The Art of Memories ||A KotLC Fanfiction||

═ Prologue ═

"Are you sure you're willing to give this up?"

"I don't have another choice! I need to keep them safe. All of them."

"..."

"Please... Just- I'm doing this for the good of everyone I know. I can't let them get hurt."

"... Very well. But be careful. Being unaware of reality is just as dangerous as running right at it."

"I understand."

— — —

Papers were scattered all around a small apartment complex, with even more being thrown into the air. Behind the stacks of blank paper, as well as documents and such, was a golden-haired boy, frantically trying to dig up anything about his past.

'No, no, no... how did I even get this? No, no-' His thoughts were going haywire. With each sheet he discarded into the air, his frustration grew, until he finally gave up and flopped on the ground. Turning his head, he sighed. 'This... is not going to work.'

Silently, he made his way over to his desk. Or... whoever's desk that was, he wasn't really sure. Keefe was pretty sure that he did not buy an apartment complex, seeing that he was only 16, but then again... he didn't remember anything except his name, his age, and the basic ability to be a functional human being. Not very helpful.

He wasn't quite sure how he had gotten here. He'd just woken up that one fateful day (okay, it was like... the middle of a busy Tuesday, but you get the idea), and found himself in this unfamiliar new place. He had poked around the place once he was fully conscious, and even gone out a few times, and he'd gathered a few things. A. He was in San Francisco. B. He was new to the city, as no one had seen him before. C. He could not talk.

Yup. That's right. He could not, to no avail, get any sound out of his mouth. It was like he was permanently on mute. It made it a lot harder to communicate with his neighbors, yielding very limited information. After discovering that, he was pretty sure he'd pieced together his backstory. Tragic accidents, injuries, amnesia, the whole bunch. However, he quickly disproved his theory, as he didn't have any scars that could've been a result of an accident severe enough to cause his other conditions, sans one under his ribcage, though he didn't put much thought into it.

Picking himself off the floor, he shuffled around the room, picking up the countless pieces of paper that he had thrown carelessly in his search for anything tangible about his past. He put them in a few folders he had found in the closet, then kept the stacks of blank paper and mixed media paper on his table.

10 minutes later, he was almost done. As he stooped down to retrieve the last paper, he caught sight of a fleck of paint on the back. Raising his eyebrow, he picked it up. It was a heavy paper, thicker, and much better suited for paints. Flipping it over, his eyes widened.

A painting of a beautiful tree, blooming with purple and pink flowers, nestled in a field of tall grass. Its trunk was twisted, its wood dappled brown and grey. Long branches sprouted from the trunk, swaying in the wind, scattering its petals into the air. As he looked closer, he could see the silhouette of a figure under the tree. It wasn't as detailed, and quite small, but it was of a girl. She was facing away from the viewer, but she had long golden hair, and was sitting by the tree.

Keefe held the painting a distance away from himself, observing it. In the back of his mind, he couldn't help but feel like this was familiar. However... that couldn't be right. He would remember himself painting- or... maybe not. He snorted. 'Amnesia,' he thought, shaking his head. Yet he still couldn't shake the feeling. It was like... he was there. He could feel the breeze in the painting, the petals of the tree brushing against his cheek. But... he didn't remember the experience. It didn't help that the scene was all too surreal to belong in any place on earth.

But...

Bringing the painting over to his desk, Keefe pinned it up on his wall with a spare piece of tape. Sitting down, he grabbed a spare pencil and a sheet of blank paper. Placing it in front of him, he stared at the painting, now on his wall.

If this... if this random scene in a painting felt so familiar, maybe, just maybe, he could do it again. Taking a deep breath, and clearing his thoughts, he set his pencil down, and started sketching.