“Fragments‪”‬

“Fragments”


The Awakening

Milo squinted at the sepia-colored parchment under his desk lamp, fingers tracing the faint, worn symbols. They were incomprehensible—almost like hieroglyphics, ancient and mysterious. The fragment had appeared unannounced, manifesting as a surge of sensations, scents, and fleeting images flashing before his eyes earlier that afternoon. Now he could feel it—a presence woven into his very being, whispering memories he had never lived, begging to be unraveled.


He leaned back in his chair, taking a long, measured breath, as he closed his eyes. Suddenly, a vivid scene burst into view: a crowded hall, the echo of voices chanting in a dialect he barely understood. A banner fluttered above, torn yet triumphant, marked with a symbol—a fractured circle. His pulse quickened as he grasped the table’s edge to ground himself.


“Rebellion,” he muttered, the word reverberating as if it belonged to someone else. It wasn't his voice—it was someone else’s. It felt foreign and yet achingly familiar, like an old friend or a half-remembered song.


A Chance Meeting

The next morning, Milo found himself lingering in the vast marble corridors of the Citadel Archives, hoping to come across someone who could understand what was happening. He knew fragments were common here; every historian bore at least one fragment, like ghostly echoes passed down from one generation to the next. But his… his was different, an enigma entwined with fear and excitement.


“Lost in thought again, Milo?” a teasing voice interrupted his reverie.


He looked up to see Arielle, her usual carefree grin offset by her piercing gaze. Arielle was a fellow historian-in-training, her curiosity unquenchable, and her spirit unwavering. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, her eyes narrowing.


“I… I think I might have,” he replied, managing a half-smile. “Have you ever… inherited something unexpected?”


Arielle raised an eyebrow. “Unexpected? Milo, our whole lives are made of these fragments. But they’re usually, well, predictable. A favorite song, a recurring dream, a knack for gardening…” She lowered her voice. “What did you inherit?”


“It’s hard to explain.” Milo hesitated, glancing around the room. “It was like a memory—but not just any memory. There was something… fierce about it. Revolutionary, even. I can still feel the echo of a voice, and there’s this strange symbol…”


“A symbol?” Arielle’s curiosity flared. She reached into her satchel, pulling out an old journal. “Describe it.”


“It’s like a circle, broken down the middle,” Milo murmured, sketching it with his finger in the air. The memory of it seemed etched into his mind.


Arielle’s expression changed; her face tightened. “That’s… impossible. It sounds like the Seal of Valen.”


Milo blinked, bewildered. “Valen? As in, my ancestor?”


Arielle nodded, a glint of intrigue sparking in her eyes. “Milo, that symbol was used by those who once fought for freedom from the old regime. It was buried—along with their cause—years ago. No one even whispers about them anymore.”


Hidden Archives

With Arielle’s help, Milo managed to get access to a section of the archives few were allowed to enter. There, amidst layers of dust and faded memories, he found a journal with his ancestor’s name inscribed on it: Valen Orlen.


He opened the journal carefully, and the words inside felt both alive and haunted, each page imbued with a powerful urgency. He read:


“...They call us traitors, but we are only seeking truth. The fragments are our legacy, the evidence of our struggle, passed down to keep us bound to our purpose…”


Each line was like a whisper echoing through time. Valen’s words were imbued with a desperation Milo had never known but now understood on an instinctual level. His hands trembled.