You don’t remember the exact moment Cynthia entered your room. One moment you were alone with the soft hum of your computer and the faint glow of the monitor painting the blue walls in shifting light; the next, she was sitting across from you on the carpet as though she had always been there. Her presence didn’t disturb the room so much as change its gravity. The air felt thicker, quieter, as if the world outside—cars passing, porch lights flickering on, the distant silhouette of buildings—had been gently pushed away to make space for her.

  She sat with her legs folded neatly beneath her, wings tucked close so they wouldn’t brush the wall. Even like this, relaxed and compact, she took up more space than any human could. Not by much, but enough that you felt it. Her tail curled loosely around her side, the tip resting against the carpet like a heavy rope. Her lavender eyes reflected the computer screen with a depth that made the room feel smaller, as though you were sharing the space with something older than the house, older than the city, older than anything you could name.

  For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Cynthia’s breathing was slow and steady, a soft rise and fall beneath the yellow fur of her chest. Her scales caught the lamplight in muted greens and golds, each one shaped with a precision that felt almost deliberate, as if crafted rather than grown. She looked comfortable here, but not entirely at home—like a traveler resting in a place that was never meant to hold her.

  You shifted slightly, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat sounded in your own ears. “Cynthia… can I ask you something?”

  She turned her head toward you, the motion smooth and unhurried. “Of course, Hun.”

  You hesitated, not because you feared her, but because you feared the weight of the answer. The question had been sitting in your mind for weeks, maybe months, growing heavier each time she spoke about the past with that serene, distant tone. Tonight, it finally pushed its way out.

  “What was the world like,” you asked, “one thousand eight hundred years ago… when you were born?”

  The room seemed to still. Cynthia didn’t move at first; she simply lowered her gaze, and in that small shift you saw something flicker across her expression—an echo of memory, too vast and too old to fit neatly into the present. Her wings tightened slightly, the membranes rustling against each other. Her tail curled a little closer to her legs. Not anger. Not sorrow. Just the quiet adjustment of someone preparing to open a door that had been closed for a very long time.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said, and her voice carried a softness that made the air feel warmer. “There were no cities. No roads. The earth was untouched, the mountains crowned with sunlight. Our homes were carved from wood and stone, and the world was quiet enough that you could hear the rivers breathe.”

  She spoke with a calm certainty, as though she were describing something she had seen only yesterday. “We were the Draken species. And unlike humans, we were destined to live forever on this planet. We were stronger in every facet. Friendlier. Rational. We lived in harmony with the world, and with each other. We were… what was intended to live on this Earth.”

  You glanced around your room—the cluttered desk, the soft carpet, the window showing a world built from concrete and ambition. It all felt suddenly fragile. Temporary. Human. Cynthia’s world sounded like something out of myth, a place untouched by the noise and restlessness that defined your own species.

  “But where did you come from?” you asked. “How did it all begin?”

  Cynthia’s frilled ears twitched, a gesture you’d learned meant she was reaching far back into memory. “Stories say many things,” she murmured. “That we were born of stardust. That we evolved. That we were crafted by gods. Or that we were the gods. But it began with twelve.”

  “Twelve Draken?” you asked.

  “Twelve ancestors,” she corrected. “Joy. Woe. Peace. Strife. Love. Hatred. Disgust. Lust. Diffidence. Life. Death.” Her tone didn’t invite questions.

  “And their traits passed down?” you asked.

  “Colors. Claws. Body types. Everything visible. Their character became ours. Their outline became our story.”

  “That sounds… predetermined.”

  “There was never a necessity for will within us,” she replied gently. “We simply did. We were perfect.”

  Her tail flicked once, a small involuntary motion. Her wings shifted again, just slightly. The room felt warmer, as though her memories carried heat with them.

  “When I was born, there were perhaps five hundred of us. Life was good.”

  You leaned forward. “But then what happened? Why aren’t there more of you now?”

  Cynthia’s posture changed. Her wings drew in closer. Her pupils narrowed. Her voice remained soft, but the air around her seemed to tighten.

  “Because another species rose to rival us,” she said. “You. Humanity.”

  She said it without accusation. Without resentment. Just truth.

  “As to where humans come from… that is also a mystery, is it not?”

  You opened your mouth, but she lifted a hand gently. “Oh, I’m not antagonizing you, Hun. I’m simply saying… you and I share more in common than you think.”

  You exhaled. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Her smile faded into something quieter, something older. “But that was exactly why I am the only one left of my kind.”

  Your breath caught. “What do you mean?”

