Morgan traced fingers along the crumbling wall, searching for memories that wouldn't come. The nameless city stretched out in gray silence, its empty streets holding secrets about the person they used to be. Death had stolen their past, leaving only questions and this pale, tattered form. They needed answers—needed to know who they were before everything went dark. A building at the end of the block caught their attention. Its facade was crumbling, windows shattered into jagged teeth. Paint peeled in long strips from the walls. Morgan's legs moved forward before their mind decided to walk. Something pulled them toward the structure. The front door hung loose on broken hinges. Inside, dust covered everything—furniture, floors, walls. A photo frame lay face-down on a table. Morgan picked it up with careful fingers. The glass was cracked, but underneath was a picture of someone smiling. The face looked familiar in a way that made their chest ache. This place knew them. These rooms had seen the person they used to be. Morgan set the frame down and moved deeper into the house, following the thread of recognition that might lead them back to themselves.

Morgan stepped back from the house, empty-handed but certain of one thing: memories lived in places. The walls had whispered nothing clear, but the pull had been real. They needed to find more locations like that one—places where their past self had left traces behind. The courthouse rose ahead, its stone columns cracked but standing. Wide steps led to heavy doors that hung open. Morgan climbed slowly, white fabric dragging behind them. Inside, the entry hall stretched into darkness. Their footsteps echoed on marble floors. Dust floated in thin streams of light from broken windows. They moved deeper, passing through doorways until they found a room lined with metal cabinets. Files spilled from open drawers, papers scattered across the floor like leaves. Morgan knelt and picked up a document. The words blurred together. Names and dates meant nothing. They grabbed another paper, then another. Each one was a stranger's life—births, deaths, marriages—but none sparked recognition. Their hands shook as they searched. Maybe their name was here. Maybe these records held proof of who they'd been. Nothing clicked. Morgan set the last paper down and stood. The courthouse had kept its secrets. But now they knew something important: official places might hold their past. They just had to find the right record.

Morgan left the courthouse behind, but the rows of filing cabinets stuck in their mind. Records existed somewhere—papers that listed names and dates and truths. The city had to hold more places like that. Places where information was kept and sorted. Places that remembered what people forgot. A library appeared three blocks down, its brick walls stained dark from rain. The front entrance gaped open. Inside, shelves stretched in long rows under a high ceiling. Books lay scattered across tables and floors. Morgan moved between the aisles, pulling volumes at random. Some pages showed photographs of faces. Others contained lists of names. Their fingers traced each line, searching for anything familiar. Nothing sparked. Nothing fit. But libraries were full of records, full of history. This world kept track of its people, wrote them down, stored them away. Morgan just had to keep looking. Ivy crept along the library's back wall, winding through cracks in the stone. Pieces of colored glass littered the floor beneath empty window frames. Morgan found a section near the damaged windows where thick books sat untouched by weather. These volumes were older, their covers worn smooth. Inside one, Morgan discovered lists organized by year—births, property transfers, school enrollments. Real lives documented in neat columns. Their hands moved faster now, flipping through decade after decade. The courthouse had marriage records. This library held birth records and census data. The city was speaking to them through paper and ink. Each location revealed another piece of the system that had once cataloged everyone who lived here. Someone had written Morgan's name down once. Someone had filed their information away. The proof existed. They understood that now. Finding it was just a matter of searching the right places, following the trail of records until one of those names looked back at them with recognition.