It started the day I found the note.

It was unmistakably in my own handwriting, though not a flicker of recollection lit to life in my mind as I lifted it from the pages it had been used to mark. It was simple, short, sloppy even, very uncharacteristic of me; it read:

Nox is real.

You must save him.

Staring at the wrinkled sheet in my hands, I flipped it over but was met with a blank.

Nox?

I knew the name, but he was simply a story my father used to tell. Setting the sheet down on my desk, my attention returned to the book in hand; though it was difficult to keep my mind from wandering. Nox... wasn't he a witch who had cursed a tree or something?

I couldn't remember.

A beat passed by, holding me hostage in the moment.

Lobotomizing, those words tuned to acid in my skull.

My book hit the floor.

I couldn’t remember?

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