Moonlight — or something like it, pale and shifting — filtered through the strange corridors of memory. The walls bled color in lavender and silver, and each turn you made felt like a snap inside your head. Sunday was beside you, silent, calm… at first.

You paused in a sudden fork of hallways. “We need to go left,” you said, though your voice wavered. “I think … this way.” You moved, hand brushing the wall.

Immediately the memory flickered — and there he was. A younger version of Sunday: small, boyish, sitting curled in a corner, tears bleeding into the dust. He looked up, eyes wide, fear trembling.

You jerked forward. “Oh—shit.”

Sunday’s face didn’t change. But the wings behind his ears trembled — just a fraction. He regarded the memory silently, then turned to you.

“Memories are never kind,” he said, voice low. “Keep going.”

Your stomach rolled. You stumbled down the next corridor. Another flicker — teenage Sunday, with a terrible haircut, holding a book upside down, staring at the pages in confusion. He looked ridiculous, self-conscious, awkward.

You stifled a laugh — but even as you did, you felt guilty.

Sunday’s eyes shifted. Calm again. “Do they amuse you?”

You didn’t answer. Instead you spun around the corner and triggered another memory: Sunday mid-chess match, losing badly. His expression was pained, unsure. The pieces scattered.

You covered your mouth, glancing at him.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say anything. The silence stretched.