A warm glow seeped through my closed eyelids. Relaxation spread through my body, and I felt my lips curve into a faint smile. I parted my eyes slightly, bracing for harsh brightness—but the soft yellow light didn't hurt. I opened them wider.
My lips parted in a silent breath.
A man stood over me, his beard thick and long, streaked heavily with dignified gray. But it wasn't his imposing appearance—or even his striking yellow eyes—that startled me most.
It was his hands.
They hovered just inches above my body, and the light I'd seen was coming from his palms, as if illuminating me from within.
"What… is this?" I whispered hoarsely, barely recognizing my own voice. My throat felt raw.
"You're awake? Excellent. I'm almost finished," the man said, casting me a brief glance before returning his focus to his hands.
The light—and with it, the soothing warmth—began to leave my body, as if being drawn back into him. When the last thread of it vanished into his palms, he exhaled and lowered his hands.
"You're a lucky one, boy," he said with a smile. "All your organs are intact. How do you feel?"
"Thirsty," I croaked, wincing. "Where am I?" I asked after taking a few small sips through a straw.
"At home, young master. Where else would you be?"
"Young master?" I repeated, frowning. This wasn't the first time someone had taken me for a boy—and it was starting to irritate me. I'm not that masculine!
"Tell me—can you state your name?" he asked, his expression tightening.
"Of course. My name is An—"
"My dear! You're awake! Thank heavens!" a woman cried from the doorway, rushing to my bedside before I could finish. "How do you feel? Are you in pain?" she asked anxiously, cupping my face and turning it from side to side.
Now it was my turn to frown.
"I'm sorry… but who are you?" I asked.
All the color drained from her face. She looked at the man.
"Lady Holivan, I was just trying to clarify a few things," he said carefully. "Physically, the young master is in excellent condition. But I have concerns about his… memory."
"What are you implying?"
"I mean that the boy may be experiencing partial memory loss. It could last minutes, days—or…" He hesitated.
"Can you do anything about it? How is that even possible? Alan doesn't recognize his own mother?" She turned back to me, gripping my shoulders. "You remember me, don't you? You remember your mother?" she cried, hope and desperation trembling in her voice.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, "but I really don't know you. I think you've mistaken me for someone else."
She broke into sobs and collapsed against my chest.
I let out a slow breath.
Something was seriously wrong.
I tried to free myself from her grip and glanced to the side—where a small mirror rested on a table.
The blood drained from my face.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice trembling as I addressed the man. "Could you… pass me that mirror?"
He obliged.
My hands shook, but there could be no mistake.
The face staring back at me was mine—and yet, it wasn't.
I touched my cheek. Ran my fingers through loose strands of hair—longer, darker than my own.
In the reflection, wide marsh-green eyes stared back at me—not my usual gray. My lips were fuller, more vividly colored than my pale, thin ones. My nose was straight and refined—not the small upturned one I knew. The freckles were gone, replaced by smooth, pale skin. Sharper cheekbones.
And—
An Adam's apple.
It shifted as I swallowed.
My long, dark lashes trembled. Weakly, I set the mirror down on the edge of the bed and looked at the woman—now kneeling, crying over her son.
I was him on the outside… but not on the inside.
What is happening?
Have I lost my mind?
Am I still dreaming?
I pinched my arm.
Pain.
Not a dream.
Then what?
I drew several uneven breaths, trying to steady the panic rising in my chest. The woman lifted her gaze to me, and something twisted painfully inside me.
There was so much grief in her eyes that I had to look away.
What am I supposed to do now?
"I'm sorry," I said again, my voice—young, unfamiliar—unsteady. "But could you… tell me who I am?"
She sniffed, holding back another wave of tears.
"My dear," she said hoarsely, "your name is Alan Marcus Holivan. You are the second son of a well-known and influential family." She faltered. "Doctor, I can't—please, do something," she pleaded, turning to the man.
"I'm afraid my abilities, though considerable, only affect visible injuries," he replied. "As for the boy… let's hope that with rest, his memory returns."
"But you said his brain is fine!" she insisted.
"It is. Most likely, he experienced severe stress, which led to this condition. I'll contact a colleague—perhaps he can help. In the meantime, surround him with family and familiar faces. It may aid his recovery."
"…All right," she said at last, though uncertainty lingered in her voice. "Alan, perhaps you'd be more comfortable in your room?" she added, attempting a fragile smile.
"Maybe," I answered hesitantly. For now, it was better to play along—to pretend I was who they thought I was.
"Good," she said, pressing a bell beside the bed.
A knock came almost immediately.
"Marta, help Alan. From today on, you'll be his personal maid—until he… until he recovers."
She looked at me once more—sadly—then turned toward the door.
"Oh, and Theodore is arriving today. I hope you'll be able to join us for lunch, my dear?"
I nodded uncertainly. I had no idea who she was talking about.
As soon as the door closed behind her, I threw off the blanket and lowered my bare feet to the floor. The maid quickly placed soft slippers before me. I thanked her, which earned me a brief, surprised look.
"Marta?" I called, addressing the older woman in a black dress with short sleeves and a white apron.
"Yes, young master?"
"How… what is that woman's name?"
"You mean your mother?" she asked, startled.
"Yes. The thing is… I don't remember anything. Could you help me a little…?"
"Oh my, I'm so sorry! You've been through so much!" she said, her voice filled with sympathy. "Of course—ask me anything. I'll tell you what I can. Your mother is Sandra Holivan, your father is Marcus Holivan, and Theodore is your older brother. You don't remember any of them?"
"Unfortunately, no. Where is my room?"
"Come with me, I'll show you," she said, stepping out of the makeshift sickroom and holding the door open for me. At the same time, she pulled a phone from her pocket and dialed a number.
"Prepare a bath in the young master's room," she said—and ended the call.