Novel & Cerita Fragments Of The Past

The broken windows glinted like shards of forgotten sorrow, and the crumbling stone seemed to whisper of tragedies buried in its foundation. Tomoya’s steps faltered as the memories surged, unbidden and relentless. He could almost hear the laughter of maids he used to play with echoing through the halls, mingling with cries of anguish that no one dared to address. The scent of old wood and damp earth clawed at his senses, pulling him into a past he had long tried to bury. The weight of those memories pressed against his chest until he shook his head, forcing himself back into the present. He couldn't afford to lose focus.

When she resumes her life, she begins to question why she was so unhappy in her marriage. Will her feelings change while she couldn't remember the past? Or do the secrets run deeper than she ever realized? ====================== Dear Readers, Good day! This is La Tigresa and I would like to thank you all for stopping by. This story is written in English. If you're a Filipino and wants to read the Tagalog version of the story, please search for Fragments of Memories 1: Married at Seventeen. The whole series talks about and focuses on self-love, self-worth and self-forgiveness that I hope you'd all be able to relate to and learn from it. Please also check out my other stories. :)

Then, with a soft exhale, Marcellus reached into his coat and drew out two more fragments. They were precious—hard-won and fiercely guarded. The surface of each piece pulsed with faint veins of light, as if alive, as if something within was stirring. He crouched down and laid them beside Edgar’s. The air quivered. “…What’s happening?” Alia whispered. The four fragments began to tremble, drawn by some unseen force. Slowly, they lifted from the ground and drifted toward each other—until, with a soft click, they locked together.

"Molly, that bracelet looks awfully familiar. Oh, right. I saw one just like it in Jerry's office trash." I ignored Jerry tugging at my sleeve and kept my tone steady. "It's an old design. You can have it if you want." Monica waved a hand dismissively. "No, thanks. I'm not big on dumpster treasures." I walked out of the villa and tossed the bracelet I'd worn for five years into the trash. By the time I got home, Mom was calling. "Did you get your travel pass to return home yet?" "They said it'll be ready in days."

It was a tapestry of love, betrayal, and sacrifice, intricately woven into the fabric of our lives. Together, we traced the footsteps of our ancestors, following their trail across continents and through time. We traveled to distant lands, where ancient ruins whispered their stories to us. We stood at the precipice of crumbling castles, where the echoes of past lives seemed to reverberate through the air. And in each discovery, we found fragments of ourselves. But as we unraveled the past, we encountered resistance. Those who wished to keep the secrets buried resurfaced, their motives veiled in darkness. Our journey became a battle, not only for the truth but for our very survival.

I had attempted to glue it back together, but my efforts had been in vain, and the figurine appeared crooked and irreparably damaged. I hesitated for a moment, debating whether to toss it out and be done with it. But as I held the broken figurine in my hands, I couldn't bring myself to part with it. It was a symbol of a past that I couldn't forget, a past that was filled with both joy and pain. I cradled the figurine gently in my hands, tracing the delicate curves and contours with my fingers. It was a tangible reminder of the emotions that had once bound Timothy and me together before tearing us apart.

A web made of: Forgotten pasts. Unspoken futures. Half-lived lives. Abandoned timelines. Dreams cut from unmade cloth. She dangled in its center like a trapped star. But she was not still. No—she rotated through the strands as if the world were selecting which version of her it wanted to keep. Fragments drifted around her: Her childhood laugh. Her first spell. Her father’s hand guiding her through the Ashwood. Her last argument with Kael. Draven placing her dagger back in her palm after their first battle together.

“It’s just finding new ways to dig in.” But the voice pressed on, calm and deliberate. “They called us Archive. They called us memory. But you know the truth. What wakes is not record, but remainder.” Emma’s chest tightened. She remembered the servers, the words etched into the console: Fragments are returning. “You’re one of those fragments,” she whispered. The voice hummed, amused. “Closer. I am what remains when memory learns to dream.” Nolan muttered a curse under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “That doesn’t make sense. Code doesn’t dream. Data doesn’t—”

That made the claim plausible and maddening in equal measure. I did not want to show the cracks in my armor. I did not want my jaw to unclench and reveal that even I could be surprised. I could still see flashes, caught in the peripheral of memory. A little girl in a dress too big for her playing by a fountain, a man standing at the hedge with hands in his pockets, and the faint laugh that had once reached me in passing. But memory is traitorous. It gives you fragments and asks you to build an entire truth from them. I was not satisfied with fragments.

But he looked like he would camp there forever if I didn't, so not wanting to be embarrassed by his actions, I gave in. "Ivy, look. I put the glass figurine that I broke back together. It was my fault back then for losing my temper. I'm sorry, Ivy. I swear I'll keep my distance from Jessica from now on, okay?" He handed the glass figurine to me. Though he had tried his best to piece it back together, the web of cracks was still clearly visible. Just like my relationship with Rodney, the cracks were already there. Once something was broken—even if it were put back together—it would never be the same.