A chill, unrelated to the house's persistent drafts, settled deep in Elara's bones. Days bled into each other, each dawn bringing a thinner veil over what they were trying so desperately to remember. Memories were not simply fading; they were shifting, like sand beneath a restless tide. A detail clear yesterday would be blurred today, or worse, entirely re-sculpted into something alien. Marcus was withdrawn, his eyes hollowed. He picked at his breakfast, a cold piece of toast, as if examining a foreign object. "Remember that old oak by the lake?" Elara tried, her voice a forced lightness. "The one we carved our initials into?" He looked up, a flicker of something she couldn't quite place in his gaze. "Oak? I thought it was a willow. By the creek, near the old mill." A slight tremor ran through her. "No, definitely an oak. Huge, gnarled branches. We sat under it for hours, that summer before college." Ben, who had been pacing the small living room, stopped abruptly. "Willow," he affirmed, his voice tight. "Marcus is right. The creek. I remember because a bee stung me right there." Elara felt a sudden, sharp disorientation. Her memory of the oak, so vivid, so tactile, began to crumble at the edges. She could almost see the gnarled bark dissolving, replaced by the slender, weeping branches of a willow. "It was an oak," she insisted, but the words felt weak, even to her own ears. A part of her screamed that she was wrong. Later that day, trying to anchor herself, she mentioned the incident to Marcus again. He stared at her blankly. "Did we talk about trees? I don't recall." His forgetfulness stung more than the initial contradiction. It was as if her attempt to solidify a memory had merely erased it for him entirely. Ben, meanwhile, had grown increasingly agitated. He started carrying a small notebook, scribbling furiously, then crossing out lines with frantic, dark strokes. His movements were jerky, his eyes constantly scanning, as if searching for an unseen predator. "We were supposed to meet Professor Thorne at the university on Tuesday," Elara stated, trying to establish a shared reality. "For the research grant, remember?" Marcus nodded slowly. "Tuesday. Yes. He’s going to help us. He understands the… strange energy here." Ben barked a sudden, humorless laugh. "Thorne? He retired years ago! We were meeting Dr. Aris. The parapsychology department head. He's a friend of my mother's, remember?" Elara's stomach dropped. Professor Thorne had been their mentor, a kindly man with a penchant for cryptic smiles. Dr. Aris was a name she barely recognized, a cold, clinical figure she’d met once at a symposium. "No, Thorne," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "He was the one who first mentioned the historical reports of the area, the local legends…" "Legends?" Ben scoffed, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. "You're making that up. Thorne was an astrophysicist. No interest in 'legends'." Marcus, sensing the rising tension, interjected. "Ben, calm down. It's alright if we misremember things. It happens." Ben rounded on him, his face contorted. "Happens? This isn't 'happening', Marcus. It's being *done*." A terrible silence descended. The only sound was the distant creak of the house, like an old skeleton settling. Elara's mind raced, trying to grasp the threads of her own memories. Had Thorne truly been an astrophysicist? The image of his kind, knowing eyes blurred, replaced by the stern, unfamiliar face of Dr. Aris. She looked at Ben, seeing a paranoia she had never witnessed before. His eyes, usually sharp and intelligent, now held a frantic, cornered animal look. He pointed a trembling finger at her, his voice a low, guttural growl that barely sounded like him. "You," he accused, his voice thick with venom. "You’re doing this, aren’t you? You’re changing them. My memories. You’re twisting them on purpose."

Seeds of Distrust