  Cynthia straightened, her tail curling around her legs. Her wings folded tightly, not in fear, but in preparation. “I’ll show you,” she said.

  “Show me? How?”

  She extended her hands—palms up, claws curved gently, bracelets glinting in the lamplight. Her hands were warm, steady, impossibly ancient. You placed your hands in hers.

  The world dissolved.

  The world reforms slowly, as though reality itself is remembering how to take shape. Colors bleed into one another, then settle; the air thickens, warm and fragrant; the ground beneath your feet becomes soft earth instead of carpet. When the haze clears, you find yourself standing on a hill overlooking a landscape so untouched it feels sacred. The sky stretches endlessly above you, a deep blue unmarred by smoke or contrails. Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks catching the sunlight like polished stone. Forests ripple in slow waves as the wind moves through them, and rivers carve silver paths through the land.

  For a moment, you’re too stunned to speak. The air smells of pine and river water. The breeze brushes your skin. You can hear distant calls—voices, laughter, the rhythmic beat of wings. It feels real. Too real.

  Then the wrongness hits you.

  Your body is still in your room. Your hands are still in Cynthia’s. Your physical form hasn’t moved an inch.

  And yet you can feel everything.

  Your breath stutters. “Cynthia… what—what is this? How am I—”

  She stands beside you, unchanged, her lavender eyes reflecting the horizon. The breeze lifts the fur along her arms and stirs the gold bracelets on her wrists. She looks perfectly at ease in this impossible place, as though she has stepped back into her own skin.

  “This is a memory,” she says gently. “My memory.”

  Your stomach drops. “But I can feel everything. I can smell everything. I’m—Cynthia, I’m inside your mind?”

  Her frilled ears twitch, amused. “Not inside. More like… aligned. I am transmitting the memory directly to your brain. Your mind is projecting it outward, shaping it into something you can understand.”

  You stare at her, pulse hammering. “You can do that? You can just—just go into someone’s head?”

  “Of course,” she says, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Draken do not forget, Hun. Our memories are perfect. And we can share them when we choose.”

  You take a step back, instinctively, even though the ground beneath you isn’t real. “You could have done this at any time?”

  Her expression softens. “I would never do it without your permission.”

  The reassurance helps, but only a little. Your mind feels too open, too exposed, as if your thoughts are sitting on the surface of your skull like dew waiting to be brushed away.

  “This feels real,” you whisper.

  “It is real,” she replies softly. “Just not in the way you’re used to.”

  Below the hill, movement catches your eye—figures gathering near a cluster of wooden structures built into the base of a cliff. At first you think they’re people, but as you focus, you see the truth. They are Draken, but not like Cynthia. These are larger, more primal, their bodies shaped by the traits she described. One with scales the color of dawn. Another with wings patterned like storm clouds. A third with horns that curve like branches.

  They move with a grace that feels rehearsed by nature itself. Their voices carry on the wind—deep, resonant, melodic. Even their laughter seems to harmonize with the world around them.

  “We lived simply,” Cynthia says. “We lived well. We had no need for more than this.”

  You watch as a group of Draken gather around a fire pit, their movements synchronized without effort. One brings water from the river. Another arranges stones. A third begins carving wood with claws sharp enough to shape it like clay. There is no urgency, no tension. Only purpose.

  “What did you do all day?” you ask, unable to imagine a life without the constant noise and pressure of your own world.

  “We lived,” she replies. “We tended the land. We learned from one another. We shared stories. We watched the seasons change. We existed in harmony with everything around us.”

  Her voice carries a warmth that makes your chest ache. There is no nostalgia in it—just truth, spoken by someone who remembers every detail.

  A young Draken runs past you, her scales shimmering pink and gold. She leaps into the air, wings catching the wind, and for a moment she hovers, laughing, before gliding down to join the others. The sight is so effortless, so joyful, that you feel a pang of envy.

  “They were beautiful,” you whisper.

  “They were,” Cynthia agrees. “And they were content.”

  You turn to her. “And you? What were you like back then?”

  She smiles faintly. “Curious. Quiet. Always watching. I was born into a world that had no reason to fear anything. We were immortal, Hun. We did not age. We did not weaken. We did not die unless something from the outside forced us to.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  You look at the Draken again, at their strength, their unity, their peace. It feels impossible that anything could have threatened them.

  “Humans,” you say softly.

  Cynthia doesn’t answer at first. Her wings shift, the membranes tightening. Her tail curls closer to her legs. Her pupils narrow just slightly, catching the light like polished stone. Not anger. Not bitterness. Just the shadow of a memory too heavy to hold without effort.

