"Do not remember."
That sentence lingered in my mind as I slowly navigated the abyss. I didn't know where I was—or even who I was. I just drifted there, alone.
It was cold and dark, yet unusually comforting.
'Maybe I should close my eyes.'
'Maybe I should embrace the abyss.'
'Maybe I should just rest...'
For some reason, this was all I was able to think of.
"..."
But then, I heard a voice. From within the darkness, it called out to me.
I had to follow it.
I moved my body, swimming through the abyss, the voice growing clearer as I drew closer.
It was a woman—calling for me.
Calling my name.
"Amon Civik!"
***
Opening my eyes, I saw an unfamiliar ceiling.
It was old—patches of paint had already chipped off, revealing the decaying wood underneath. The pungent smell of herbs and opium filled the air, clogging my nostrils and causing me to cough.
"Cough! Cough!"
It was then that I heard the voice of that woman once again.
"Doctor! Doctor! He's awake!"
Turning my head to the left, I saw her.
A middle-aged woman with long hazel-brown hair that reached down to her chest. She wore a simple long dress and a cap.
"Mother?" I called out to her.
'Why did I say that?'
Even though I didn't recognize her, she felt somewhat familiar.
Hearing my voice, she turned toward me, her eyes trembling as tears streamed down her face.
"Amon…"
She grabbed my hand, bringing it close to her face.
'Why? Why does this feel so…'
I felt as though she was the one person I should not forget. No—she was the one person I could not forget.
At that gesture, I too began to cry. Though my memory was still cloudy, one thing was certain—this woman was my mother.
Soon, a man dressed in a black suit entered the room and began examining me. He had me perform basic mobility tests, like raising my arms and legs, before getting me to stand up and walk around.
I passed the tests perfectly; my body moved exactly as I wanted it to.
However, when he started asking me about my memories, that was when I became speechless.
"I can remember that my name is Amon Civik, age twenty-four, and that she is my mother—but anything beyond that, I am unable to recall."
Ever since I woke up, I could not remember anything, and every time I tried to, I would get a splitting headache.
'How odd. Maybe it would be better not to force myself to recall, but instead let it come back to me naturally...'
In fact, this whole situation was very unnatural. According to my doctor, I was found unconscious in a back alley behind the Braveheart Bar—completely uninjured.
"Interesting. Considering the mystery of your condition and your inability to recall what happened, there's not much we can really do," the doctor said, wearing a puzzled expression as he sighed.
"Ma'am, in my opinion, your son should be fine being discharged from the hospital today. In fact, it might be better for him to head home. Some studies have shown that patients suffering from memory loss are more likely to recall their memories when they're in familiar environments, such as their childhood home or workplace."
'Workplace, huh… Hopefully I wasn't a bum with no job', I mused to myself, planning to ask my mother about it later.
"I see… In that case, I'll bring him home today."
My mother thanked the doctor, and soon I was discharged from the hospital—ready to head home.
It was early afternoon, meaning the streets were still not too crowded. However, I stayed close to my mother due to my unfamiliarity with the surroundings.
Throughout the journey home, she frequently pointed out different shops and stalls, asking if I remembered them. Unsurprisingly, I didn't—even the shop that was supposedly my favorite apple shop.
It felt like I was an alien dropped into a completely new world. It hurt when she talked about the fun childhood memories I couldn't recall. That was when a thought came to me. A horrible thought. A nightmare I never wanted to come true.
'What if I can never recall my memories?'
I froze, uncertainty flooding my mind as beads of cold sweat dripped down my forehead.
'If that happens, what do I do?'
'What's going to happen to me?'
'What's going to happen to my mother?'
My world started to spin. I felt nauseous, squatting down and grabbing my mouth to hold back the bile rising in my throat.
'Is she going to be all alone?'
'Can I allow her to be alone?'
'Alone...'
That was when something surfaced in my mind. A distant memory, faint and distorted—one from early in my childhood. I saw the image of a man striking my mother before storming out of the house, never to return.
A horrible memory—one I would never want to remember under normal circumstances.
But it was a memory nonetheless.
"Amon! What happened? Should we head back to the hospital?"
"No, no need. I just… recalled something."
"Wait, really? What did you remember?"
I gave a faint smile, looking up at her.
"Nothing important."
She gave me a worried look, as though she wanted to ask a million questions, but decided not to press further.
We continued our journey home, during which I asked her about my profession.
Apparently, I used to be a psychologist, helping patients overcome their mental struggles. I even had a few "high-profile" clients, according to what I had told my mother.
'What should I do if any of them contact me? It's not like I can treat them properly, considering I've lost all my memories...'
Feeling a migraine coming on, I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind to deal with another day.
All I wanted right now was to go home, relax, and collect my thoughts.
My wish was soon granted, as my mother led me to the front door of a decently sized terraced house with a front lawn filled with assorted flowers.
'Not bad, past me. Seems like being a psychologist pays well... Wait—this house is bought with my money, right?'
Still wondering if I was actually a bum or not, I made my way into the house and headed toward the room my mother said was mine.
'Click.'
Filled with anticipation, I turned the doorknob. Stepping into the room, I was pleasantly surprised to find it extremely tidy. My bed was neatly made, the room spotless, and on the table sat a gas lamp beside a black notebook.
Ignoring it, I immediately threw myself onto the bed face-first.
'Ah, this must be what heaven feels like. Compared to that crappy hospital bed, this is in a completely different league.'
I lay there for what must have been around thirty minutes, not thinking about anything.
After the short rest, I reluctantly got up and started to organize my thoughts.
'First off, I need to find clues about my past—and the object most likely to help me is... that black notebook right there!'
Cracking a smile, I took a seat at the desk, steeling myself to open the book.
'Okay, here we go. The answer to all my questions!'
Flipping open the first page, I found notes—more specifically, notes about my patients. Skimming through the rest of the pages, I concluded it was just a work log to help me treat them better. Some of the entries were a bit more detailed than necessary.
'I was hoping for this to be a diary of sorts.'
Letting out a sigh, I was clearly disappointed. If it had been a diary, I wouldn't have to struggle so hard to recall my memories—I could have pieced them together like a puzzle.
Even though the information wasn't what I'd hoped for, it wasn't useless.
'Maybe I could contact some of these people. They might be able to tell me more about myself.'
Looking more carefully through the pages, I made an interesting discovery. On one page, I had circled a name in bright red ink.
Graham Hensley.
'Former professor at Blackwell University. Recently suffering from insomnia and recurring nightmares.'
The more I read about him, the stranger it got.
'Ghosts? Wraiths?'
Graham claimed that he was haunted by them—that they followed him in the shadows and brought misfortune to those around him.
I found this ridiculous, to say the least. How could ghosts or wraiths exist?
'Even though I've lost my memories, I've at least retained enough common sense to know such things can't be real.'
Well... that was what I believed—until I read the last line in the notes.
It was written in the same red ink as his name, the handwriting sloppier than usual.
"Real. All too real."