Daniel sat at a small, square table; a chess board was inlaid and lacquered across its top. He drank nothing, ate nothing, read nothing, thought nothing. He knew only that Adrian would be with him soon. Adrian had said it—at what moment, Daniel couldn't recall. He was certain, though, that Adrian had clearly told him to meet him in the park, now.

When Daniel had arrived home the night he'd discovered his next artistic endeavor, he'd found his canvases—his color portraits—gone. No trace of them was anywhere to be seen, and Daniel had felt only a cold emptiness and a paradoxical relief at the fact that he'd at least been spared the sight of them in shreds strewn across the floor. Adrian had been nowhere in sight, and yet he'd told Daniel to meet him two days later, here, in the park. And so, neglecting his classes once again, here he was, at the glossy checkered table, with nothing occupying any part of him.

The sun shone strong, warm on his back. Could such a warmth be captured in paint? Before he could think of it seriously, the tall, slender black man was with him.

Neither spoke. Daniel kept his eyes down, but Adrian stared openly at him from across the table, a look of disgust on his shadowy features. If the day had been less perfect, it might have felt surreal, but as it was, with the sun and the birds and the light-filled space enveloping them, nothing could have felt more real. At length, Daniel spoke. "It's not the right time, Adrian." He knew it was futile to attempt to challenge him.

Adrian stared on, though Daniel's gaze stayed solidly on the table. "It's nothing to do with time," he spoke, his accent heavy on his words. "You know that."

There was silence again, though it differed now because it was pregnant with Daniel's discomfited search for response. "No," he said after moments. "I didn't know."

Slamming his fist on the table, Adrian instantly embodied rage. "It's because you've forgotten!" His eyes sought some imperceptible testimony in the sky. "All this wasted effort on foolish pursuits. You cannot capture these things . . . these things that are transparent, that are wordless. They are fleeting, meaningless pleasures, like chasing the wind. You are not here for such things, and I did not come to have to disabuse you of the garbage with which you've replaced your knowledge. You've lost what you were privileged to know. All of it. Instead you fabricate a history for yourself as if this hollowness made sense to you." He thumped his long hand against his chest. "As if it meant something to you—here."

Daniel remained expressionless, though his tone conveyed concession. "It does."

"It is a lie." Adrian had leaned toward his counterpart but now sat back as if in revulsion. His ire seemed to simmer and cool. Practicality edged his words, almost exuding empathy. "This must stop. You cannot pretend. You lose, and your loss becomes mine. These lies which you've convinced yourself are truths are fallacy. I know what it is you are thinking. You've some idea in your mind." He tapped a finger against his right temple. "It is here, yes? Some new endeavor which you wish to undertake?" Daniel did not respond. Adrian nodded knowingly. "You must forget it. Whatever it is, it is no longer given place in your thoughts. It is forgotten, now, you understand?"

No, Daniel willed himself to think, but the dissention did not leave his heart and travel to his mouth. It was as if some synapse in his brain collapsed and wouldn't transmit his desire. He lost all free will in Adrian's presence. "What is it you've come for?"

Adrian smiled as Daniel looked up, finally, to face him, though his smile was smug, not genial. "What have I come for? To remind you of what you are and what you will always be. To make you understand that this is not what you are meant to do. You and I, Daniel—we are the same. We know a deeper place than this; we know a different truth."

"I don't. I don't know what you mean."

"You do. You've just forgotten. But you will remember. For now, you must stop this childish drawing and painting. This is not what you are to be doing. Is this understood?"

"Perfectly."

Before he could consider what he'd said, Daniel realized that Adrian had left him and was walking away, down the tree-lined path of the park, where children were skateboarding. His chest ached deep within, in a place he couldn't name but which was somewhere around his heart. For the first time in his memory, he felt water moisten his eyes, though he hardly knew where it had come from. No emotion filled him. There was no sadness that could have given rise to some outward sign of melancholy, no anger writhing within. He had no idea why such a symbol of sorrow was manifesting in his eyes, and yet he felt undisturbed by it. Something resonated far beneath the surface of his calm, inner ocean; it was like a tectonic plate in his foundation had shifted slightly and was just now beginning to produce ripples on the surface of the water. Adrian's words—his mere presence—were as natural to him as was breathing air, but if he thought back, as far as he could go, he could not recall ever meeting Adrian for the first time, or ever discussing his artwork with him, or telling him where he lived. In fact, while he knew, somehow, that Adrian had always been a part of his life, he could not determine a moment prior to his recent arrival in which they'd ever had a conversation or meeting. For some reason, he was not profoundly bothered by this; he was just mildly uneasy in the sense that he felt an urge to recall such an event, but the harder he strove to remember his past, the more difficult memory became. When had he moved to the city? Perhaps he never had . . . no. He knew that he had not always been here, and yet, he couldn't recall where he'd been before, let alone the process of moving. And while he knew Adrian had appeared sometime during his past, Daniel could not think of any experiences of being in that past. He was in classes now, but how and when had he originally begun taking classes, and how was he affording them? He worked on occasion at the Burwin Tap, and he knew this was because Brian had been a friend to him when he'd first moved here, yet he could neither recall meeting Brian nor how the man had assisted him in any way. It was as if, though Daniel knew things were, they had never actually occurred. They were only existing in the present; the past had never taken place. As time went on, then, he wondered, would these things he now knew as happening in the present fade and become vestiges of knowledge, never having taken place in his past? The thought was mind-boggling, but hadn't Adrian just told him that it had nothing to do with time? What could it all possibly mean? And even more disquieting . . . why had none of it suggested itself to him until just now?

He paused suddenly and found himself in a bit of wilderness. He had to still be in the park, but he'd left the checker table and wandered so far without paying any attention that he had no idea where exactly he was. Hardly letting that thought glance his mind, he turned and started back the way from which he'd come.

"You've forgotten," Adrian had said. But what had he forgotten, exactly? Daniel felt with inherent certainty that his past was not what Adrian had meant. What was it, then? There was some secret in all of it, as if he'd been told something no others were allowed to know, and he was supposed to safeguard that knowledge; instead of doing so, though, he had himself let it fade from his memory. How could he remember?