In the quiet of the sea, in a place between places, stood a relic with no name. Perhaps it was something to someone in times past, but the rasping winds, and the putrid air, and the grim black waves have washed all memories of it away.
The first was a slow but relentless forgetting. A chipping away of sorts, shown through the cracking of concrete, the rusting of metal, and the missing traces of what once was. This loss was a tangible texture that tore at the fingertips and grated at the skin.
The second was a willful forgetting, fueled by neglect and disuse. It was a forgetting of the kind where one sees but turns away, where one can do but chooses not to, and where one knows but feigns ignorance instead. It was a forgetting that was all too familiar in this exhausted world.
The third was a hollow empty forgetting. It came from the hidden corners of the soul. If there were stories to fill this place then maybe this forgetting would not be so complete, but sadly those voices died away long ago.
So it was in this way that the relic stood, mute and deaf to the world, until an unexpected encounter from centuries past began whispering into the emptiness again.