To Return, Remember

“Where do you think you’re headed?” asked a burly voice from behind Steph.

Where did this monstrosity come from? Steph wondered, turning to see a minotaur lumbering toward them from the direction they’d just come. There were no other doors, no hidden paths—at least, none Steph could see. But in this place, what did visibility really mean?

“I’m trying to find my way to the Astral Plane,” Steph said, pausing mid-step to face the minotaur properly. “It’s the only way I know how to reach the Fae Realm.”

The minotaur studied Steph, nostrils flaring as if sniffing out lies. His heavy hooves scraped against the stone floor with a sound like grinding bones.

“You’ve got courage, I’ll give you that,” he said, voice low like thunder behind a closed door. “But courage won’t buy you passage.”

Steph’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have anything to offer you.”

The minotaur snorted, crossing thick arms over his chest. “Not to me, you don’t. But there are others—less... principled—who might take an interest. Tricksters, mostly. One of them might show you the path. For a price.”

“What kind of price?” Steph was starting to feel uneasy about this exchange.

He turned, his back massive and shaggy as a bear’s. “That’s between you and them. But if you value what’s left of yourself, be careful what you trade.”

Steph hesitated. “Will you take me to one?”

The minotaur glanced over his shoulder; his eyes gleaming faintly. “I’ll lead you to the edge. Beyond that, you must walk alone.”

Steph and their new companion walked for what felt like miles. Every twist and turn looked the same as the last—blank stone walls, dim light that never flickered, and silence heavy enough to press against their skull. There were no markings, no decorations, not even the trickle of water to guide them. Just the sound of hooves and footsteps echoing endlessly.

“I feel like we’re going in circles,” Steph muttered, not sure if they meant to speak aloud.

The minotaur said nothing. He kept moving, slow and deliberate, as though he knew something Steph didn’t—or didn’t care to explain.

Eventually, the air began to change. The scent was sharper now, metallic and sweet, like burnt sugar and rust. The walls seemed to breathe slightly, pulsing with some unseen rhythm.

Steph stopped. “This isn’t part of the caves anymore, is it?”

The minotaur grunted. “No. This is where they linger. Tricksters don’t build homes. They let the realm shape itself around them.”

As he stepped aside, Steph saw it: a crack in the wall, just wide enough for a person to slip through. Nothing marked it except the faint shimmer of something unnatural—like heat rising from pavement, only colder.

The minotaur tilted his head toward the crack. “Beyond that, it’s their game. I don’t play.”

Steph nodded, heartbeat suddenly loud in their ears. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” the minotaur said, then turned and vanished into the mist behind them.

Steph stepped through the crack.

It was like slipping into a dream already in progress. The air was warm and damp, the walls pulsing with soft color—violets and greens that shimmered like oil on water. Everything smelled like old books and flowers that bloomed at night. And something else, hidden underneath it all… ozone and decay.

In the center of the space stood a figure draped in layered silks, each fold shifting in color like a chameleon caught mid-thought. Their face was smooth, ageless—half smile, half question—and their eyes gleamed like mirrors, reflecting Steph’s own confused expression back at them.

“Ah,” the figure purred, voice curling through the room like smoke. “A traveler. Or perhaps…a trespasser?”

Steph straightened. “I’m looking for passage to the Astral Plane. The minotaur I traveled with, told me you might help.”

“Might,” the trickster echoed, twirling once so their silks spun out around them like petals. “But every might comes with a must. And yours...will cost you something delicate.”

Steph narrowed their eyes. “I don’t have anything. Not really.”

The trickster’s smile widened. “Oh, but you do. You’re still wearing it. That lovely thing sewn into your soul.”

They stepped closer, close enough that Steph could see shifting constellations swimming in their irises.

“What is your name, young one? Will you give it to me? Only then will the path open.”

Steph’s throat went dry. “And what happens if I do?”

“You forget,” the trickster whispered. “Not all of you. Just enough. The sharp parts. The ones you grip too tightly. But...if you can find your true name, you’ll remember more than what you lost.”

They extended a hand; long fingers tipped in silver.

“Well?” they cooed. “Will you trade?”

Steph hesitated.

Their name. It had always felt like armor and a wound at the same time. A label given, accepted, reshaped, doubted. It was the first thing they'd ever known about themselves, and the one thing they were never quite sure they had right.

“What happens if I don’t find my true name?” they asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The trickster tilted their head. “Then you’ll wander. Forgetting more. Becoming less. Or more, perhaps—just not you.”

Steph exhaled slowly, watching their breath swirl and dissolve into the shimmering air. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was heavy, expectant.

They reached for the silver-tipped hand.

“My name is Stephanie,” Steph said. “I will trade it willingly for passage to the Astral.”

The moment their fingers touched; the world warped.

Sound collapsed into a low hum. The colors of the space bled together like wet paint. Steph staggered, gripping their head. Their memories blurred—faces with no names, places without meaning. They still knew who they were… but the thread that had bound it all together was gone.

They were Steph, and yet…they weren’t.

The trickster grinned, teeth sharp and shining. “It is done.”

They snapped their fingers. A doorway unfurled in the air—glimmering, intricate, alive. The path to the Astral Plane.

The one formerly known as Steph stood, wobbling slightly, but with a strange calm rooted in their chest.

“What do I call myself now?” they asked.

The trickster’s eyes twinkled. “Call yourself whoever you become. That’s the point.”

And with that, they stepped through the doorway—unnamed, uncertain, but closer to the truth than ever before.

They tried calling out, but no sound emerged.

Even thought felt thin here—wispy and weightless, like silk drifting on a breeze. The child formerly known as Steph reached for the memory of their name like someone reaching for a door that was no longer there. What they’d given up was more than just a word—it was a tether.

Each step echoed through the emptiness, but the echoes didn’t return. The silhouettes that passed them by didn’t speak, didn’t look, didn’t see. Some were tall, others twisted, a few curled in on themselves like they were trying to hold on to what little remained of their form. None had faces. None had names.

Is this what I’m becoming?

They didn’t know how long they walked. Time held no shape here. All they knew was that something inside them itched—like a splinter beneath the skin, a thought that wouldn't form. Something was missing. Not just their name. Something deeper.

A shimmer in the haze caught their eye.

Not a person. Not a shadow. A ripple in the nothing.

Drawn to it, they stepped closer. With each movement, the fog pulled back, just slightly, revealing an impossible staircase carved of moonlight and obsidian, coiling downward into nothingness.

No signs. No guides.

Only a feeling in their chest.

Hope, maybe. Or the faintest tug of something true.

They placed one foot on the stair.

And began to descend.