Oliver was not the type of being to waste time on small talk, so what could he possibly gain from my answer?

  “You expect me, of all people, to remember the specifics about a homework assignment from half a decade ago?” I turned away with a toss of my head, bracing myself for a deeper argument. “Maybe if you hadn’t erased my memory, I’d be able to oblige.”

  “I did nothing of the sort. Furthermore, your journal indicates that only a portion of your long-term memory is in disarray, given the thorough elaboration and subsequent recall you provided on other past events.”

  “If you didn’t make me forget about Speranza… then who did?”

  Oliver leaned in from the side, as if he were my co-conspirator. “I have a few theories. Do you wish to hear them?”

  I turned my head back over my shoulder. “Well... Yes, I suppose I should hear you out.”

  “Then answer my question first.” He dropped down on a swath of grassy ground in a single, smooth motion, crossing his legs as he did so.

  “Ugh, fine!” I plopped down across from him. “But you’re going to be disappointed, you know.”

  “Your response remains conspicuously absent.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so gung-ho about this topic, but whatever. If I recall correctly, I first rambled a bit about wanting to do good, you know—normal stuff.”

  Oliver held out his hands. “Do good for yourself, or others?”

  “Others, of course. No one says, ‘I want to be good to myself’ in an essay. That sounds selfish.”

  “But weren’t you the topic of the assignment?”

  “Yes, but this was about what I was going to do as an adult, in society. Shouldn’t I say I want to make the world a better place?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Did you use those exact words?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s a common enough phrase that—”

  “You should have been more specific.”

  How dare he critique my writing!

  “Well, it’s not like I had a concrete plan on how to execute such a—”

  “Not about doing good,” he said, shaking his head. “About which world.”

  “Which… world?” I stared for a few moments, confused. “That’s a terrible joke, you know.”

  “I’m not joking. I’m merely considering possibilities. But continue. What else did you say in your essay?”

  “Well, just what you told me. You said I should write what they wanted to hear, so I wrote that I wanted to be a guidance counselor.”

  “A… Guidance counselor?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. You know, someone who helps people figure out what they want to do with their lives. Not by telling them what to be or anything, just… helping them sort through some noise. Choices, pressure, expectations... It’s a lot. The good ones listen, ask the right questions, maybe give you a nudge when you’re being dumb, but they still let you choose in the end.”

  He was quiet for a beat too long.

  “What?” I asked, suddenly wary. “I told you the answer was lame!”

  Oliver tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Yet isn’t that what you’ve been doing this whole time here?”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “No, of course not. I didn’t even go to school for it, and, like I said, the good ones have a bunch of soft skills that—”

  “You meddled in their personal affairs until they deviated from their assigned Purpose.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “In my defense, most of them started it by getting in my way—”

  “I wasn’t blaming you for doing so. I relish the idea that free will can beat determinism both here and abroad. However, I also question what would have happened had you written about something entirely different.”

  “This is such a weird conversation. You’re just projecting meaning onto a total coincidence. I only picked a guidance counselor because the person reviewing it was one!”

  “Perhaps.” He stretched slowly, then lay back into the grass, staring unblinking up at the sky. “Or perhaps I should also pen such an essay for consideration by the absolute authority of fate itself.”

  Authority of fate?

  There is no way a stupid high school essay would be taken seriously by anyone in charge. Even my college enrollment didn’t require it.

  It had only been helpful to me as a sample of writing for... my application to CUP!

  Not... exactly... coincidence... now is it...

  I huffed, shaking the thought away.

  “Well… what would you put in your essay?”

  “My newest goal. I want to usher in a new era for Demonkind.” His voice was low and steady, with a cold, steely undertone. “One where our lands remain sovereign. Where our existence is respected, not merely feared.” He sat up, fixing his close-eyed gaze on something in the distance behind me. “As its herald, I want to stand before whatever rules above the Goddess herself and argue the necessity of our collective being. I want to force the highest order of the divine to admit their errors in judgment, laying bare their imperfection for all of creation to see.”

  “That’s... pretty intense.”

  “You don’t change a world like this with good intentions and gentle reforms. You change it with will. I will not settle for mercy or pity. I want justice.” Then he shrugged. “It’s nothing personal, you understand.”

  “Right…”

  We sat in silence for several minutes, an unspoken agreement requiring it before we could move on to a different topic. Oliver eventually let out a soft sigh, running both hands through his hair as if to shake off the tension. “Now, as promised, three theories for your consideration. First. You intentionally buried your most traumatic memories to better hide in the next world.”

  Can’t we blame someone else? It’s a lot easier when you do.

  “And just how would I do that?”

  “I said it was a theory. I have no way to prove it.”

  “Next one,” I grunted, not wanting to accept it as canon.

  “Dissociative fugue.”

  And here I thought he'd be naming scapegoats.

  “You know, context clues go a looong way.”

  “D... D... Ah. Dissociative,” he began as if reading from a text unseen, “refers to a disruption or disconnection between thoughts, identity, consciousness, and memory. It’s the mind’s way of shielding itself from something it cannot bear to confront directly.”

  “And the fugue part? Isn't that some type of musical composition?”

  “A fugue state is a specific manifestation of that dissociation, typically heralded by sudden travel or wandering. A person might appear completely functional, even calm, but have no recollection of who they are or how they got there. In extreme cases, they may adopt a new persona entirely.”

  “Sudden travel or wandering associated with trauma and memory loss… with the possible adoption of a new persona? That describes almost every isekai hero who falls victim to an amnesia trope!”

  “You commit the same crime you accuse me of,” he noted, his brow furrowing.

  “Uh, Isekai are fantasy stories with main characters who go to a new world. And an amnesia trope is a common plot device to—”

  “Acquitted on this most recent count,” he finished. “I believe this second theory is the most plausible of the three, but only in combination with the one forthcoming. I should note also comes with the hope that your memories may return over time, especially if you work to alleviate the underlying causes of the fugue and adopt healthy coping mechanisms, such as not pretending to be something you’re not.”

  I flinched.

  He waved his hand as if to dismiss my apparent guilt. “I’m speaking of generalities, of course. Regardless of your affliction, you’re already well on your way to such an outcome, are you not?”

  “Things are coming back in bits and pieces,” I admitted. “I don’t necessarily like to focus on them.”

  “I don’t blame you. I believe that it’s better to look to the future than dwell on the past.”

  “Keeping an eye on the present is important, too. Like making sure we don’t spend too much time lazing about when there’s work to be done. So hit me with the last theory.”

  He cleared his throat. “Ahh… I’ve also considered that your memories may have been inadvertently damaged when I sent you to the next world. I would have tested that theory on someone more deserving of the same outcome, if only I had the means to do so.”

  “If you had… You mean, you can’t send me, or anyone else, back?”

  “I did try, I assure you. However…”

  Dread settled into my shoulders. “However?”

  “Ah, that is to say... I wasn't able to replicate the process with the tool originally used.”

  What tool is he tiptoeing around?

  I jumped up.

  “You’re the reason NAUGHT’s not working right!”

  “No, Miss Rachel, you are.”

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