The Cliff That Time Forgot Novels & Stories

Clifford watched wide-eyed as I stomped on it. "I wanted that so badly! Why did you do that?!" "Tell me why you would directly remind me of such a thing?" It started to look suspicious to me as Mr. Clifford chuckled deeply. He dropped the cain he was holding, and closed the distance between us, holding my gaze while straightening up. "Do you think you can beat me all because I gave you just a little gift? That glimpse of your memory that you so wanted?" Frozen in place, my bulging eyes watched that familiar thing in horror. That raw distorted voice couldn't be more clearer.

he said “You should rest, I’ll get going.” “Okay fine, go away.” I tried to laugh “But when the time you leave me, Forget me, forget that you have me, forget that you have a sister who always cares for you. I will not bother you anymore.” I chuckled “You’re free.”

What she heard next would forever change how she looked at love. "I am thankful for the time that we have had. The love that we have shared has been beyond anything that I could ever have imagined. Who knew that loving a dragon would be so wonderful. I wish that I could have thanked the Clutch elders for taking in Time and teaching....." Mira watched as the light was extinguished in her eyes as she drew her final breath. This caused the man/beast to roar in great agony. The sound so loud that it caused the Keep to collapse on top of them.

It wasn't a sudden shock; it was like stepping out of a freezing storm into a perfectly heated room. I exhaled a breath I felt like I had been holding since we left Aethelgard. "The western cliffs," Torin said, stepping up beside me, pointing a thick, callused finger toward the horizon. Rising from the blue water were the towering, jagged limestone cliffs where the human armada had been shattered ten years ago. The cliffs where I had first learned what it meant to hold the weight of the dark. As we approached the deep-water inlet, I saw them.

Maps of overlapping ley lines between WildWood, Marellen, and a third location neither of them had recognized: Iron Hollow. A town that had vanished from records in 1894. Clara stared at the map. “If this third seed truly escaped,” she murmured, “it didn’t flee. It returned.” “To where it began,” Ashani whispered. Clara ran a finger over the glyphs. “It’s building a body.” ⸻ One week later, a stranger came to the lighthouse. He was pale, soaked in rain, clutching a notebook covered in moss and pressed sea fern. His eyes were sunken, and when he spoke, his voice carried a tone Clara had only heard once before—during the collapse at the trench.

Just a narrow fissure down its center, like a wound or an invitation. “This is it,” Lena said. “The Archive That Forgets.” Jessica let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “It’s smaller than I thought.” “It only needs to hold what no one else wants,” Eleni replied. “Most forgetting doesn’t take space. Just silence.”

My husband Charles always had selective amnesia. Anything that had to do with me, he would forget, then promise he'd make it up next time. On my thirtieth birthday, I prepared an elaborate dinner at home and waited for him and our family to come celebrate. But the hour came and went, and no one showed up. Burning with a high fever, I went out to look for Charles and called everyone else. Isabella's voice was warm with laughter. "Charles is here with me picking out your birthday present. We'll be back soon." My best friend said, "Traffic is awful. I ran into Charles on the way, so we're heading over together." Even my own brother told me, "I ran into an old friend with Charles on the road and

The rotting cabin trembled at the sound of my voice but all the man did was heave a sigh of disappointment. The old man’s gray eyes glinted with a knowing calm, unfazed by my outburst. The cabin’s rotting wood creaked around us, the hearth’s faint crackles barely cutting through the tension. I leaned forward, my fists still clenched on the wobbly table, fury boiling in my chest. “You’re wasting my time,” I snarled. “I need the Crescent Pack’s location, not riddles.” The old man leaned back, his cane tapping the floor.

The accident—the scream of tires, the sickening lurch, the rain on her face. All of it, pulled away, dissolved into light. Clara gasped. The anchor screamed, but she did not let go of Morwen's memories. She held them steady while her own past was stripped from her. She forgot her mother's name. She forgot the color of her father's eyes. She forgot the street where she had lived, the job she had held, the friends she had loved. The memories crumbled like dry leaves, and the mechanism fed on them, and Morwen's grey began to recede.

The grandfather clock in the grand hallway of the Silvercrest packhouse struck midnight, its heavy, rhythmic ticks echoing like a countdown through the silent room. Evelyn Vance sat perfectly still on the edge of the leather armchair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The silver band on her left ring finger felt exceptionally heavy tonight, cold against her skin. Three years. For exactly one thousand and ninety-five days, she had worn that ring, and for those exact same days, she had been a ghost in her own home.