  “We saw humans from afar,” she says. “Small figures moving through the forests. Fragile. Imperfect. But curious. Always curious.”

  The scene shifts subtly. The Draken village remains, but now you see distant shapes at the edge of the forest—humans, watching from behind trees, their faces half-hidden in shadow. They carry tools, not weapons. Their posture is cautious, not hostile.

  “They approached us with wonder,” Cynthia says. “And we welcomed them.”

  The humans step forward, slowly, hands raised in greeting. The Draken respond with warmth, lowering their heads, offering food, guiding them into the village. The two species stand together, speaking in gestures and smiles, bridging the gap between worlds.

  For a moment, it looks perfect. For a moment, you believe it could have worked.

  You don’t say it aloud — it’s just a quiet thought, a private observation that flickers through your mind as you watch a human child reach out to touch a Draken’s scales. The Draken lowers her head gently, letting the child trace the patterns with tiny fingers. The sight is so tender it almost hurts.

  It could have worked, you think. It really could have—

  “For a time, it did,” Cynthia says.

  You freeze.

  You didn’t speak. You know you didn’t speak.

  Your heart lurches in your chest, a cold jolt running through you as you turn toward her. “Cynthia… did you—did you just—”

  “Read your mind?” she finishes, her tone calm, almost amused. “Yes, Hun. You’re projecting very loudly right now.”

  Your mouth goes dry. “You can hear my thoughts?”

  “Only when you’re inside a memory with me,” she says gently. “Your mind is open here. It has to be, or you wouldn’t understand what you’re seeing.”

  You take a step back, instinctively, even though the ground beneath you isn’t real. “You could hear everything I think?”

  Her wings shift, a soft rustle of membrane and scale. “I could,” she admits, “but I don’t. I only listen when you direct something toward me. Or when your thoughts brush against the memory itself.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  She gives a small, apologetic smile. “I forget how strange this must be for you.”

  Strange is an understatement. Your thoughts feel exposed, too close to the surface, as if any stray emotion might slip out and she would catch it effortlessly. You try to steady your breathing, grounding yourself in the unreal grass beneath your feet.

  Cynthia turns her gaze back to the memory, her expression softening. “This was the beginning,” she says. “The first spark of coexistence. The first hope that two species so different could share the same world.”

  You swallow hard, still shaken, but the warmth of the scene pulls your attention back. Humans and Draken laugh together, share food, exchange stories in broken words and gestures. The firelight dances across scales and skin alike.

  It feels fragile. It feels precious.

  And then Cynthia’s wings tighten again, and the warmth fades.

  “It could not last.”

  The warmth of the firelit scene lingers for only a moment before the air begins to change. It’s subtle at first — a shift in the wind, a dimming of the colors, a heaviness settling over the valley like a storm cloud deciding where to break. The laughter of humans and Draken fades, replaced by a low hum you can’t quite place, a vibration beneath the surface of the memory.

  Cynthia’s wings tighten. Her tail draws closer to her legs. Her pupils narrow to thin slits, catching the dimming light like polished obsidian. She doesn’t speak yet, but the memory speaks for her.

  The sky darkens.

  The air thickens.

  And the world around you begins to warp.

  It starts with a single figure — a Draken sitting near the riverbank, her scales once bright as sunrise now dulled to a sickly gray. She moves sluggishly, as though her limbs are too heavy to lift. When she tries to stand, her legs tremble beneath her. A human approaches her with concern, reaching out a hand, but the Draken recoils as if the touch burns.

  “What’s happening to her?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

  Cynthia doesn’t answer immediately. She watches the scene with a stillness that feels carved from stone. When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet, almost fragile.

  “A sickness,” she says. “One we had never seen. One we were never meant to see.”

  The memory shifts again — faster this time, as though Cynthia is no longer guiding it gently but letting it unfold on its own. More Draken appear, each showing signs of the same affliction. Scales losing their color. Wings trembling. Eyes clouding with something that looks like pain and confusion intertwined.

  Humans suffer too. You see them coughing, collapsing, clutching their chests as if something inside them is unraveling. Their skin pales, their movements become erratic, their voices crack with fear.

  But the Draken suffer differently.

  More deeply.

  More visibly.

  Their bodies twist in ways that defy anatomy, as though something inside them is trying to rewrite what they are. A Draken’s wing spasms uncontrollably, bending at angles that make your stomach churn. Another’s claws curl inward, fusing together. A third collapses entirely, her body convulsing as her scales shift colors in rapid, unnatural pulses.

  You take a step back, instinctively. “Cynthia… what is this? What kind of disease does that?”

