Light crept through my eyelids long before I understood what light was.
White.
Too white.
I opened my eyes slowly, as if afraid the world might break if I moved too fast. Above me—flat white ceiling panels, blurred at the edges, humming faintly. My head felt heavy, wrapped in cotton. My body didn't feel like mine.
I tried to move my fingers. They responded, slowly.
Then I noticed them.
Two people sitting beside my bed.
A man with a thick beard, maybe around forty. His eyes were warm, tired in a gentle way. Beside him sat a woman about the same age, her face kind, her posture tense—as if she had been holding her breath for a long time.
They stared at me.
Then, all at once—
"Laura!"
"Laura, you're awake!"
The woman's voice trembled. The man stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"How do you feel?" she asked, tears already filling her eyes. "Lukas—call the doctor!"
Laura.
The name echoed inside my head, empty and hollow.
Who is Laura?
They were looking at me when they said it.
My throat felt dry. My voice came out weak, uncertain.
"What… what is my name?" I asked. "Laura?"
Their faces froze.
"I don't remember anything," I whispered. "I don't remember you. Who are you? Where am I?"
The woman covered her mouth. The man lowered his eyes.
"We're… we're Lukas and Kristina," he said gently. "You're in the hospital."
Before I could ask anything else, a man in a white coat entered the room.
I recognized him instantly—not by memory, but by something deeper. His face carried the calm of someone who had stood between life and death many times.
"Good morning," he said softly. "I'm Miklas."
He checked my pulse, my blood pressure, shined a light into my eyes.
"Physically, you're healing well," he said. "You have bruises and abrasions, but nothing that won't recover."
Then he asked, carefully, "Can you tell me your full name? Or where you live?"
I shook my head.
Kristina inhaled sharply. Lukas clenched his jaw.
Miklas straightened. "This appears to be trauma-induced amnesia," he explained calmly. "Your brain experienced severe stress. Sometimes, to protect itself, it locks away memories. They may return… or they may not. That depends on you—and time."
He looked at Lukas and Kristina.
"I'll give you some privacy."
After he left, the room felt quieter. Heavier.
Kristina leaned closer. "Since you don't remember us… let's introduce ourselves properly."
She smiled through tears.
"Your name is Laura. This is Lukas, and I'm Kristina. We're not your relatives—but we're family. You don't have other family. You can trust us."
I studied their faces. Their eyes were honest. Warm.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I'm sorry I don't remember you."
Kristina shook her head immediately. "None of that matters. You're alive."
She peeled an apple and handed me slices. "Eat a little."
I nodded.
Then Lukas spoke again. "There's someone else who was supposed to visit you."
He stopped mid-sentence.
I followed his gaze.
A man stood in the doorway.
Tall. Still. His eyes were full of something sharp—pain, maybe. Or grief. Something deep and restrained.
When our eyes met, my chest tightened.
My heart skipped.
I didn't know him—but something inside me reacted as if it did.
I gave him a small nod. Polite. Careful.
He turned away immediately.
"Sorry," he said coldly. "Wrong room."
He left.
The air felt wrong after that.
Moments later, Lukas's phone buzzed.
He read the message. Showed it to Kristina.
Their expressions darkened.
Lukas cleared his throat. "We should let you rest. Too much information isn't good right now."
They left.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Something was missing.
Something important.
And no one wanted to tell me what it was.
Morning came with the sound of nurses' footsteps and rolling carts.
Michael returned.
"How did you sleep?"
"Better," I said. "But I have questions."
I asked what had happened to me.
He hesitated.
"I was told it was an accident," he said finally. "And the man who brought you here—"
He stopped.
"I don't know anything else," he finished. "He didn't leave his information."
I knew it was a lie.
But I nodded anyway.
Later, Lukas and Kristina returned with bags of fruit and soup.
They took me outside in a wheelchair, into a small park near the hospital.
I asked them about myself.
They told me little. That I worked at a bar called Obsidian. That I didn't talk much about my past. That I had no family.
When I asked about the man again—
They avoided my eyes.
Back in the room, they left me my backpack.
Inside, I found clothes.
And a necklace.
A black obsidian stone.
The moment I touched it—
Pain exploded in my head.
The obsidian stone rested in my palm, warm—too warm for an inanimate thing.
The moment my fingers curled around it, something inside my head shifted.
Not a memory.
A sensation.
My temples tightened, pressure building behind my eyes, as if something were pushing from the inside, demanding space.
Then—
Laughter.
Not loud. Not clear. Just the feeling of laughter—soft, real, close. It wrapped around me like a blanket I had once known well. I could almost hear my own voice in it, lighter than the one I had now.
A smell followed.
Coffee.
Rain on asphalt.
Something warm cooking nearby.
My chest tightened.
A pair of hands—steady, careful—guiding mine. Not possessive. Protective. I didn't see a face, only the certainty that whoever it was never let go unless I was safe.
My heart began to race.
Images flickered like damaged film:
—Dim yellow light reflecting off glass bottles
—Music humming low, familiar
—A quiet corner where time slowed down
—A voice saying my name the way no one else did
Laura.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
As if it was something fragile.
Pain spiked suddenly—sharp and blinding—and the images shattered.
I gasped, clutching the edge of the bed as the room snapped back into place.
Hospital.
White walls.
Machines humming.
My hand still held the necklace.
My chest felt hollow again—but now the emptiness ached.
Why did it feel like I had lost someone…
…when I didn't even know who he was?
Later, I turned on my phone.
Three contacts.
Lukas.
Kristina.
Tomas.
I know now who is Kristina and Lukas but who is Tomas ?
I opened my photos.
The screen lit up softly in my hands.
At first, I didn't recognize the girl in the photo.
She was smiling—really smiling. Not the polite curve of lips. Her eyes were alive, warm, like they trusted the world. Like she expected something good to happen.
That couldn't be me.
My fingers trembled slightly as I zoomed in.
It was me.
And beside me stood a man. The man from the doorway.
Tall. Dark brown hair. Familiar in a way that made my stomach tighten. His arm wasn't wrapped around me possessively—it rested loosely at my back, as if giving me space to leave if I wanted… yet somehow I knew I never had.
He was smiling too.
Not wide. Not for the camera.
For me.
The realization hit like a quiet strike—soft, but deep.
My chest constricted.
I didn't remember his voice.
I didn't remember his touch.
But my body reacted anyway.
My heart sped up, then stuttered, as if it had forgotten how to beat properly in his presence. A dull ache bloomed behind my ribs, spreading outward, heavy and warm and unbearable.
I swallowed hard.
Why does it hurt to look at him?
The room seemed to blur at the edges. The hum of the hospital faded, replaced by a feeling I couldn't name—something between longing and grief.
Something told me he mattered.
She go again to phone contact numbers and press on Tomas name.
–I have to find out who he is.
I pressed call.