Shattered Memories: Cheryl Link

“Someone who tried to help. Once.” He stood, and she saw that one of his hands was made of rusted metal, gears turning where knuckles should have been. “You’re not supposed to be here, Cheryl. You were supposed to forget everything. The cult. The god. The fire. Harry gave his life to make sure you forgot.”

And she plunged the shard into her own heart. The church shattered. Dahlia screamed. The ash statues crumbled. And Cheryl fell into darkness, warm and quiet, like being held. shattered memories cheryl

Cheryl’s blood ran cold. She followed the sound through a playground she didn’t recognize, past swings that swayed without wind, past a merry-go-round whose painted horses had cracked, weeping faces. The laughter led her to a school. Midwich Elementary. The sign hung crooked, its letters half-eaten by rust. “Someone who tried to help

Her boots crunched on broken glass as she walked. The town seemed to shift with her, buildings leaning in to watch. She clutched a crumpled photograph in her jacket pocket—a family portrait that felt more like a lie. In it, she was seven, grinning, held tight between a mother and father whose faces were smudged into oblivion, worn away by rain or time or something worse. You were supposed to forget everything

“You left me here,” the reflection said. “You forgot on purpose.”