"Yes, thank you," Julian replies, nodding politely as he hands over his card.
The driver taps it against the machine, returns it with a printed receipt.
"Thank you," Julian says again, his voice warm but quiet, before stepping out into the crisp morning air.
Before him lies an antique yard, its stones uneven and worn with age. A weathered sign reads
"Oh, hi!" The principal, a middle-aged woman, steps out from the doorway, her breath white in the winter air. "Thank you so much for revisiting."
Julian's smile is gentle as he walks toward her.
"No, I dropped by because I wanted to see the children," Julian replies. "How are they doing? Adjusting well to the new environment?"
Her expression softens.
"Why don't you come and see? They'll love to see you."
The two walk side by side into the orphanage. Outside, a tender winter wind curls through the yard, carrying with it the faint laughter of children from somewhere inside.
It's a crisp new Monday. The winter wind bites at the windows, but inside the university campus library, warmth lingers like a quiet hush. Grace walks in, her boots echoing softly against the polished floor. Rows of shelves stretch before her like a forest of stories. She moves through them slowly, fingertips grazing spines, eyes scanning titles—searching for something that feels right.
Around her, the library breathes with quiet intensity. Students are hunched over laptops, whispering thoughts into keyboards, coffee cups steaming beside them. Pages turn, pens scratch, lives unfold silently in the spaces between deadlines. Grace watches them, feeling a strange detachment—like she's walking through a life that isn't quite hers.
She finds a quiet desk by the window and sits. Outside, snow drifts gently past the glass, but inside, the warmth wraps around her like a blanket. She opens one of the novels she brought and sinks into it, letting the printed world draw her in. For a moment, the lines between fiction and reality blur, and the cold outside feels miles away.
Time passes unnoticed.
When she finally steps out of the library and walks through the campus gates, the afternoon is dimming, shadows stretching across the pavement. People move around her, bundled up, voices muffled by scarves and the rush of wind. Grace walks with her hands tucked into her coat pockets, head slightly lowered.
Then—
"Hey, Grace!"
A voice pierces the calm. A young woman—early twenties, maybe—spots her from across the walkway. Her eyes widen with recognition, and she rushes over, her steps hurried and unhesitant.
Grace stops, startled. The woman grabs her hands, eyes shining with surprise and something deeper.
Grace blinks, caught off guard, offering a hesitant smile.
"Hi. Do I know you?"
The woman beams, her breath visible in the cold air.
"Do I know you? Of course I do!" she says, laughing lightly. "We were in the same graduate program. Don't you remember?"
Grace stares at her, still smiling, but her eyes betray the uncertainty beneath. A pause.
She must be one of those people from grad school, she thinks. A face lost in the fog.
The woman's smile falters just slightly. A beat. Then a flicker of realization passes over her face like a shadow crossing the sun.
"You… you didn't remember," she says softly. "Wait—did you lose your memory? After the car accident?" Her voice breaks a little, confusion and concern blending in her tone. "We heard about it. That you were in a coma. We were so worried…"
Grace nods slowly, her expression warm, patient.
"Yeah," she says gently. "I'm still… going through memory loss. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you."
She looks at the woman more carefully now.
"You're Gwen," Grace says, as if tasting the name, letting it settle in her mouth with quiet approval.
"Yes, I'm Gwen," the woman says with a soft, sympathetic smile, her voice now gentler, more measured. "So, Grace... I didn't know you were back on campus. How come I haven't seen you in any of the new major courses?"
Grace hesitates. The question hangs in the chilly air like breath turned to mist. She shifts her weight slightly, glancing away for a moment.
"Oh, that..." she starts slowly, her voice quiet. "I'm awake, yeah, but… I'm not exactly ready to come back to graduate school yet, so…"
Gwen's expression shifts. She lifts a hand to her mouth as if trying to physically catch the words she's just let loose. Her eyes widen.
"I'm sorry…" she murmurs, eyes falling slightly.
"No, no need to be sorry," Grace replies with a gentle nod, her tone even and composed. "So, you must be going somewhere? You looked like you were in a bit of a rush."
