Novel & Cerita Fragments Of The Past

* I lie there for a long time afterward, letting the fragment settle into my body instead of just my memory, feeling the specific weight of it in my chest. This isn't like the others. Fragment one was warmth, sensation, easy to hold at arm's length as feeling rather than fact. Fragment two was words exchanged, an acknowledgment between us that something complicated was happening. Fragment three was movement, my own choice to close a distance, still abstract enough to intellectualize.

"Are you alright?" I blinked back at him, the memory fragment fading as quickly as it appeared. "I…I think I saw something," I whispered, a sliver of hope flickering within me. Dr. Evans' eyes lit up. "Tell me everything," she urged, leaning forward in her chair. I recounted the fragmented memory, the frustration building with each missing detail. "It's not much," I admitted, feeling dejected. "It's a start," Dr. Evans countered gently. "These fragmented memories could be breadcrumbs leading you back to your past."

Ivy I used to think the past was like an old photo album—something you could close, tuck away on a shelf, and only pull out when you felt nostalgic or brave enough to revisit. But I was wrong. The past doesn’t stay in albums. It lives in your bones. It shows up when you least expect it. In quiet moments. In loud ones. In love. In fear. In the cracks between who you were and who you’re trying so desperately to become.

Stooping down, I tried to gather the scattered pieces of memory I had managed to capture. My hands trembled as I picked up the fractured remains-the ID card, the wig, and worst of all, the broken fragments of my camera. Each piece cut like glass in my palms, sharp reminders of everything that had just unfolded.

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. :) Thank you in

She could feel the fragments, small and frightened, hiding in the shadows. "I'm not going to hurt you," she said softly. "I'm here to help." One of the fragments stirred, its voice faint and trembling. "You're real?" "I'm real. I'm here. And I'm not going to leave you alone." The fragment seemed to waver, uncertain. "We've been alone for so long." "I know. But you don't have to be anymore. You can come with me. You can find peace." Slowly, hesitantly, the fragments began to emerge from the shadows. They were small, insubstantial, but they were there. Clara gathered them one by one, holding them in her hands, showing them the light.

“We don’t know enough about these things. The records are incomplete. No one fully understands how they form. But what we do know isn’t good.” Another slam hit the door. I flinched, and the line curved the wrong way. I wiped it away quickly and redrew it before the pattern could break. “They carry the worst of the past,” Eira said, her words quickening. “These aren’t memories. They’re fragments soaked in anger, grief, fear. They act without thinking and they can’t be killed.” “Can’t be killed?” My voice cracked. “They fade only when the history tied to them collapses. And that…” She didn’t finish.

I stretched as I got out of bed. I checked the time it was already eleven, which was unusual for me. I never slept in, not even on the weekends. I made my way to my dresser leisurely. My eye went to the broken frame which Nichole had shattered a few days ago. Sara and I had stayed up late trying to glue the pieces back together but it didn't really make much of a difference, it was ruined. My heart clenched painfully. The photo-frame had been the last gift my mother had given.

I’ll tell the Counsel that she is barren and that should make them leave her alone. “Why do you even love me? I’m just some freak who paints stupid pictures, has temper tantrums and weird dreams. Why do you care? I have an ugly past and I that is never gonna change. I’m sure you could have any of a dozen women to choose from. Why me?” Tears were again streaming down her face. Her hands clenched at her side.

My heart ached with a yearning to understand, to bridge the gap between the forgotten fragments of my past and the present reality that threatened to unravel before me. Confusion gnawed at the edges of my consciousness, a relentless companion that whispered doubt into the recesses of my mind. Was this room truly the key to reclaiming my pack? Or was it merely a cruel illusion, a tantalizing mirage that offered false hope in the face of my desperation?