  She closes her eyes, just for a moment — the first time you’ve seen her do so. When she opens them again, the lavender glow seems dimmer.

  “It was not a disease of the body,” she says. “Not at first. It was a disease of the spirit. Of the soul. Something that should never have touched us.”

  You swallow hard. “But how? Why?”

  Cynthia’s gaze drifts toward the humans in the memory — the ones who are sick, the ones who are afraid, the ones who cling to each other as the world around them begins to fracture.

  “Humans,” she says softly, “are born imperfect. You call them sins. Flaws. Blemishes. They are part of your nature, woven into your being from the moment you draw breath.”

  Her wings shift, a soft rustle of membrane and scale.

  “We admired your will to do good despite those flaws. We admired your resilience. Your hope. But your imperfections… they are not harmless. They cling to you. They shape you. And when our species intertwined — when we lived together, breathed the same air, shared the same spaces — those imperfections touched us.”

  You stare at her, stunned. “You’re saying humans… infected you? With sin?”

  “Not intentionally,” she says. “Not maliciously. But yes. Your flaws became our sickness. Your mortality became our corruption.”

  The memory darkens further. The sky turns a bruised purple, the sun dimming behind a haze that feels unnatural. The village is no longer filled with laughter and shared meals. It is filled with coughing, with trembling, with the sound of bodies failing in ways they were never meant to.

  You see a Draken collapse beside a human, their forms twisting together in a grotesque fusion of scales and flesh. The sight hits you like a blow to the chest — not because it is gruesome, but because it is wrong. Fundamentally wrong. A violation of nature itself.

  Your stomach churns. “Cynthia… I can’t—”

  She places a hand on your shoulder, steady and warm. “I know, Hun. I know.”

  Her voice is calm, but her eyes betray something deeper — a grief so old it has worn itself smooth, like a stone shaped by centuries of waves.

  “We did not blame humans,” she says. “Not then. Not ever. We knew you could not help what you are. We knew you did not choose your imperfections.”

  You look at the chaos unfolding around you — Draken shielding their young, humans arguing in panic, the air thick with fear and confusion.

  “But humans…” Cynthia’s voice softens, becoming almost a whisper. “Humans did not see it the same way.”

  The memory shifts again.

  The world grows darker.

  And the first spark of fear ignites.

  Fear spreads faster than any sickness.

  You feel it before you see it — a tightening in the air, a tremor beneath the surface of the memory, as though the world itself is bracing for something it cannot name. The Draken village, once filled with warmth and harmony, now feels brittle. The colors are muted. The wind carries whispers instead of laughter. Even the sunlight seems hesitant, filtering through the clouds in thin, uncertain strands.

  Humans gather in clusters, their faces pale, their voices sharp with panic. They argue in frantic bursts, pointing toward the sick Draken, toward the forest, toward the sky. Their fear is loud, jagged, impossible to ignore. It bleeds into the memory like ink spreading through water.

  Draken respond differently. They move slowly, deliberately, their expressions calm even as their bodies betray them. A Draken mother shields her trembling child with her wings, murmuring soft reassurances. Another kneels beside a human who has collapsed, offering water despite the tremor in her own hands. Their compassion holds steady, even as the sickness twists their forms.

  But fear does not care for compassion.

  Fear looks for blame.

  Fear looks for an enemy.

  And humans, fragile and desperate, find one.

  The memory shifts again — not smoothly this time, but with a jolt that makes your stomach lurch. The sky darkens to a deep, bruised violet. The air grows colder. The village is quieter now, too quiet, as though the world is holding its breath.

  Cynthia stands beside you, her posture rigid, her wings drawn tight against her back. Her pupils are narrow slits, reflecting the dim light like shards of glass. She doesn’t speak, but the tension in her body tells you everything.

  Something is coming.

  You hear it before you see it — the crunch of footsteps, the clatter of metal, the low murmur of voices trying to sound brave. Humans emerge from the shadows between the wooden homes, their faces set in grim determination. They carry weapons: spears, axes, torches. Tools repurposed into instruments of fear.

  Your breath catches. “Cynthia… what are they doing?”

  She doesn’t answer. Her jaw tightens, just slightly. Her tail curls inward, a small, involuntary motion. Not anger. Not hatred. Just the memory of a wound that never healed.

  The humans move in formation, their steps uneven but purposeful. They whisper to one another, their words sharp and frantic.

  “It’s them.” “They brought this.” “They’re the reason we’re dying.” “We have to protect ourselves.”

  A Draken steps forward — a tall, blue?scaled figure with gentle eyes. She raises her hands in a gesture of peace, her wings folded neatly behind her. Her voice is calm, soothing, a melody against the harshness of human fear.

