Mnemonic Intervention

I’m having a bad time.

I’ve been sitting in my office for at least an hour, trying to complete this mnemonic intervention form. I curse every bureaucrat who ever lived.

I read the first section for the fifth time.

“Reason for intervention?” I start typing.
“Direct exposure to demonic entity.”
“Date of intervention?”
Note: incidents occurring more than twelve hours prior require extended justification…

I exhale sharply through my nose and rub my eyes.

I scroll down for now. I’ll come back to it.

“Describe in detail the circumstances that prevented the immediate application of emergency memory erasure, protocol article 4.2.b.”

I sink deeper into my chair.

“Alright…” I try typing.
“Subject disappeared from the scene and was located two days later.”

There is no way to phrase that without sounding incompetent. I delete it.

“Again…” I mutter.

I try a different angle.

“Recent trauma would have rendered emergency erasure ineffective, posing a life-threatening risk to the subject.”

That sounds better. I continue.

“Describe the subject.”

I stare at the blank line.

Why does that even matter?

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

“Elena Voss,” I type. “Communications student. Extroverted. Curious to the point of recklessness. Sarcastic. Brave. Has a way of looking at you that makes it difficult to maintain—”

I delete everything the moment I realize what I’m writing.

It shouldn’t be this hard to describe her, yet all that comes to mind is the image of her activating a stun gun against my neck without hesitation. Or the way she looked at me earlier, bargaining for her memories like it was a poker game.

I shake my head and try again.

“Female. Twenty years old. Small build. No magical background. High stress tolerance. Prone to insubordination.”

I delete it again.

This is ridiculous.

***

The first spoonful of soup feels like coming back to life.

Hot. Creamy. The perfect balance of tomato, garlic, and basil. The grilled cheese—crispy, with the cheese melted just right—is just as good.

There’s still a phantom ache in my throat, but the soup soothes it from the inside.

“This is amazing,” I blurt out, mouth half full. “Thank you so much.”

The woman smiles from across the table, wine glass in hand, wearing an expression that clearly says I knew you needed this.

“Eat as much as you like, Elena. There’s plenty more.”

Normally, I’d notice things like this sooner. But hunger won this round.

“This is the second time you’ve called me by my name,” I say between bites. “How do you know my name?”

“Because this is my home,” she replies with a smile. “And I know everything that happens within these walls.”

I choke slightly on my sandwich and grab some water.

“Then… you are—” I start, not quite finishing the sentence.

“I’m Elisabeth Kestrel. Lorcan is my son.”

She looks at me directly for the first time.

I notice now that she has the same golden eyes—but their glow is different. Softer. She looks surprisingly young, early forties at most. She must have had Lorcan very young.

“P-Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kestrel,” I manage. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused…”

I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to bow, shake her hand, or ask permission to breathe.

Elisabeth laughs and takes another sip of wine.

“Nonsense, Elena. It’s no trouble at all. In fact, it’s refreshing to have someone new around here. Though…” Her tone shifts, colder now. “The circumstances could have been better.”

I swallow. It still hurts.

“I do owe you an apology for my son,” she continues, back to her warmer tone. “You’ve seen what he can do, yet he couldn’t even think to get you food. Or a change of clothes.”

“Oh, not at all, Mrs. Kestrel, it’s really no problem—”

“There’s no need to be so formal with me,” she interrupts gently. “Elisabeth is fine.”

I smile and nod.

Everything is going well. Which is exactly why I’m nervous.

“So… now that we’re being honest,” I ask, “you would be a… witch?”

Her wine glass freezes midair. A faint, condescending smile appears.

“My dear,” she says, “that word is offensive.”

My expression collapses instantly. The soup threatens to come back up.

“But,” she adds, amused, “I suppose you could say I am one.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s a popular term in fiction. We even use it ourselves sometimes. I don’t blame you.”

That tells me exactly where this conversation is going.

“I also don’t blame you for my son’s incompetence,” she continues. “I’m fairly certain that right now he’s trying to frame the situation properly in a memory erasure request form. Still, I can’t help but be curious about your reasons.”

She’s analyzing me. I feel more intimidated than I ever did with Lorcan.

“Do you… also think forgetting everything would be best?” I ask.

“I think forgetting is always more comfortable,” she says. “But not always safer.”

The sentence hangs in the air.

