Darkness. Then red.

Papyrus stands in a burning village. Screams echo. His hands grip a bone spear—long, jagged, glowing faintly.

He looks down. A human child lies still. His own voice echoes in his head:

Papyrus (memory): "You will not escape justice."

He gasps, stumbling back. The scene flickers. Another human. Another spear. Another scream.

He tries to speak, but his mouth doesn’t move. He’s watching himself. A stranger.

Suddenly—static. The dream collapses.

Papyrus jolts awake in his bed, panting. Snowdin is quiet. Too quiet.

Papyrus: (whispers) "That wasn’t real… was it?"

Later, Papyrus sits at his desk, scribbling notes. His hand trembles.

He tries to remember the dream. But it’s fading—like someone erased it.

He closes his eyes. Tries again. Nothing.

Then—

A flash. A lab. A voice.

Gaster (memory): "You were never meant to remember."

Papyrus gasps, knocking over his chair. He stares at the wall. A sigil glows faintly—then vanishes.

Papyrus: (shaken) "Why would I… kill anyone?"

He clutches his scarf. It feels heavier than usual.

Papyrus walks through Snowdin. The snow feels colder than usual. The town is quiet.

He passes familiar places—Grillby’s, the library—but doesn’t go in.

He stops at the edge of the forest, staring into the trees.

Papyrus (thinking): "If I did those things… why don’t I remember?"

A gust of wind blows past. He hears a faint whisper.

Voice (unseen): "You were perfect once."

Papyrus turns sharply. No one’s there.

He grips his scarf tighter. The bone spear from his dream flashes in his mind—heavy, cruel, his.

Then—

A shimmer in the snow. A reflection. Not of himself as he is… but as he was.

Papyrus stands in full armor—black and silver, sharp-edged like Undyne’s. His eyes glow. His stance is rigid. The bone spear rests across his back like a blade.

He stares at the image. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t blink.

Papyrus (whispers): "What… was I?"

The reflection fades. Only snow remains.

Snowdin is calm. The sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the snow.

Papyrus sits on a bench near the edge of town, staring at the ground. His scarf is wrapped tightly, his posture tense.

Footsteps crunch softly behind him.

Frisk approaches, her coat buttoned up, cheeks pink from the cold. She stops a few feet away, watching him quietly.

Frisk: (softly) "Are you okay?"

Papyrus doesn’t answer right away. His fingers twitch slightly.

He looks up, eyes tired but trying to smile.

Papyrus: (quietly) "Of course! The great Papyrus is always okay!"

Frisk doesn’t smile. She sits beside him, silent.

Papyrus glances at her, then back at the snow.

Papyrus: (after a pause) "Do you ever… forget something so important, it feels like it was stolen?"

Frisk turns to him, her expression gentle.

Frisk: (softly) "Sometimes. But I think the truth finds its way back."

Papyrus nods slowly, but his eyes drift toward the forest—toward the place where the reflection appeared.

He doesn’t speak again. But the silence between them feels like a thread holding him together.