years, 116 days, and 19 hours after that day on the beach, but 12 years, 109 days, and 23 hours prior to the present, I had just learned something.

Well... That's not quite right. Let me take a step back.

I was in a room reminiscent of a local doctor's office; filled with the symbology and objects one associates with medicine, but without the sterile and threatening air of a hospital. The walls and flooring were a comfortable, bare wood, with an earth-toned rug and curtains, while off to the side there was an examination bed and a cupboard filled with various chemicals and tools. You get the idea.

Thinking about it, I suppose it was a local doctor's office, technically. Just not of the conventional sort.

There was a framed scroll hung on the back wall, displayed prominently beside a water clock. The text, at least the text large enough for me to make out, read 'Cheng Gue, doctor of pneumology, Knoron Academy for Psychology and Neurology.' It was in delicate cursive, and the parchment had a tint of gold, making it shine just a little in the light.

I was sitting in a comfortable chair at the desk, still in my dark brown school uniform. Across from me was a handsome Saoic man whose age I couldn't guess, dressed in professional dark robes, with smooth brown-black hair that came down to his ears. He was smiling.

"You've probably learned about this in your classes," he explained, in a mature but considering voice, "but because of the difference in substrate, before a child is born, their mind - or pneuma, specifically - still retains memories from their seed of the old world. To create a new person, a blank slate, the ego is severed from this record completely."

I felt thirsty, suddenly, the inside of my lips dry as an unease began to grow in my gut. I picked up the glass of water he'd provided for me, and took a few gulps.

"Sorry," I said, as I set it back down.

"There's no need to apologize, miss Fusai," he said, patient. "As I was saying. That process, while it causes no functional damage, disrupts the method the Ironworkers devised to attach an index, enabling use of the Power, to the mind. Think of it like cutting off an extra hand that most people never use, so to speak."

"But you can't just transplant a new hand?" I asked.

"No." He chuckled softly, rubbing his eyes. "Please excuse me. It was a poor analogy."

I copied his laughter, though it came out much stiffer.

"I can tell you're not exactly keen on the idea," he said. "That's understandable, of course."

I looked hesitant, glancing away. "Um, well... At least, I think I understand why you make people swear an oath of secrecy..."

That was downplaying it. Truthfully, I was pretty disturbed. Just hearing the concept in abstract should have been enough to make me consider abandoning the plans I'd had for the past four years and re-imagining my entire future-- Perhaps I'd go to an art academy, or look into becoming a logic engineer. You could do a lot in a field like that, even if you weren't an arcanist.

The man sat back a little in his chair, crossing his legs idly. "It's intimidating in concept, but please do understand that, in the overwhelming majority of cases, there are no observable effects whatsoever. Around half of the individuals who go through it don't even lose consciousness, and of the other, four out of five don't report any abnormalities when they reawaken. And even of the remaining 10%, the symptoms are negligible for nine out of ten-- Fleeting false memories, minor alterations in temperament that self correct, usually in under a day..."

"And the others?" I inquired. "The remaining one percent."

He considered this question for a few moments, obviously choosing his words carefully. "The technical term for the rare cases where confusion persists in the longer term is pneumaic assimilation failure. We have a program for treatment, using a combination of various phychological and medical means. It's time-tested. It brings people back to themselves quickly, usually within only only a few months at most."

'Confusion.' 'Brings people back to themselves.' I wasn't feeling fond of the way he couched everything in euphemism. It wasn't helping.

"What do you mean by 'it brings people back to themselves'..?" I furrowed my brow. "They just... Forget everything?"

"Not immediately," he said. "But they lose a sense of association with... Well, with anything that shouldn't be there, and that leads those memories and feelings to fade over time." He smiled. "The human mind is very adept at excising anything it judges to be out of place. All it needs is a push in the right direction."

"And it works on everyone."

He hesitated slightly, and broke eye contact for a moment.

"It doesn't work on everyone," I said.

"Very rarely, we do see stubbornly persistent cases," he admitted. "Or instances where the initial symptoms are so strong that it drives the patient to refuse treatment. But the chance of that happening is miniscule. If it's a one in a hundred chance of needing intervention at all, it's closer to one in five hundred, on top of that, to encounter further complications."

"And what happens?" I asked. "In those cases."

"You're very focused on this, miss Fusai," he said. "Again, we really are talking about an incredibly rare scenario."

"Well... It seems important to know," I said. "I mean--It's not likely you'll ever end up in a tram crash, but they still tell you about what to do if it happens, right? Just in case you have the worst luck in the whole world."

"Very well. If you're sure." He nodded, glancing downward. "Rare as they are, those circumstances are obviously a tragedy for everyone involved. How it's handled depends much on the person in question, but in terms of general policy, they're offered a stipend of luxury debt relief, to help them ease the stress of the situation over the course of their lives in whatever manner they feel appropriate, as well as ongoing counseling."

I frowned. "That's not really what I mean."

He raised his eyebrows. "What do mean?"

"Rather... What happens to their mind?" I gulped, already feeling a little thirsty again. "Is it like multiple personality disorder? Or..."

I trailed off.

He was quiet for a few moments, considering the question. Eventually, he seemed to resolve on something, and made a more effortfully upbeat expression. "Would you like something a little more substantial than water to drink, miss Fusai? I think we might be here for a little while."

"Oh," I said. "Sure thing, I suppose."

He stood up, and moved over to a kettle near the back of the office. "What would you like? Tea, coffee..."

I brushed a length of hair out of my eyes, with a little nervous laughter. "Do you have any hot chocolate?"

He chuckled. "A little, but it's been here a while, so I can't vouch for the quality."

"That's fine," I said. "I'm not very fussy."

He poured in some water from the jug in the back of the room, and set it to boil.

I remember these events very clearly, just as much as I remember most things when my mind isn't fogged from stress and worry. I remember the smell of the office, cleaning chemicals mixed with the flowers from the hall outside. I remember the creases in Cheng Gue's face. I remember the position of the sunlight as it came through the window and struck my skin.

But...