The weight of time felt like an anchor, pulling you down into a sea of memories. Was it a year? Two? The specifics blurred in the recesses of your mind, a deliberate act to shield yourself from the haunting echoes of the past. You didn't want to remember, but the nightmares persisted, vivid and cruel.

With tired, bloodshot eyes, you found yourself slumped over your table. The remnants of the nightmares lingered, the images still vivid in your mind. The pain felt fresh, as if the events had unfolded just yesterday. The scars, both physical and emotional, served as a constant reminder of the tragedy that had befallen the once vibrant and lively factory.

As you opened your eyes, the room seemed to warp and twist, shadows dancing on the edges of your consciousness. The weight of the past pressed heavily on your shoulders, making each breath a struggle. The desk beneath your palms felt cool, almost indifferent to the turmoil within you.

You longed for reprieve, for the nightmares to loosen their grip. Yet, in the solitude of your tired awakening, the ghosts of that fateful day lingered, refusing to fade into the recesses of forgotten time.

Your hand reaches up to wipe away tears

You don't know whether it's fortunate or unfortunate that there's absolutely no stains of tears

Two years...? Right... On one hand it felt like just yesterday, on the other it felt like eternity since the tragedy happened, both feelings share the same characteristics of dread

Two years. The passage of time felt like an intricate dance, a delicate balance between the immediacy of yesterday and the vastness of eternity. The tragedy that had befallen the factory cast a long, looming shadow over everything. Dread clung to the memories, refusing to loosen its grip.

Inhaling sharply, you attempted to anchor yourself in the present moment. The paperwork sprawled across your desk served as a testament to the relentless chaos that had ensued since that fateful day. The once-thriving factory now bore the scars of its owner's descent into madness.

Two years and he's still grieving

The folder in hand felt like a heavy burden, a physical manifestation of the emotional weight you carried. The messy scribble on its cover, a simple directive to give it to Mr. Darling, couldn't mask the internal conflict you felt. Reluctance lingered in each step as you left the confines of your office, the door closing behind you with a soft click.

The factory's atmosphere seemed to hold a perpetual gloom, the air thick with unspoken sorrow. As you walked through the familiar corridors, memories of the past haunted the corners, refusing to be forgotten. The once vibrant and bustling workplace now bore the scars of loss and heartache.

Walking out of your office, the once-familiar corridors now seemed to stretch infinitely, each step accompanied by the haunting memories of happier times. The weight of the folder pressed against your chest, a tangible reminder of the delicate balance between duty and the emotional toll you bore.

The sounds of blades in the grinder room echoed a macabre symphony, a stark reminder of the grim transformation the factory had undergone. Once a room for managing waste, it had metamorphosed into a place where bones and flesh were ground into a substance known as

"Spectra." The vibrant colors of childhood now reduced to a gruesome palette.

The factory, once a public structure, now lay hidden in the shadows of the forest. Its evolution mirrored the emotional descent of its owner, a descent that had cast a dark shroud over the once-thriving place. The memories of joy and laughter were replaced by the chilling symphony of machinery, a haunting testament to the profound changes that grief had wrought.

As you passed by the grinder room, the chilling reality of the factory's transformation sent shivers down your spine. The vibrant hues of childhood now mingled in an unsettling concoction, a physical manifestation of the turmoil within the factory's walls. It was a visual representation of the emotional spectrum that had been fractured, leaving behind a haunting mosaic of what once was.

The door creaked open, revealing the tension-laden atmosphere within Mr. Darling's office. The faint sounds of arguing lingered in the air, intertwining with the strains of a marriage gradually unraveling. The once-strong bond between Mr. and Mrs. Darling mirrored the gradual decline of Mr. Darling's mental stability.

As you stood at the threshold, contemplating whether to return later, the door swung open, unveiling a visibly angered Julie. Her expression softened momentarily upon catching sight of you, transforming into a weary smile that carried the weight of unspoken struggles. She shot a pointed look at her husband before leaving, frustration evident in the resounding stomp of her steps.

The heavy atmosphere lingered in the hallway, a palpable reflection of the challenges that the Darlings faced, both individually and as a couple. The echoes of their arguments lingered, a disconcerting soundtrack to the ongoing turmoil within the factory's walls.

As the door hung slightly ajar, you hesitated. The weight of the folder in your hands felt heavier, as if burdened by the complexities within the room. Yet, a duty called you forward, and with a deep breath, you entered Mr. Darling's office.

A child in a family is like glue, a death is like acid

"Mr. Darling," you began, the weight in your voice matching the heaviness of the folder. "I found this among the paperwork. It seemed important." The unspoken pain between you both hung in the air, a silent agreement to avoid discussing the tragedy that had torn through the fabric of your shared history.

Years of camaraderie dwindled to nothing as Mr. Darling shot you a look, his expression teetering on the edge of fury. He clenched his jaw, gruffly muttering a barely audible "mmmn," snatching the folder from your hands with a speed that left a momentary sting.

"I'll take my leave," you murmured carefully, the weight of your heartache palpable. Leaving the office, you couldn't shake the feeling that you had become strangers, your shared memories now distant echoes of a time when joy wasn't tainted by loss.

Back in the employee's lounge, you found yourself sinking into a couch. With the day's tasks completed, your thoughts meandered into the realm of what could have been. As you sipped on your coffee, the heaviness of the past mingled with the emptiness of the present.

It was supposed to be your free time, a moment of respite. Yet, the solitude seemed to magnify the echoes of laughter that had once filled the factory, now replaced by a hollow silence. Solaria's swift ability to move forward contrasted sharply with the unresolved grief that lingered within you, a poignant reminder of the differing ways people cope with tragedy.

The jarring clang of your metal spoon hitting the floor snapped you out of your contemplation. The realization dawned that this was merely the beginning of a new kind of struggle, an unpredictable journey through the aftermath of a shared nightmare.

In the solitude of the lounge, you grappled with the haunting memories and the uncertain future, unsure whether to laugh at the irony or to succumb to the tears that threatened to break free. The echoes of what once was and the shadows of what now remained intertwined, painting a poignant portrait of the aftermath.

The beginning of a new hell seemed inevitable, a continuation of the torment that had become the factory's unwelcome reality.

Author's notes:
Classes are starting up again don't worry, I would be updating every now and then