Bleach: Memories Of Nobody Novels & Stories

My vision flickered and spots of black clouded my sight, but I did not know why. It could not be grief, could it? That would be too humiliating. 'Lana Branch, you really misjudged him, didn't you?'

"What do you want to know, Bloom?" I shrugged lightly. "Favourite colour—and movie?" Zac's eyes squinted as he chuckled. He hummed for a moment. "Blue and Pulp Fiction." I nodded slowly. "Why blue?" His head cocked to the side as he looked out ahead at the world sprawled out in front of us. "It reminds me of the ocean." I bit on my bottom lip to stop my smile from stretching miles. I would have never seen it coming—Zac Miller being soft and sentimental. It was endearing.

Thalia murmured softly, stepping into the room. Chloe’s eyelids fluttered open, her brown eyes cloudy and unfocused. She blinked once, twice, as if convinced the tall silhouette standing in her doorway was a hallucination brought on by the fever. "Thalia?" her voice was a rough, barely audible rasp. "What... what are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?"

Antoine watched Camille, his eyes filled with concern and curiosity. Camille’s emotions surged, and tears began to roll down her cheeks, salty and bittersweet. How long had it been since she last remembered the scent of her mother’s lily of the valley? How long had it been since she felt the vibrant essence of fragrance, the subtle bond between scent and memory? 'Muse' didn’t just analyze the scent—it awakened a corner of her mind she thought lost forever. It allowed her to 'see' images again, to 'hear' sounds, and to feel the delicate stirrings of emotions she believed had disappeared for good.

No one listens. Of course they don’t. They never did. “Memory fragments detected.” “Purge incomplete.” “Force overwrite.” Pain hits. Instant. Explosive. My head jerks back. A scream tears out of me before I can stop it. Everything fractures. Images— faces— blood— voices— Leon. His name hits harder than anything else. Sharp. Clear. Mine. You’re not leaving again. The memory slams into place. Solid. Unbreakable. “No.”

“Then let me carry it with you.” The moment my fingers brushed his skin, the bond surged light. It rippled through both of us, hot and wild. The mark on my arm flared gold, his silver. For an instant, the world tilted and I saw through him. A flash of claws. The battlefield under moonlight. The scream of a dying wolf. Then gone. I staggered back, breathless. “What was that?” “Memory bleed,” he said, steadying me. “The bond’s merging too fast.”

The sound was like a nail being driven into the center of my forehead. Task Thirty-Three: The Substitute Teacher. The memories are being stored in the ‘Void-Chalk.’ To save the children, you must draw a memory more powerful than the ones they’ve lost. But be warned: a memory given to the slate is a memory lost to the giver. What will you forget to save the village?

The only thing left on the bed was the silver cashmere shawl, lying there all alone. My hand trembled as I picked it up. Her scent still clung to the fabric. A document lay on the table. Mate Bond Severance Agreement It bore the scorched mark of the sacred moon flame and the imprint of Elara's blood. The ritual was complete. "No... impossible..." I sank onto the edge of the bed. Then it hit me. A violent, soul-shattering agony ripped through my chest. "Ah!" I doubled over, clutching my chest. It felt like my very soul was being carved out with a rusted, dull knife.

The black river rippled. Several bells chimed softly. Mason noticed. So did Claire. “Joy,” she whispered. The woman looked at her. “Memory.” Claire stepped forward cautiously. “Seraphine said real memory hurts the Echoes.” “Because Echoes are stolen memory.” The woman touched the black water. “I am not.” Mason looked at her. “Then what are you?” Her gaze moved toward Bramble. “What your people call the Hollow.” Bramble squeezed Mason’s fingers.

For a moment, I was back there in a life I didn’t want to remember, surrounded by faces I’d long tried to forget. I tore my gaze away, heart pounding a little faster. I couldn’t let it show. Not even a hint of that past could resurface. Not here. Not now. I squared my shoulders and nodded at my reflection. “Time to bleach you out of existence.” The smell of bleach filled the tiny bathroom, making my nose wrinkle in disgust. I felt like I was withering away. It was pungent, seeping into every corner, mixing with the dampness of old tiles and mildew. I worked quickly, fingers gloved and precise, painting over every traitorous strand until I was satisfied. I watched as the brown vanished, repla