Kael followed the sound to the central plaza. There, beneath the frozen clock tower, stood a figure. It wore a long coat the color of erased chalk, and its face was smooth as an egg—no eyes, no mouth, no nose. Only the suggestion of a tired smile pressed into the blankness.
The figure turned its blank face toward him. It did not speak aloud. Instead, Kael heard the voice inside his own skull, soft as moth wings: I am the Yumeost. The dream-eater. The last stop before forgetting. yumeost
Kael stood alone in the plaza. The pile of film reels—his mother’s laugh, the wedding kiss, the child’s step—lay at his feet. He knelt and gathered them into his arms. They were cold. They weighed nothing. They weighed everything. Kael followed the sound to the central plaza