She doesn’t have to wait long. As usual, first the masked man appears, followed by the train. Instead of taking the offered hand, she simply marches past him and up the stairs and into the train compartment.

Wordlessly, the conductor follows her inside.

“Is there no happiness in this world?” she demands. “Every moment is like a stab to the heart. I have to sit around and watch these girls’ lives fall apart, and the only thing I get out of it is more pain…” She doesn’t say it, but the implication is there: The pain of her own memories.

“Sometimes a bit of pain is necessary to find happiness,” the masked man remarks.

“Well, this isn’t a bit of pain. It’s a lot.” Just as she is about to say more, the wave of memories hits her, triggered by some unknown force. There is no object associated with it.

She can feel the flood of memories washing throughout her mind, as if they are dissolved in water, small specks among a meaningless tide. Before, it was a single event or person and that person’s associated memories, but this time, there are thousands of bits and pieces, scattered every which way, and she can’t connect them into a coherent whole. Instead, they all swirl together, indistinct.

One memory bubbles to the surface, dragging her attention away from the mess of other fragments.

It has been a few months since her sister’s death. For all appearances, she has gotten over it, but really, she hasn’t. Instead of dealing with the pain, she has shoved it all somewhere and buried it deep, leaving it to fester. She strengthens her determination and soldiers forward, determined to forget it all.

Her mother is not so strong, however. She always had a weak body, and this death has taken a heavy toll on her health. She doesn’t eat well or sleep well, and she cries often. To the girl, it is a burden she would rather not deal with. She can’t help but resent her mother for being so weak, in a time when everyone needs to be strong for one another.

But as her mother’s health worsens, the girl can’t hate her anymore. Soon, all she has is a still, barely breathing form on a hospital bed, a person who can neither hold her affectionately nor listen to her thoughts and worries.

Her father, who she thought she could depend upon, loses his resolve as well and retreats into a shell. She responds by throwing herself deeper and deeper into her schoolwork, forgetting all else. Essentially, it is just the two of them left in the family, but they cannot even depend on each other for support.

It feels as if the girl has no more tears to cry. What she can remember of her life seems to be loss after loss, without hardly a year between each for her to recover her spirit before she is torn down again.

With nothing else to say, she asks, “Why were you there that night, at the ball? What was I supposed to remember?”

The masked man remains silent, unhelpful as always. She wants to stand up and beat him down until he gives her the answers she seeks, but she is too weary to do anything but lean against the seat she occupies, closing her eyes in defeat.

When he finally speaks, his words are unexpected. “You’re almost there,” he says, reassuringly.

“Almost where? And how long is almost? Am I going to be riding this train, forever feeling this pain, experiencing more pain as I go, forever lost?”

The train has begun to decelerate, and the girl doesn’t want to move. However, she stands up and prepares to get off, steadied by the conductor’s hands.

“This is the final stop before the end of the line,” he tells her. “It will be over soon enough.”

As far as the girl is concerned, it couldn’t end soon enough.

“Good luck,” the masked man calls after her as she steps off the train. Despite the intent behind the statement, she is not reassured. What she needs isn’t luck, but rather an escape. She knows she won’t get one though, not until she has been through every moment of this journey.