When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t myself.

  I was sitting at a long metal table, a wooden cup in my hands. Inside it, cloudy water swirled with flecks of dust and ash. My reflection stared back at me - except it wasn’t mine. A boy, maybe nine. Too thin. Pale, with dark circles under hollow brown eyes.

  I blinked once. The world didn’t move with me.

  This wasn’t a dream.

  It felt… borrowed. Like I was trapped behind the boy’s eyes, watching a memory play out.

  The sound of chatter drifted through the room - small voices, dozens of them, maybe a hundred. Children sat shoulder to shoulder on long benches, eating whatever passed for food. The air smelled like damp stone and boiled grain. Water leaked from pipes along the ceiling, dripping into rusted bowls. Somewhere far away, a door slammed, followed by a chorus of muffled footsteps.

  The boy lifted his head. I saw them through him - the others.

  Rows upon rows of children, most dressed in white gowns too large for them. The younger ones laughed, teasing each other with weak smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. The older ones… didn’t laugh at all. They sat silent, heads bowed, faces drawn and grey. Some muttered to themselves, rocking slightly in their seats.

  And moving between the tables were figures that didn’t seem entirely real.

  Nameless Ones.

  Their bodies cloaked in thick black robes, rifles slung over their shoulders. Where their faces should have been was only distortion - like glass submerged in water, reality bending around a center that didn’t exist. The air warped when they passed, and the children never looked directly at them.

  The boy’s gaze flicked toward a nearby table where a small group had gathered, huddled around someone. Curious, he stood and walked closer, wooden cup in hand.

  The chatter grew louder as he neared.

  A cluster of boys his age sat around another - maybe two or three years older. Black hair. Dark brown eyes. That kind smile that looked out of place in this kind of world. He was answering questions, laughing quietly between them.

  One of the boys beside the host - Ruben, I heard someone whisper - noticed the kid whose eyes I wore.

  “You see the new one?” he asked. “Came in today. He’s older than the rest. Eleven, maybe.”

  The boy lightly frowned. “That’s weird. Don't we usually come in younger than that?”

  “Yeah,” Ruben said, leaning close. “Usually eight or nine. Weird, right?"

  The older boy was speaking softly, patient, answering every question the little ones threw at him. Where he came from. How he got here. What the outside looked like. His voice was calm, steady - and even through the fog of memory, I knew it.

  It was my voice.

  Me.

  But... different. Not in speech, but in personality. Something I couldn't describe.

  The child-me smiled faintly, listening to something one of the kids said. The boy whose eyes I wore - whoever he’d been - whispered under his breath to Ruben,

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  “He looks… different. Like he’s not supposed to be here.”

  Ruben shrugged. “Maybe he’s some noble’s son. He’s got that way about him.”

  He paused, then added, “Though his accent sounds Eastern. My dad used to trade with them before…”

  His words trailed off, heavy with things he didn’t want to remember.

  The boy didn’t answer. He just stared at the smiling newcomer.

  Suddenly, a light bang was heard behind them. The boy I was residing in looked back, and saw an older boy - maybe twelve, standing up abruptly, his hands shaking.

  The boys eyes blinked.

  And suddenly, I was somewhere else.

  Now I stood - or rather, he stood - further down the room. The older boy who was just being stared at. His hands shook as he scratched at his arm until it bled. He kept whispering the same thing over and over under his breath.

  “I can't hear you… I can't hear you…”

  A soft voice interrupted him.

  “Are you gonna eat that?”

  He turned. A little girl stood beside him. Auburn hair. No older than ten. Her eyes were too tired for someone that young, her voice small but polite.

  She pointed at the stale black bread on his tray.

  He blinked, forcing a smile. “Go ahead, Amy.”

  She smiled back - a real one this time, brief and bright. “Thank you.”

  She took the bread and walked away, munching happily despite the hardness. I felt his chest tighten as he watched her - like she was the only flicker of light left in this place.

  He blinked.

  And the world shifted again.

  Now I was her.

  Amy.

  My hands were small, rough from cold. The air was colder still - every breath visible in pale white mist. The bread crumbled between my teeth, tasting like ash.

  The cafeteria echoed behind me, full of laughter and whispers. I looked up and saw the new boy surrounded by the others, still smiling that same kind smile.

  Someone asked where he’d sleep. The Nameless Ones never answered questions like that, so the kids decided for themselves. Eventually, someone pointed toward me.

  “She’s alone,” they said. “Amy doesn’t have anyone.”

  All eyes turned to her - to me.

  The boy’s gaze met mine.

  He smiled, uncertain but warm.

  I smiled back, curious and friendly. “Hello.”

  “Hello,” he said softly.

  The memory flickered. Time slipped.

  Now we were walking down a long, cold corridor - the kind that swallowed sound. The walls were grey stone, wet with condensation, the lights flickering every few steps. Amy’s footsteps echoed beside Damian’s smaller ones.

  She talked the whole way. About how the guards never spoke. How the pipes hummed like voices in the dark. How sometimes, when the lights went out, she could hear the older kids crying through the vents.

  Damian just listened. Every now and then he’d answer with a polite word, a nod, a faint smile.

  When they reached the cell, it was just as she’d said - two beds, two bowls, and nothing else. No windows. Just a single flickering bulb overhead.

  “You can take that one,” she said, pointing to the bed on the left. “I use the right.”

  “Thank you,” he said softly, setting down the small wooden cup he still carried.

  She smiled again, proud of her small kindness. “You’re welcome, Damy.”

  The sound of that name hit me like a knife behind the eyes. It echoed. Distant voices whispered it - dozens, hundreds. I pressed my palms to my temples.

  The vision trembled.

  Darkness. Then light.

  The beds. The same cell, but older now.

  Night.

  Amy was awake, curled in the corner of her bed, knees against her chest. Her eyes were red from crying. Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Metal doors creaked open, one after another, the sound moving closer each time.

  Damian stirred, rising from his bed. “Amy?”

  She flinched. “They’re coming again,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “They take the older kids. They say it’s for the trials. But they don’t come back the same. Some don’t come back at all.”

  Her voice cracked, trembling. “It starts when you turn ten. I’m old enough now. It’s my turn.”

  Damian pushed himself upright, watching her. Then he smiled - that same small, calm smile.

  “It’s alright,” he said softly. “Don’t worry.”

  Her head lifted, hopeful but afraid. “What do you mean?”

  “Would you feel better if I went instead?”

  Amy froze. “No… you can’t. You don’t know what they'll do to you.”

  He chuckled faintly, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I’ve gone before - in another place just like this. It’s not that bad. They just give me a quick needle and let me go.”

  “You promise?” she whispered.

  He nodded once. “Promise.”

  Her lip trembled, then she smiled through the tears. “Thank you, Damy.”

  He stood as the door opened.

  The Nameless One filled the doorway - a shape of robes and distortion, its face an unending blur. The air around it bent and hummed like a broken tune. Amy didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

  Damian walked with the Nameless Ones, smiling without looking back.

  “Goodnight, Amy.”

  And he walked toward the thing that waited.

  The door closed behind him.