After losing my memory, life went on. Days blurred into each other, a monotonous cycle of unfamiliar routines. Until the day I found an old photograph—a boy I didn’t recognize staring back at me. Something about it sent a chill down my spine. Was he a stranger? Or was he someone I should have never forgotten?
I stood in my apartment, the silence pressing against me, thick and suffocating. Had it always been this lonely?
After the accident, the hospital, and the doctors telling me my memories might never fully return, I had one choice—to rebuild my life with what little I had left. But how do you rebuild a puzzle when half the pieces are missing?
A soft knock on the door broke the stillness. Before I could answer, it creaked open.
“Gregory.”
Eleanor, my neighbor, leaned against the doorframe. She always entered uninvited, carrying an air of confidence and mischief, as if she knew something I didn’t.
“How are you?” she asked, her sharp eyes scanning my face.
“Alive, I guess,” I replied with a weak smile. “They say I should do things just like before.”
“Then let’s get coffee.” She tilted her head, raising a brow. “You were basically useless without it before the accident.”
That sounded… right. Familiar, somehow.
“Alright.”
We walked down the street, the sun warming my skin like I was feeling it for the first time. The café on the corner smelled of roasted beans and fresh pastries. When the barista asked for my order, I hesitated, looking at Eleanor.
“What do I usually get?”
“Double espresso. No sugar.”
I nodded. “Then that’s what I’ll have.”
The day continued like that—doing things that should have felt familiar, but didn’t. I took my camera, captured faces in the streets, and even tried writing a column for my newspaper. Yet, nothing truly clicked.
Then, that evening, while sorting through old belongings in my closet, I found it.
A photo.
In it, I was young, grinning, standing next to a ten-year-old boy. The back read: “Children’s Hockey Club.”
I didn’t recognize him.
“Eleanor?” I called, showing her the picture. “Who’s this kid?”
She studied it, her brow furrowed. “You always loved photographing kids. Maybe he was just part of a story you covered?”
I looked at the boy again. He looked happy. I looked happy. But there was something in his eyes… something familiar.
Deep down, I knew—this was more than just a random snapshot.
The next morning, I sat in my old convertible, checking my medication for the trip. The interior in the photo matched a hockey club six hours away—the closest match I could find online.
“Gregory, this is a bad idea.” Eleanor stood by the car, arms crossed. “You need to stay in familiar surroundings. It’ll help your memory.”
I gripped the wheel but finally looked at her. “What if someone out there once needed me? What if I left someone behind?”
Her expression darkened. “And if you did, there were reasons you lost touch. Digging into the past is dangerous.”
I turned the key, but before I could drive off, I heard the passenger door shut with a dull thud.
“I’m coming with you,” Eleanor said simply. “At the very least, I’ll keep you from starving.”
I chuckled. She was always there, even when I hadn’t noticed.
“Why am I alone, Eleanor?” I asked as we hit the road.
She sighed, staring out at the passing trees. “Because you were obsessed with finding the greatest story. Always chasing the next sensation, hopping from city to city… What kind of woman would put up with that?”
I grimaced. “Oh, so I’m difficult?”
“Incredibly,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But someone has to deal with you.”
I laughed. It felt good to laugh.
We reached the hockey club at noon. The crisp scent of ice filled the air. Kids skated, laughing, falling, trying again. I had been here before—I was sure of it.
“Gregory?” Eleanor’s voice pulled me back.
“I’ve been here before.”
Inside, at the front desk, a young woman typed away on a computer. Behind her, walls lined with team photos stretched back decades.
“Hi,” I said, approaching. “I need to find someone.”
“Do you have a name?” she asked, barely glancing up.
“Not exactly.” I slid the photo across the counter. “This boy played hockey here a long time ago. Do you recognize him?”
She frowned. “That’s before my time. If he played here fifteen, twenty years ago, I wouldn’t know.”
Disappointment sank in.
“Are you looking for someone?” a deep voice asked.
I turned. An older man in a security uniform stood nearby.
“Yes,” I said quickly, holding up the photo. “Do you know him?”
The man took it, squinting. His brows furrowed. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“Yeah. I remember him. Good kid. Always came with his father. Loved hockey. But he got injured—bad hit. His dreams ended after that.”
A sharp pain twisted in my chest.
“Do you know his name?”
The man hesitated, then nodded. “Jason. Lives nearby. Works in town. I see him sometimes.”
Then, he looked at me more closely. “You know… you two have similar features.”
My stomach dropped.
“I need to see him,” I whispered.
The house was small, well-kept. My palms sweated as I knocked. A middle-aged woman opened the door, her expression freezing the moment she saw me.
“What are you doing here?” she asked sharply.
I swallowed. “I lost my memory. I found this picture. I need to know who he is.”
She glanced at the photo, then back at me.
“You don’t remember?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I feel like I should.”
She exhaled sharply, then looked at Eleanor. “And does she remember?”
I turned to Eleanor, confused. “What is she talking about?”
Eleanor’s gaze dropped. The woman let out a bitter laugh.
“I see. It’s better this way, isn’t it?” She shut the door in my face.
My world tilted.
“Talk,” I demanded. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Eleanor closed her eyes. “Jason is your son. And that woman is your ex-wife.”
I sucked in a breath. No. That couldn’t be right.
“You knew?”
“Yes. But I didn’t tell you because… forgetting made you happy. The truth is painful, Gregory.”
The door creaked open again. A young man stood there—mid-twenties, strong build, dark brown eyes. My eyes.
“Are you Gregory?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He hesitated, then let out a nervous laugh. “That makes two of us.”
A lump rose in my throat.
“Would you… like to get pizza?” I finally choked out.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
As we walked, Jason glanced at my camera.
“You still taking pictures?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He smirked. “Me too. Guess it runs in the family.”
I laughed, snapping a picture of him.
For the first time, I wasn’t chasing a story.
I was home.