“Tell me, Elena,” she continues. “Aside from those two incidents, have you noticed anything else out of place? Shadows? Voices in your head?”

“Yes,” I answer. “All of that.”

“How often?”

“Well… yesterday it was mostly cold, and this half-second delay between thinking and acting. This morning I saw shadows that didn’t belong.”

Elisabeth pours herself more wine, her expression calculating.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all this,” she says at last. “And perhaps a full mnemonic intervention would be ideal for you, but…”

She trails off, staring into her glass.

“But?” I press.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry. I tend to overthink. Old habits.”

She drains the glass in one swallow. Not a good sign.

“This isn’t an interrogation, by the way,” she adds lightly. “If you have questions, ask them.”

I take another bite of my sandwich. I’d forgotten about it entirely. It’s still warm. Mine would’ve been cold by now.

“Really?”

“Of course. You’ve been through quite a lot—and kept your memories. If it’s within my reach, I’ll answer.”

I shrug. I’m certain she knows how I convinced her son. Best not to go there.

“Then… why did this happen to me? Was it just being near Lorcan? Or something I did?”

“Do you want a comforting answer,” she asks, “or the truth?”

I take a deep breath.

“The truth. Your food has been comforting enough.”

She smiles.

“The first event? Coincidence. Fate. Bad luck. Call it what you want. The second…” She pauses. “Lorcan must have told you that without erasing your memories, you could become a point of interest.”

“Yes. He mentioned that.”

“There’s a concept we call the Threshold. It’s the point at which the paranormal stops being abstract. Before meeting my son, you knew about it through books. After watching him exorcise a nurse in front of you, you were exposed to something you were never meant to witness.”

She pauses, choosing her words carefully.

“Surviving an exorcism goes a step further,” she adds. “It doesn’t just leave memories—it leaves sensations. Impressions. Things the mind and body aren’t designed to carry for long.”

I listen closely as I keep eating.

“That experience shook your worldview,” she continues. “Once you start seeing shadows, once you feel their presence, once you cross the Threshold, there’s no going back. Not because you don’t want to—but because you now know where to look.”

Things start to click.

“So that’s why Lorcan insisted on the memory wipe. Even if it was… blunt.”

Elisabeth laughs genuinely.

“Yes. That sounds like my troublemaker. Mages like him are taught an emergency erasure technique—meant to stop witnesses from looking beyond the Threshold. Unfortunately, my son seems to have confused fifty minutes with fifty hours.”

“In fairness, I ran the moment the nurse hit the floor. If I’d stayed, I might not be here.”

“A perfectly reasonable reaction. I like you more and more.”

We laugh together.

“The important thing,” Elisabeth continues, “is that once you cross the Threshold, your presence stands out to demons. Like a beacon.”

“So that’s why they tried to possess me the next day?”

“Exactly. It could have been the next day. Or years later.”

Good thing Lorcan was nearby.

“So how do you avoid being beacons? You live with the paranormal. Wouldn’t you stand out too?”

“A very good question,” she says, pointing at me with her glass. “Without overwhelming you, what matters is that mages learn to control their vital energy. That allows us to appear brighter—or dimmer—to demons.”

I listen carefully.

“That takes training,” she adds. “A memory wipe would convince your mind that you never crossed the Threshold. Over time, the shadows would fade, the voices would stop, and you’d return to a normal life.”

I nod, impressed.

“It’s a shame that once Lorcan submits that form, I’ll forget all of this. It’s fascinating.”

“And dangerous,” Elisabeth replies.

“But fascinating.”

She smiles and lowers her gaze.

I stand up.

“I should try to sleep. Thank you for everything, Mrs. Elisabeth. Dinner was wonderful.”

“Anytime, my dear. You’re welcome here whenever you like. You’re safe within these walls. No demon would dare set foot here. Stay as long as you need.”

“I suppose that depends on Lorcan.”

We laugh again.

I leave the kitchen and walk back through the cold hallway—but this time, there’s a warmth inside me. A promise of something brighter? Or a fire waiting to consume me?

I’ll decide later.

***

This form is killing me.

I type the final line that allows me to proceed:

“I request professional mnemonic intervention due to active Threshold exposure and recurrence within forty-eight hours.”

I stare at the sentence.

Forty-eight hours. Two possessions. One civilian. My name on the form.

The office door opens.

It’s my mother.

“Lorcan,” she says. “We need to talk about your friend.”