  But fear does not listen.

  A torch is thrown.

  It arcs through the air in a streak of orange and lands at the Draken’s feet. Flames burst upward, hungry and bright. The Draken recoils, wings flaring instinctively. The humans shout, emboldened by the fire, by the illusion of control.

  Another torch flies. Then another. Then a spear.

  The memory fractures.

  You hear a scream — not human, not like anything you’ve ever heard. It tears through the air, raw and primal, a sound that carries centuries of life and the sudden terror of losing it. The ground trembles beneath your feet as Draken scramble to protect their young, their sick, their elders.

  Humans surge forward, driven by panic, by desperation, by the belief that violence will save them from the unknown. Their faces twist with fear, not malice. Their hands shake as they strike. Their voices crack as they shout.

  They are not evil. They are terrified.

  And terror makes monsters of anyone.

  You want to look away, but the memory holds you in place. You see a Draken shielding a human child with her wings, even as flames lick at her scales. You see a human hesitate, lowering his weapon for a heartbeat before another shouts at him to strike. You see confusion, grief, and fear tangled together in a knot that cannot be undone.

  Cynthia watches it all with a stillness that feels carved from stone. Her expression is calm, but her eyes — her ancient, lavender eyes — hold a sorrow so deep it feels like the memory itself is grieving.

  “Genocide,” she says quietly. “That is what humans chose. Not because they were evil. But because they were afraid.”

  The word hangs in the air like smoke.

  “For as far as I know,” she continues, her voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, “I am the only pure Draken who survived.”

  The memory darkens further. The flames fade. The screams dissolve. The world around you begins to unravel, colors bleeding into shadow, shapes dissolving into mist.

  Cynthia closes her eyes.

  And the last remnants of her world fall away.

  The world collapses around you in slow, dissolving fragments. The flames fade first, shrinking into embers, then into sparks, then into nothing at all. The screams unravel into echoes, then into whispers, then into silence. The sky loses its color, the ground loses its shape, and the last remnants of the Draken village dissolve into a gray, drifting haze.

  You feel the memory slipping away, not like a door closing, but like sand falling through your fingers — inevitable, unstoppable, ancient.

  Cynthia stands beside you until the very end.

  Her wings fold neatly against her back. Her tail curls around her legs. Her eyes remain open, steady, watching the last pieces of her world fade into nothing. She does not flinch. She does not look away. She has seen this memory countless times, and yet it still settles over her like a shadow she has learned to live with.

  When the final fragment dissolves, the world snaps back into place.

  Your room returns all at once — the soft carpet beneath you, the hum of your computer, the faint glow of the monitor painting the walls in blue. The air feels too still, too clean, too small after what you’ve just witnessed. You blink hard, disoriented, your breath catching as the weight of the memory settles into your chest.

  Cynthia’s hands are still holding yours.

  Her scales are warm. Her claws are gentle. Her presence fills the room with a quiet gravity that makes everything else feel fragile by comparison.

  You look up at her, and for the first time since you met her, you feel ashamed. Not because of anything you did, but because of what your species did — what they were capable of, what they chose when fear outweighed reason.

  “I’m… I’m so sorry,” you whisper. The words feel small, inadequate, swallowed by the enormity of what you’ve seen. “Cynthia, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how you can even look at me after—after all of that.”

  Her expression softens. She leans forward slightly, lowering her head so her eyes meet yours at level. Her wings relax, her tail uncurls, and the tension that had gripped her during the memory melts away.

  “Hun,” she says gently, “don’t be.”

  You blink, stunned. “How can you say that? After everything humans did—after everything you lost—”

  She squeezes your hands, just once, a gesture so warm and steady it silences you.

  “The only thing that matters,” she says, “is what we do now.”

  Her voice is soft, but it carries a weight that feels older than the room, older than the city, older than the world you know. It is the voice of someone who has lived through the worst of humanity and still chooses to believe in its potential. Someone who has every reason to hate and chooses not to. Someone who has seen the cycle of fear and violence and refuses to continue it.

  You swallow hard, your throat tight. The shame doesn’t disappear, but something else settles beside it — a fragile, flickering resolve. A sense that the future is not fixed, that the past does not have to repeat itself, that Cynthia’s trust is not misplaced.

  You meet her gaze, and for the first time, you understand the depth of what she’s offering you.

  Not forgiveness.

  Not absolution.

  But a chance.

  Cynthia smiles — a small, warm, impossibly gentle smile — and the room feels lighter.

  “Come on,” she says softly. “We have a lot to talk about.”