The man's voice hadn't wavered once, even as the rain poured heavier, sliding in sheets down the rocks. The fire between them hissed and cracked, defying the downpour. The girl clutched her book tighter now, her hands trembling against the damp leather cover.
The man spoke on.
"When Frisk left the Ruins… he met him again."
The girl's breath hitched. She didn't speak — she never did. But her eyes widened, the memory clear even before the man described it.
—
Snowdin Forest was the same.
Tall, silent trees. Snow crunching underfoot. The occasional whoosh of falling flakes.
And yet, every step Frisk took felt heavier. Not because of the snow, but because of the memory of this place. Of what had been done here.
The thick silence was oppressive. No monster laughter in the distance. No playful snowballs. Just the weight of unseen eyes.
And then… a sound.
The faintest shuffle.
A figure in the distance.
A grin. A glow of white eyes.
Frisk froze.
The voice was as easygoing as ever, though it cut through him like ice.
"Human. Don't you know how to greet a new pal?"
A bony hand extended, waiting for the old handshake prank.
Frisk's face remained neutral. He reached out.
Click. Whoopee cushion. The same harmless trick.
But behind Sans' grin, Frisk could see it now — the ghost of that other moment. Of Sans bleeding, broken, his last words fading in the darkness after death number five-hundred-seventeen.
His throat tightened.
He didn't let it show.
"You're a weird one, kid," Sans chuckled, oblivious to what neither of them would speak aloud.
But Chara did.
"You remember the look in his eyes, don't you?"
The voice slithered through his thoughts. "How many times did you die just to stab him? How many times did you die to watch the light leave those sockets?"
Frisk's hand twitched.
Sans kept talking, just like before, escorting him through the forest, cracking lazy jokes, giving that same old speech about checkpoints and lamp posts.
But every word was a dagger.
When Sans finally vanished into the snowy trail ahead, Frisk exhaled, cold air misting before him.
The memory didn't leave. Neither did she.
—
The journey into Snowdin stretched on.
Napstablook appeared, lying in the middle of the path.
Tearful. Lonely. Melancholy music humming in the background.
Frisk hesitated. Spared him.
"Pathetic," Chara whispered. "You didn't hesitate to tear out his throat last time."
Frisk clenched his fists, moving forward.
Loox came next.
A simple monster. A harmless creature.
Frisk chose Mercy.
A cruel little laugh.
"Don't pick on him this time, huh? Too bad you didn't think of that when his skull cracked open last run."
And so it went. Monster after monster.
Frisk spared them. Again. And again.
But every time he did, the world seemed to flinch.
Snowdin felt emptier. The trees pressed in closer. The wind sounded less like nature and more like soft, hissing laughter.
Chara's voice grew stronger.
Sometimes mocking.
Sometimes coaxing.
Sometimes something worse.
"Why are you hesitating now? What are you trying to prove? You think you can crawl back into their good graces? That Mercy means anything anymore?"
Frisk pressed on.
He passed the puzzles.
Snowmen half-melted from memories of battles never fought.
A snowball sitting abandoned, cold and untouched.
Even the monsters he did meet sometimes hesitated. A monster kid gave a cheerful wave, but there was something brittle in his grin. As if some ghost of a memory lingered in his bones.
None of them remembered.
And yet… something lingered.
—
Atop Mt. Ebott, the girl's small hand trembled.
She held her palm to the fire, fingers twitching, tracing the outline of a face in the flames. The face of a grinning skeleton.
She looked up at the man, her eyes wide and filled with pain.
He nodded. "The world moves forward… but the shadows remember."
She wiped at her eyes — a motion so quick she thought he wouldn't notice.
He did.
He always did.
And still, he continued.
"And the deeper Frisk went, the louder she became."