He had forgotten the name, or perhaps, that name had slowly faded from his memory’s depths. Had she once been like a mother to him? He could no longer recall clearly, only a warmth lingering in his heart, like a vague light, flickering and elusive. That day, many ponies wore black attire, and he saw their solemn expressions, filled with endless sorrow. He only remembered them crying, but he did not. He left, aimless, like a bird lost without direction. Her face, her voice, her gaze, all disappeared without a trace, leaving only the emptiness she left behind when she departed—a chasm he dared not approach.
A thousand years passed. He drifted like a boat blown by the wind, wandering through countless places, enduring countless days and nights, but he never saw the lighthouse of the past again, until today.
Today, he returned here. Why? Perhaps it was the bright lights, or the sweet scent of apples, or perhaps it was the sight of the cupcakes he loved. He couldn't say for sure. But he had returned to this place, a place that once made him feel warmth. It was like somewhere he had known before, like a dream that had never truly ended.
The streets were still the same as before, the air filled with the same scent, only the faces of the ponies had become unfamiliar. He walked with heavy steps, his heart weighed down by a vague emotion he couldn’t quite define. Every time he stopped, his gaze would involuntarily drift to a certain direction, as if something was pulling him forward, but he couldn't understand what it was.
He once knew every corner of this place, once shared joy with some ponies, once felt a sense of belonging. But now, there was only an endless loneliness. No one recognized him, no one knew he once belonged here.
Only a stranger pony in some corner looked at him and whispered, “You’re a hero, right?”
“Am I?” He was stunned, as if he had completely forgotten everything that once was, even dared not to touch those blurred memories. What was that?
He smiled lightly and casually replied to the pony’s words, like a dream, where he was walking alone.
Nothing could make him remember everything clearly, except for that fleeting warmth, like a strand of abandoned sunlight, unable to warm his heart that had already grown cold.
How did it become the nightmare that haunts me?
He began to grow accustomed to life here. The days were always so quiet, and the air carried a kind of silent weight. The ponies in town were still lively, some playing in the streets, others lingering outside shops. It seemed everything was unrelated to him. He occasionally spoke with them, listened to their talk about strange things. Their laughter would sometimes bring him warmth, but that warmth was always brief.
He wandered the streets aimlessly, as though every step was erasing his once vivid memories, wearing away at those things he dared not touch. Those memories became more and more blurred, like fading patches of color on a blurry canvas.
One day, he entered a small library, or perhaps it was a museum now. It was quiet, with shelves piled high with dust-covered books. He randomly picked one up, sat down at a nearly ancient desk, maybe a pony noticed him, but no one stopped him. Perhaps this place belonged to him?
The desk creaked under his weight, its delicate craftsmanship nearly turned to rot after a thousand years of decay.
He idly flipped through the yellowed pages, his gaze pausing on a faded photograph tucked between the pages.
It was an image he had never seen before. A young dragon sat beside a purple pony, the pony looking down at a book, while the dragon lay on her, enjoying her warmth.
He suddenly froze, as though something had been triggered. That familiar feeling seemed to surge from the depths of his memory, but it was too vague, too indistinct to recognize.
“Who... is this?” he whispered to himself, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.
He flipped to the next page, his fingers unconsciously touching a line of text. It was simple and clear: "You will always be my pride."
He stopped, his gaze fixed on those words, as if searching for something, yet everything felt so unfamiliar. How could he not remember her? That feeling of warmth, that familiar dependence, why did it feel so distant, like something from another world?
He stared blankly at the library, the ponies who had come to visit now seemed to vanish, as if everything had returned to the way it once was. The dust-free bookshelves, the books arranged alphabetically, the polished glass, and the delicious gem pancakes on the table… he suddenly had the strange illusion that he had once been a librarian here. But why? How could a dragon, who could destroy the library at any moment, have anything to do with books? He didn't understand. Could it all be a dream he once had?
He sank deeper into confusion, wanting to understand it all but realizing the more he tried, the further the answers slipped away.
Just as he was staring at the photo, the desk suddenly groaned and creaked, followed by a violent shaking. It could no longer bear his weight and made a loud cracking sound before collapsing completely.
He was caught off guard, falling to the ground, books scattering everywhere. Pain shot through his limbs. He gritted his teeth, trying to struggle to his feet, but deep inside, emotions and memories grew clearer, like long-lost voices and feelings returning piece by piece.
Then, he heard it.
“Spike, I... I’m sorry, I can't stay with you anymore…” The voice was gentle yet filled with sorrow, as if it had always echoed in his heart, seeping into every corner.
He froze, his heart tightening suddenly.
“I want to tell you... I’ve never had the courage. You are my son... I will always love you.”
The voice carried endless affection and regret, as though it came from far away, but he felt it was so close, so incredibly close.
He covered his head, trying to push the voice away, but it only grew clearer, more real. That long-lost warmth and dependence seemed to be an emotion he had lost, slowly filling his entire heart.
He knew, this wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a memory. It was her voice, her, the one who had once walked by his side…
But why? Why had he forgotten her, forgotten everything?
His breathing became rapid, his chest heaving, as if those abandoned memories had finally found their place, but he still couldn't admit the importance of that past presence.
Spike lowered his head, and the dust in front of him began to spread, as if everything had become unreal, as if everything he had lost had returned in this moment.
But still blurry, still distant.
In his mind, the figure who had once stood by him began to fade. Her face, her voice, even her name… all of it became more and more elusive, fading further as he desperately sought.
He struggled to rise from the wreckage of the desk, and the world around him came back into focus. The museum ponies stared at him, reminding him of what this place was, waiting for him to face the punishment for the damaged artifacts.
But… they said nothing, as if silently allowing everything.
He returned the book, a wave of indescribable pain rising within him. It was a feeling that couldn’t be put into words, like a deep void expanding in his heart, swallowing all warmth and dependence. He couldn’t remember her name, not even her face. He had forgotten all the memories that belonged to her.
All the warmth she had given him, all the words she had spoken, felt as if they had never happened.
The days flowed like a calm river, steady and quiet, and Spike’s life became more regular. He grew accustomed to the simple exchanges, the laughter with the ponies, the daily sunlight and twilight. Gradually, he stopped thinking about those distant memories, even stopped wondering about the lost fragments. During those days, he would occasionally dream of a purple pony, standing beside him, her gaze gentle, as if speaking of something.
But when he woke, he was always left with a sense of confusion, as though he had never had any connection with that pony.
He walked into the cemetery.
The cemetery was quiet, empty, only the wind blowing through the gravestones, making a low sound.
He stopped before one gravestone, its name barely legible, only a faded fragment of text: "Princess’s student, Friendship’s guide, Mother…"
Spike froze, a blank emptiness rushing through his mind. He looked down at the words, suddenly feeling an overwhelming sense of emptiness, like an unbearable pain. He dared not look any longer, as though the words would pull him back into the distant past.
He stood there, motionless. Then, suddenly, he realized—he had already forgotten her, forgotten the name of the one who had once given him endless warmth and dependence.
At that moment, he heard his friends calling behind him, the ponies from the new town asking him to join them on an adventure.
He turned to look at their excited, happy faces, and he smiled...
For the first time in a thousand years, he realized that perhaps he had never truly lost anything.
But what about her?
He had completely forgotten.
The funeral was over...
