There once was a small village, deep in the mountains.
I say once, because there isn't a village there anymore.
No one knows about it, and those who did once, now find themselves searching for memories they no longer have.
This village, the once vibrantly painted buildings that were filled with life, are now peeling and cracked, and merely empty husks of what they once were.
Flower beds that used to be filled to the brim with colourful flowers of all sizes, are now filled with weeds and overgrown grass.
The beach bordering the village was once filled with white sand and the footprints of playing people, now covered in abandoned and rotting garbage.
At least the water in the lake is still clear.
I remember that the village used to be filled with people. And I know that they're all gone now.
I stayed behind.
See, our village had a secret.
Our lake is filled with rocks, rocks with memories written on them.
Painful memories, useless memories, unwanted memories.
If anyone wanted to get rid of a memory, they wrote the memory on a rock, threw it in and forgot.
I've been reading all the rocks I can find,
And the other day, I found a rock in my own handwriting.
I remember reading it,
But I can't for the life of me remember what it had said.
Did, I erase that too?
Was the truth that bad?
I guess I'll just have to look again.
I was the only survivor.