After I lost my memory, life went on until I stumbled upon an old photograph of a boy I couldn’t place. There was something unsettling about it—was he an unfamiliar face, or someone I was meant to remember? I stood alone in my apartment, surrounded by a silence that felt almost tangible, wondering if loneliness had always been a part of my life.
After the accident, the hospital stay, and the doctors’ grim warning that my memory might never fully return, all I could do was try to rebuild my life from the fragments that remained.
A gentle knock on the door shattered the quiet. Before I could even react, the door creaked open.
“Gregory,” came a familiar voice.
There stood my neighbor, Eleanor—she always appeared without an invitation, exuding a confident, slightly ironic air.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Alive, I guess,” I replied with a smile. “They say I need to keep doing things like before.”
“Then let’s go for some coffee,” she suggested playfully, raising an eyebrow. “You know you couldn’t function without it, even before the accident.”
I nodded in agreement.
We stepped outside, and I felt the sun gently caress my skin, as if I were experiencing the world for the first time. We walked into a small café on the corner.
When the barista asked for my order, I glanced at Eleanor and asked, “What do I usually have?” Without missing a beat, she answered, “Double espresso. No sugar.” I nodded and ordered just that.
The day unfolded with familiar routines that now felt strangely foreign. I wandered the streets with my camera, capturing candid moments, and even attempted to write a column for my newspaper.
Everything seemed normal until I decided to sort through my old belongings in the closet. Amidst a collection of books, notebooks, and various trinkets, I discovered a photograph. In it, I appeared young and happy, standing beside a ten-year-old boy. On the back, “Children’s Hockey Club” was scrawled—but I didn’t recall who that boy was.
I stared at the image, hoping a memory would emerge, but nothing came. I turned to Eleanor and asked, “Who is this kid?” She examined the photo thoughtfully and remarked, “You always loved photographing children. Perhaps he was just part of your work?” Yet, as I looked at him again, his joyful expression and the familiarity in his eyes hinted that this was more than a random snapshot.
The next morning, I was already in my old convertible, checking my supply of medication before setting out on a six-hour drive to the nearest hockey club—a place whose interior matched the one in the photo I’d seen online. Eleanor stood by the car, cautioning, “Gregory, this is a bad idea. You need to stay where things feel familiar; it’ll help your memory.” I pressed the gas pedal without replying, lost in the steady hum of the engine, until I finally turned to her and said, “But what if out there, there’s someone who once needed me?” Her expression darkened.
“And if that’s the case, there must have been reasons you lost touch. Digging into the past can be dangerous,” she warned. I gripped the steering wheel silently until I heard the sound of a door closing. Looking over, I saw Eleanor had climbed into the passenger seat.
“I’m coming with you,” she declared. “At the very least, I’ll make sure you don’t go hungry along the way.”
I smiled, grateful for her constant presence—even when I hadn’t noticed it. “Why am I always alone, Eleanor?” I asked.
She sighed and gazed out at the road. “Because you were always chasing the greatest story of your career, hopping from city to city, capturing fleeting moments of life…” she said with a playful smirk.