At that, Gwen's head bobs quickly.
"Yeah, I was just heading to an elective."
She pauses for half a second, then adds with a quick smile, "Oh, I'm also taking the elective from Professor Lenter."
The words hang between them.
Then Gwen stiffens. Her hand flies to her mouth again, realizing too late—she's said something wrong. Again.
"Oh, never mind… I'm sorry, Grace."
Grace senses it now. The awkwardness creeps in like a chill under the collar. She doesn't quite understand it, but she feels it.
Why is she sorry after mentioning Professor Lenter?
The thought flashes across her mind, but before she can ask, Gwen is already stepping back.
"Well, it was really nice seeing you, Grace," Gwen says quickly, waving her hand in a nervous flutter. "Hope you recover soon. Bye!"
She turns and walks off briskly, boots crunching against the gravel path.
"Bye!... Gwen," Grace calls after her, the name added with a soft breath, almost like she's trying to hold on to something fading.
She stands there for a moment, watching Gwen disappear into the crowd.
Then, she exhales—slow, small.
All right… Apparently I'm not remembering anyone. Not a single thing, she thinks as she continues walking through campus, hands tucked deep into her coat pockets.
The cold stings a little more now, or maybe it's just the emptiness growing inside her. Faces pass, buildings loom, but everything feels just a little out of reach—but deep inside, all of this isn't that unfamiliar to her.
The glow of the laptop screen cuts through the dimness like a whisper. Grace sits cross-legged on the couch, cocooned in a worn-out hoodie, a mismatched bowl cradled in her arms—half yogurt, half potato chips. It's not dinner. It's survival.
She scrolls.
Endless part-time listings flicker by, each more faceless than the last. The cursor hesitates. Click. Scroll. Crunch. The chips rustle like dry leaves as she absentmindedly spoons in a bit of yogurt, the two textures clashing—like her thoughts.
"I'm just trying to look for a job before the next semester starts…" she mutters to no one, voice barely louder than the hum of the fridge. "And they all want an ID photo."
Her fingers pause on the trackpad. A sigh escapes. Then, as if speaking it aloud wills it into motion, "All right. Let me search for photo studios near my home."
She types slowly, deliberately. The results appear—dots on a map, tiny promises. She clicks one near her apartment. Clean interface. Good reviews. Five stars.
"Great," Grace blurts out as she leans in. "Do I have to make a reservation?"
She finds the booking section.
Tomorrow's full. So is the next day. Her eyes skim to the slot two days from now: 10:00 AM available.
She hesitates. Just a moment. Then clicks.
Reserved.
The screen confirms her appointment with sterile enthusiasm. She closes the laptop gently, as if not to disturb the stillness in the room. The silence returns like an old friend.
She sits motionless. The bowl rests forgotten in her lap.
Then, almost imperceptibly, her eyes close.
A quiet prayer, unspoken, forms on her lips.
Three days in Mellany vanish like smoke.
Julian steps through the door of his apartment in L Bingo, suitcase in hand. As the lock clicks shut behind him, soft light spills across the entranceway—motion sensors blink to life with sterile efficiency. No welcome, just automation.
He exhales, long and slow, as if the city's air weighs differently.
The suitcase drops gently to the side. He moves toward the window without turning on more lights. Outside, the city pulses—neon veins and glass towers, the hum of a thousand lives stacked on top of each other. This is home now, supposedly. But the contrast feels jarring.
Mellany still lingers in his chest.
It's as if he's time-traveled—from cobbled streets and sun-faded signs to a future that kept going without asking him. But even Mellany isn't what it was. He knows that. Beneath the nostalgia, it's changed too.
Julian pulls out the chair by the window, the legs scraping softly across the polished floor. The apartment remains dark, save for the flicker of streetlights crawling up the walls. He switches on the desk lamp—its warm glow pools quietly across the tabletop, casting long shadows.
From the upper shelf, he retrieves a small notebook, worn at the edges, pages soft with use. A pen follows.
He opens to a blank page. Breath steady. Mind sharp.