The biting wind whipped through the skeletal remains of buildings, whistling a mournful tune through the rusted girders and shattered windows. Rain, a rare and precious commodity in this parched city, lashed against Anya’s threadbare cloak, doing little to shield her from the penetrating chill. She huddled deeper into the alleyway, the dampness seeping into her bones, a familiar discomfort. This was her home, or at least, the closest thing to it she had known for as long as she could remember. A home built of shadows and discarded scraps, a testament to her existence on the fringes of a technologically advanced, yet brutally indifferent, society.

Her stomach growled, a hollow ache that mirrored the emptiness inside her. Food was a luxury she rarely afforded, scavenging for scraps being a daily ritual. Today’s haul had been meager – a half-rotten apple, a few stale bread crusts. It wouldn’t last. The gnawing hunger was almost bearable compared to the deeper hunger that consumed her – a hunger for memory, for a past she couldn't grasp, a past that felt both intimately close and maddeningly distant.