Just tired. Come, help me with dinner."
The casual concern, the immediate explanation of his own supposed confusion, was even more terrifying than outright disbelief. It was as if his memories were just wrong, easily dismissed as a fault of his own mind. He looked around the familiar kitchen, at the photos on the fridge, at the worn counter where they'd baked cookies countless times. Was his entire life, his entire past, just a fragile, shifting narrative that only he remembered correctly? Or was he truly losing his mind, a solitary island of "madness" in a sea of blissful, collective amnesia? The thought was a chilling echo in the silent, altered world.
A Visit to Aunt ClaraDesperation gnawed at him. Kezha was just a friend. His mom, perhaps, was just getting older, prone to minor memory slips, even if this felt like something far grander. But Aunt Clara… Aunt Clara was the family historian, the keeper of stories, the one who remembered everything. If anyone could confirm his fractured reality, it was her.
The bus ride across town felt longer than usual, each stop a silent accusation of normalcy. People boarded, exited, talked about mundane things—the weather, their jobs, a local celebrity's latest scandal. None of them seemed to notice the subtle, wrong hum beneath the surface of reality, the quiet discrepancies that screamed at Wankaz.
Aunt Clara's house was a shrine to family history, filled with old photographs, dusty heirlooms, and the comforting scent of jasmine and old paper. She sat in her armchair, a knitting project resting in her lap, watching a documentary about ancient civilizations.
"Auntie," Wankaz began, trying to sound casual, "remember that big family trip we took? The one where Uncle Leo got lost at the historical reenactment, and we all had to dress up as ancient warriors to find him? He was yelling about a dragon, and we had to explain it was just a giant kite?"
Aunt Clara chuckled, a warm, familiar sound. "Oh, Uncle Leo! He was always getting into scrapes. But a dragon, sweetie? No, that was the time he swore he saw a UFO at the state fair. Remember how Dad teased him mercilessly about it?" She smiled, a genuine memory clearly playing across her face.
Wankaz felt his blood run cold. The historical reenactment, the warrior costumes, the giant kite-dragon—it was vivid, tactile in his mind. He could almost hear Uncle Leo's booming, panicked voice. But Aunt Clara, the family's walking archive, had replaced it with a different, utterly mundane memory.
"No, Auntie, it wasn't a UFO. It was the historical reenactment at Fort _____. They had those big trebuchets, and the guy playing the king had a fake beard that kept falling off," Wankaz pleaded, the edge of desperation creeping into his voice. He could feel his heart pounding, a frantic drum against his ribs.
Aunt Clara's smile thinned, her eyes losing their warmth, replaced by a glint of concern. "Sweetie, where are you getting these ideas? There's never been a historical reenactment at Fort _____. That's an old military base, always has been. And Uncle Leo's UFO story was famous! We still bring it up at Christmas." She set aside her knitting, her gaze now fixed on him, assessing. "Are you feeling quite alright, Wankaz? You seem a little... disoriented."
The word hung in the air, heavy and damning. Disoriented. It wasn't anger, not yet. It was concern, pity, and the terrifying implication that his mind, his very perception of reality, was the problem. He was an anomaly, a glitch in the smoothly running simulation of everyone else's world. Each person he spoke to, each memory he tried to verify, only hammered home the terrifying truth: the world had changed, subtly but fundamentally, and he was completely alone in remembering the way it used to be. The silence of the forgotten past continued to roar, now accompanied by the quiet hum of a world that refused to acknowledge its own alteration. He was becoming a ghost in his own life, haunted by a past no one else could see.