didn't sleep that night. I tried.I lay on the bed, sheets tucked too perfectly, body clean and clothed in someone else's pajamas. The ceiling above me had a delicate golden pattern, a spiral of vines and stars that looked expensive, intentional. Designed. Everything here was designed.Down to the version of me in the mirror. I turned on my side. The curtains swayed slightly, even though the windows were closed. Somewhere deep in the house, something creaked.
I wasn't alone in this mansion. That thought kept crawling back, no matter how much I told myself it was just the wood settling or the wind outside. But I could feel it. Like eyes brushing the back of my neck.
At 3:11 AM, I gave up trying to rest.
I sat up, pulled on the robe hanging at the corner of the closet, and padded down the hallway barefoot. The air was cold. Too clean. The kind of chill you only feel in houses where the temperature is perfectly maintained, but the warmth of life is missing. The corridor stretched ahead like a dream — endless doors, shadowed corners, and soft rugs that swallowed my footsteps. I passed a painting that made me stop. It was a large portrait of a man — standing in a black suit, facing slightly away from the viewer, one hand in his pocket, the other resting on a cane. His face was hidden in shadows.
But something about him… The posture. The presence. It was me. Or someone who looked too much like me to be coincidence. I stepped closer. The plaque beneath the frame read:
Aiden Verne, 2022"Built From Silence"
I stared at the painting until my skin prickled. The year matched my age. The name matched my identity. But I had no memory of posing for this. I reached out and touched the edge of the frame. Cold. A soft rustle behind me. I turned instantly—heart hammering—only to find Elara standing a few feet away. She wore the same sweater as before, but now there was a small flashlight in her hand. "You're not resting," she said softly.
I didn't reply. I pointed at the painting."When was this taken?" She stepped closer, her eyes lingering on the portrait. "Two years ago." "I don't remember any of it." "You were different then. Quiet, private. You didn't like photos. But that one… you allowed it. Said you needed to see who you were becoming." "That's not me," I said sharply. She looked at me carefully. "It is. You just don't recognize yourself yet."
I turned away from the painting. "Who painted it?" "A man you helped once. He said you gave him the courage to go sober. As thanks, he painted you the way he saw you — powerful, alone, but real." The idea of inspiring anyone felt foreign. I didn't remember being anyone worth painting. "I don't get it," I muttered. "You say I helped people, that I lived here, that I was important. But I remember sleeping on a floor in a one-room apartment. Barely affording noodles. Getting ignored in job interviews. How can those both be true?" Elara didn't answer right away. Then she said something I didn't expect. "Because life gave you two versions, and someone else made the choice for you."
We walked slowly through the hallway. Each turn revealed more of this strange mansion — rooms with untouched books, walls with hidden safes, a grand piano covered in dust. "You said someone's watching," I said. "Who?" She looked at me. "They were investors. Backers. Friends, once. But something changed. You turned down a project they wanted. And then you disappeared." "I disappeared?" She nodded. "Vanished. No trace. And when you came back ." She gestured to me. "You weren't you anymore." I swallowed. "And now they don't know I'm back." Her eyes darkened. "Yet."
We stopped at a door at the far end of the hall. "This room was yours," she said. "I thought the one I woke up in was mine." "That was the guest room. Yours has been locked since you vanished. I didn't want to touch anything until you were ready." I hesitated. My hand hovered near the handle. "What if there's nothing in there? What if it's just another lie?" "Then you'll know. And you'll stop doubting me." That was fair. I turned the handle and stepped inside.
The air in the room felt heavier — filled with the scent of old paper and something faintly metallic, like rust or dried blood. The walls were deep charcoal grey, shelves lined with thick notebooks, pens stacked neatly in trays. A corkboard on one side held a series of scribbled notes, string connecting different pieces of paper. Like a conspiracy map.
I stepped closer, scanning the fragments.
"Elara – meeting point?""Sept 3 – crash simulation results: FAIL""They're hiding the tech – prototype stolen""Memory gap = test reaction?""Don't trust Marcus."
I turned to Elara. "Is this real?" She nodded. "You were building something. A system. A machine, maybe. Something big. And then something went wrong." "And Marcus?" "He was your partner. The one you walked away from. After that, things… escalated."
I opened one of the notebooks. Inside were diagrams — blueprints of circuits, power grids, neural interfaces. I couldn't fully grasp what I was seeing, but one word appeared again and again.
RESET.
"What does RESET mean?" I asked. She looked at the floor. "It was the name of your project." I turned the page. There was a rough sketch of a man — me — standing in front of a machine. A large sphere suspended in mid-air. The caption underneath: "Memory is the last prison."
The next notebook was different. Personal. Handwritten entries in uneven lines.
"Elara brought food today. She smiled like she forgave me. I don't know if I deserve that."
"I keep waking up forgetting what day it is. RESET works too well. Need to limit exposure."
"If this doesn't stop, I won't know who I am anymore."
I dropped the book. My hands were shaking. "You tested it on yourself," Elara said gently. "The machine. It was meant to erase trauma. Reset the mind while keeping skills. But it went too far." I looked at her, stunned. "You mean… I did this to myself?" "You believed it was the only way to survive what they were doing to you. But you didn't expect to lose this much." I backed up, breath catching in my throat. "I don't know who I am." She stepped forward, reaching for my hand. "Then let me remind you."
We stood there for a long time. The room didn't feel like mine. But something in the air — the weight of the notebooks, the scrawl of the writing — it all whispered that I had lived here, thought here, broken down and rebuilt myself here. I looked down at my hand in hers. It felt steady. Real. Warm.
Outside, a distant siren cut through the quiet. Elara turned toward the window, her face tight. "They're getting closer," she said. "And now that you're awake, we have even less time." I looked around the room one last time. "Then tell me everything. From the beginning." She nodded. "But not here. There's one more place we have to go." "Where?" She gave a small, sad smile. "Where it all ended."