A Far-off Memory Is Like A Scattered Dream Novels & Stories

My head was splitting. Cracked open, exposed like a nerve as I desperately wracked my damaged memory for something familiar, for something that made sense. It felt like I was scanning old photographs, some blurry and unfocused while others were crisp. Some had a strange film over them, too shiny--to accurate.

They buzzed around her, promising to double their kindness to make her future bright. My heart ached as I listened. The brothers once made those same promises to me. I knew they still cared about me, but they had chosen someone else over me time and time again. I wondered how they would react if I lost my memory after the surgery. … When I stepped out of my room later, the big villa was quiet. I felt a wave of relief once I realized I was alone. I felt so much more comfortable with everyone gone. I took my time packing up my things and moving them back to the villa my grandparents had left me.

He grits out, anger seeping through his voice. " I don't - I can't - ," I stumble through my words, my breathing becoming shaky all of a sudden. I can feel panic threaten to take over. "Those dreams where you are drowning, those are your memories. Those random mind flashes, it's not some weird stuff happening, but your mind trying to piece back hidden information." "Then why can't I remember all of this hmm?" No answer. " Why can't I simply remember?!" He doesn't have an answer for me.

Evelina who woke up from her dream, she wondered in her heart. "Another dream? But if it's said to be a dream... somehow, this all feels real to me," Evelina said. "Who's that guy? I can't see it clearly," she continued. Then, Evelina wakes up and sits on her bed. She sat down and reflected while thinking about the dream. Evelina could not see the man clearly who was in her dream, at the time of seeing her in the dream the man's face looked blurry or could not be seen.

Everyone seemed to believe in me, even when I couldn’t believe in myself. I couldn’t get the image of Elara out of my mind. She’d appeared in my dreams again, as she had for the past few nights. I couldn’t explain it, but it felt different each time. Her face was so vivid, so real, but there was something distant about her, as if she were a ghost or a memory I couldn’t fully grasp. She always spoke to me, but her words were fragmented, as if she were trying to say something, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I didn’t know why I kept dreaming of her, but it left me with an unsettled feeling that I couldn’t shake.

That dark memory lingered like a shadow over my waking mind, a reminder of how far I’d felt from hope. And yet, as I sat there, trembling, I knew that the dream wasn’t real. It was a nightmare I’d conjured from my fears, my doubts. But the feelings—the betrayal, the hurt—those were real, buried deep inside me. They echoed in my mind even now, quietly, painfully. I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing, trying to push the images away. I took a deep breath, trying to cling to what parts of that dream might still have meaning. But it was slipping through my fingers, dissolving like mist. All I was left with was a faint ache—a longing for something better, something differen

Chapter Eighty-Three: Memories of The Past and Present Merging Into One Adam Bishop It was such a strange dream. The place was unfamiliar, the clothes, houses, everything looked weird and foreign to me. I knew it was a dream but somehow, it felt like I was connected to it. Like... a memory instead of a dream.

The weight of sadness settled upon me like a heavy fog, obscuring the colors of the world around me. I could feel the weight of my memories, or lack thereof, pressing upon me with each passing day. The fragments of my past danced just beyond my reach, teasing me with their elusiveness. There were moments when I felt as if I could almost recall them, the tendrils of familiarity attempting to anchor themselves in my mind, only to slip away like water through clenched fingers. It was a tormenting cycle, leaving me perpetually on the precipice of understanding, yet forever denied the truth.

“What?” “The pull. The fragments. The way the world feels different when certain memories try to surface.” I hesitated, then nodded. “Sometimes I dream things that feel real. A place burning. Someone calling my name.” “That is not a dream,” she replied quietly. “It’s a memory breaking through.” The room seemed to tilt. I gripped the edge of the table. “What memory?” “Not yet,” she said. “You are still fragile.” “I’m not fragile,” I snapped.