She forgets.

She forgets why the color red makes her feel warm inside. She forgets why she's so adept at fighting. She forgets why she doesn't want to join her sister's crusade against kids. She even forgets why she wears her hat everyday.

But all of that doesn't matter when she walks into her room as dusk makes way for night. It had been a particularly stressful day (her sister won't stop pestering her, and the arguments are getting more heated, and Abby is becoming excessively tired by it all), and all she wants is for time to stop long enough for her to take a breath. Her knees buckle under her, and she collapses with a sigh onto the bed, her sheets smooth and airy to the touch.

The last sun-rays stretch across her room and across her stomach, and she runs the tips of her fingers through its golden warmth. Then the rays quietly dissipate, and she's inclined to look outside at the dying sunset. When her gaze flickers in that direction, she's surprised (but not really) by a mysterious object by her ajar window. She sits up laggardly, still weary, and shuffles toward the chill breeze intruding into her room. It is a piece of candy and letter, and the latter has her name on the front in sweeping, flowing letters.

This is new, she thinks, feeling the crisp, cutting edges of the paper.

But this isn't the first time. For several months now (has it been a year?), every night, when she's on the brink of falling into the deepest depths of sleep, she's been awoken utterly by a rustle at her window. She has risen to find a single piece of wrapped candy, glistening in the strewn moonlight. It has always been cherry- she can tell by just a glance (she forgets how she developed that skill). At first, she never ate the candy, but she never threw it away, instead just putting it on a stray shelf in her closet. Because even though she forgets why, she's always loved candy, and the fact that the delicacy came by unknown means did not deter her appreciation for sweets. After five months, she had mustered the courage to eat them, rolling them to and fro with her tongue, savoring the smooth, rich taste that enlivened every inch of her capable of sensation. The candy was always delicious, always wrapped in the same cherry-red paper, always shining with pride from the other side of her bedroom.

Somewhere along the line, Abby knows she forgot her childhood. She forgot why she gives people with sunglasses a second glance. She forgot why she feels solemn and nostalgic when she watches children play in the park. One day she woke up, and she forgot, and she accepted it because you can't fight for something you didn't know you had. But you also can't fight against it, and that's why she refuses to be swayed by her sister's pugnacious ways.

She forgot. But every night, she has received this small gift, and she thinks it's tied to what she forgot. This night, the night of birth and light and hope, she was presented with this letter, a new addition to the ritual. Slowly, she opens it, tugging out its content, a slim piece of paper with one word written in the very center:

Abby forgot everything. She didn't want to, she knows that. But she did. But maybe one day it'll be ok, because maybe what she forgot will become a part of her life anyway.

She looks out into the still blackness, as if searching for something, but she forgot what she'd be searching for. But for a split second, in the fleeting glint of an ice-dusted streetlight, she sees a flash of red. Then it is gone in the absolute cover of the dark.

But she will remember this night, and she will remember that flash of red. Because- one day, she just knows- it will become a part of her life anyway.