Undiscovered: An Unremembered Novella (The Unremembered Trilogy) Read Online Free PDF Page A

when I scaled the wall, and when I knocked on the front door no one answered.
    “Sera?” I called, praying that her father didn’t burst through the door and stun me with a Modifier or worse, a Mutie Laser.
    A moment later, the door opened a sliver and I saw her vibrant violet eye peer through the crack.
    “Who are you?” She sounded small and afraid, very unlike the girl I left yesterday.
    “Seraphina,” I said, hearing a pleading quality to my voice that I barely recognized. “It’s me. Lyzender. I was here yesterday.”
    The door opened a tad wider and I felt my insides start to untangle.
    Until…
    “No, you weren’t,” she proclaimed, and the door was slammed shut again.
    What?
    My stomach twisted. Had I imagined the whole thing? Was I going insane? I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out what I had missed. What had happened.
    I knocked again. “Sera, please . Don’t you remember me?”
    “No. I don’t. Please leave.”
    The world started to implode around me. Like an uncontrolled demolition. Bam, bam, bam, bam, BAM!
    I turned away, feeling dejected and lost. Then I remembered the tube in my pocket. I spun back and pounded on the door again. “Dandelions!” I shouted, half desperate, half terrified. “I found more dandelions. Remember? They’re more beautiful than any other plant. They’re fragile. You wish on them.”
    There was a long silence. Too long. And still no answer came.
    How could she not at least remember the dandelions? She seemed so entranced by them.
    It was like the entire day never even happened…
    The thought nearly knocked me to the ground.
    I staggered back, stumbling through the yard, until my feet bumped into something hard. A bench.
    I collapsed onto it.
    Like the day never even happened.
    No. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t. To a helpless, innocent girl?
    Why?
    Memory alterations were for security breaches, for people who saw things they weren’t supposed to see. Did things they weren’t supposed to do.
    She didn’t do anything.
    She didn’t see anything.
    Except me.
    The realization exploded painfully in my brain. I leaned forward and buried my face in my hands. It was my fault. It was all my fault. I’m the one who bypassed the VersaScreens. I’m the one who scaled the wall.
    I broke in.
    And she paid the price.
    Or at least her memories did.
    They must have taken the whole day. Every reference of me. Every word. Every smile. Every miniscule ounce of her trust that I earned.
    To my surprise, when I looked up again, she was there.
    Not close. But there. Standing on the porch, peering at me from behind a pillar.
    Talk about déjà vu.
    “Who are you?” she asked timidly.
    I knew right then that I should have run far away from here. I should have leapt that wall and never looked back. If my mere presence was a danger to her, was the reason they wiped her memories, then I shouldn’t be here.
    “I’m no one,” I said as I stood up. I walked slowly toward the wall, preparing to climb it, preparing to spend the rest of my life with an empty hole in my chest.
    And then she spoke again.
    “Don’t go.”
    I turned and sucked in a breath. The mere vision of her was haunting and soothing and melodic and torrential.
    “It’s not safe out there,” she told me.
    It’s not safe in here, I wanted to argue.
    “I live out there,” I told her instead. “I can assure you it’s safe.”
    She shook her head decisively. “It’s not safe out there.”
    The blank repetition of her statement made me shiver.
    I dug my fingernails into my palms. “Who told you that?”
    But my voice was too forceful. My teeth too clenched. I regretted my frustration the instant I saw her recoil.
    “I’m sorry,” I whispered, taking a deep breath. “I’m just trying to understand what’s going on here.”
    “I live here.”
    I sighed. “Yes. You live here. But do you ever leave here?”
    She nodded. “My father takes me outside the walls. But I have to go with him. Otherwise it’s