Chapter 3
Rio decided to return to her territory before she completely lost her memory, lest after everything settled, she would do something absurd and scare innocent humans because she didn't understand the human world of the 21st century. She was sure that before she met Agatha, she would not be used to this new world of reinforced concrete. Fortunately, there were many photos and books in the hut of the territory, and she had time to destroy the photos of Agatha and leave some guidance for the new self.
Her footsteps stopped in front of the bookshelf. Collections of several centuries were neatly arranged on the three-layer birch partitions: tablet computers were placed next to parchment manuscripts, and medieval herbal illustrations were next to the "Guide to the Use of Modern Home Appliances". A photo frame was placed in the most eye-catching position. In the photo, Agatha was making faces at the camera, with cream on the corners of her mouth - she took a sneak shot of Agatha on her birthday one year. Rio took off the photo frame very gently, and when she rubbed the glass surface with her thumb, she realized that she was crying. Tears dripped on Agatha's smiling face, spreading a small blurry spot. She lit a green flame at her fingertips, the photo frame curled and deformed in the magic flame, and Agatha's smiling face was gradually swallowed by the orange-red flames.
Rio smiled bitterly and opened the notebook, the pen rustling on the paper:
"To Me After Amnesia"
1. The food in the refrigerator will not heat up by itself, you need to use a microwave (see Appendix 3)
2. Humans now pay with mobile phones, and cash is placed in the third drawer of the entrance
3. Water the moonflower on the windowsill every Wednesday, it likes...
She stopped halfway through writing. The tip of the pen spread a ball of ink on the paper. She stared at her trembling wrist and found that she could no longer remember the maintenance points of the moonflower. The knowledge that she could recite by heart yesterday was now slipping away like sand between her fingers.
Rio leaned on the edge of the sofa, her fingers unconsciously scratching the cracks on the leather surface. Her heart was breaking at an alarming speed - only three hours had passed, and she could no longer remember the purpose of the drum set in the corner of the living room. The cartoon sticker on the black drum was fading, and it looked like the logo of a rock band, but she couldn't remember when it was put on. The refrigerator made a humming sound. She opened the door of the freezer, and the cold air hit her face. A box of half-melted chocolate ice cream leaned on the grid, and the plastic spoon was inserted diagonally into the surface that had melted into cream. Rio stared at this strange sweet for a long time, and suddenly remembered that she didn't need to eat at all.
In the eternal years without Agatha, these little human habits are really irrelevant. The real goddess of death never cares about the taste of sweets, just like she never cares about the change of seasons or sunrise and sunset, and she doesn't have much attachment to the human world. Rio is just curious whether she knows why she has to endure constant headaches after losing all her memories related to Agatha. She can't help but feel a little sad for the naive goddess of death in the near future-hope she won't think this is a punishment derived from death being hated by too many people.
Thinking of this, Rio smiled bitterly. Even if she had forgotten Agatha, the pain that followed her would always accompany her. Rio did not intend to tell her new self why she had a headache all the time. Any fabricated explanation: divine punishment, curse, or war trauma, was much more merciful than the bloody truth. She closed her eyes and could clearly feel the fragments of memory flowing through her blood vessels. They were as light as fireflies, but brought a piercing pain when they disappeared. When the last piece of memory about Agatha was about to dissipate, Rio suddenly grabbed the armrest of the sofa, her knuckles turned white - she thought she would hear a cracking sound, but in fact there was only the rustling of oak leaves outside the window.
The goddess of death felt that she had slept for a long time, and when she woke up, she was startled by the unfamiliar environment. She stood up from the floor and looked around and found that she was in the small house, but the decoration style was not the kind she was used to. There were many books written in languages she didn't recognize on the bookshelf, the table was transparent, and the table legs didn't seem to be made of the material she knew. Everything changed. She was thirsty and tried to light a fire to boil some water for herself. The persistent headache made her upset. She thought that she might have slept too long while waiting for her strength to recover because of a certain battle. Maybe drinking some hot water would make her head feel better. But she found that there was no firewood at home, and the stove for boiling water was replaced with something she didn't know how to use. The goddess of death rubbed her eyebrows and continued to look around. Suddenly, she found a notebook on the bookshelf. It was filled with content similar to life knowledge in words she was familiar with. She knew at a glance that it was written by her former self. The goddess of death secretly admired herself. It seemed that her former self must have expected that she would lose her memory in that "unknown war" and left this notebook.
The goddess of death got a dictionary according to the records in the notebook. She used magic a little bit to integrate modern English. Then she found the instruction manual of the electric kettle. She frowned at the square socket and tentatively hooked her finger. A silver light shot out from the fingertips and drilled into the socket accurately. In an instant, the indicator lights of all the appliances in the kitchen lit up at the same time. The kettle hummed happily, and the heating plate gradually turned orange-red. The goddess of death sat on the sofa, waiting for the water to boil while flipping through the notes and curiously looking at the photos taken from the bookshelf. It didn't take long for her to remember and learn what was recorded in the notes, but she also found out why there was a lingering severe headache without any record in the notes.
Maybe it was the sequelae of the war? But the goddess of death couldn't remember what war there was. Maybe amnesia was also a kind of sequelae? She waved her hand, filled the exquisite cup in front of her with water, soaked some flowers, drank a sip, and cast some healing spells on herself, but found that it didn't help. The cup in front of her looked familiar. It seemed to have been broken once. The goddess of death tried to recall along this clue, but she could only vaguely remember that a woman bumped into the cup on the table, and then a sudden pain attacked her - her bones were trembling, she covered her sternum and screamed, as if something was trying to get out of her sternum, but it kept flowing in her bones as if it didn't know the direction and couldn't find an exit - as if there were thousands of red-hot needles running along the bone marrow, each needle with a vague memory afterimage: the harsh sound of purple nails scratching the edge of the cup; the strange aroma of hot tea steaming on parchment; a warm body hugged her from behind...
The goddess of death collapsed to the floor again.
The dull pain in her sternum finally subsided slowly like the tide, and the goddess of death slowly straightened up by supporting the floor. Her black robe was soaked with cold sweat, and the cloth stuck to her protruding spine, suffocating like a second layer of skin. The metal parts of the drum set glowed coldly. She mechanically picked up the drumstick and found that the handle had dents from long-term use - this body obviously remembered some kind of muscle memory. When the drumstick fell on the drum, a violent rhythm poured out uncontrollably, and the sixteenth notes were played so accurately that it didn't seem like an improvisation. She played with all her strength, trying to divert her attention and force herself to stop recalling. The drum beats became faster and faster, as if to smash all the chaotic emotions into the drumhead. Sweat dripped from her chin, splashing small water droplets on the drumhead. This is good, she thought numbly, letting the physical fatigue cover up those weird flashbacks. At least the pain when playing the drums is real and controllable - unlike the fragments in the sternum that will suddenly riot. Today's work was not done yet, and she really didn't want to drag her aching body to face the angry, annoyed, surprised, and sad souls: the teenager who was in a car accident would hold his broken body and cry "I don't want to die yet", the suicide would pull her black robe and ask "Why didn't anyone stop me", not to mention those Alzheimer's patients who always repeated that they wanted to go home to their mothers. She stood up slowly, tightened her robe, and decided to face the shouts and curses of the dead souls and guide them to the other side of life.