The Missing Pieces

Chapter 2

Lena jolted awake. She panted for breath in sharp little gasps, the escape of a dream fading away between her fingers like sand. She could have sworn for a single, fleeting second that she'd been elsewhere-somewhere ordinary, but not quite. When she pushed the blankets off to sit up, however, and took in the four walls above her, however, reality fell firmly into place.

Ethan's house. No-their house.

That's what he called it. Home, life. She had woken up in this bed for weeks, but something inside her twisted whenever she heard the words. She didn't recall choosing this location. Didn't recall the first time she crossed the threshold.

The memories would come back, Ethan explained to her. It was only a matter of time. She had been involved in a terrible accident, and her mind was ill recovering.

The more she tried to find her past, the more she realized how much was lost; the bits that were remaining didn't match.

Lena slid out of the bed, her toes curling against the cold hardwood floor. The room had immaculate-white walls and neatly stacked bookshelves, and curtains were pulled open just to greet the morning light. It was a showroom model of what an ideal life would look like.

She went over to the dresser and flung open the top drawer. There, among folded garments, they looked back at her. The sizes were correct, but they all felt alien. She stroked the softness of a cashmere sweater, wishing something would happen-a memory, a feeling, anything.

Nothing.

She moved to the next drawer and found a trove of jewelry. Delicate, elegant pieces. A wedding ring glimmered in the light, and she picked it up, revolving the chilly metal in her hands.

Ethan informed her they were married.

She had viewed the photos. Photos of them smiling upon a beach, of a wedding at an isolated vineyard. They were beautiful, perfect.

They didn't feel real.

She had been standing for hours, staring at them, trying to bring a memory out from the depths of her mind, but the photos were still as if they belonged to someone else.

There was a sharp tap on the door that made her jump.

"Lena?" Ethan's voice was smooth and controlled.

She hastily pushed the ring back into the drawer and closed it. "Yes?"

She opened the door, and Ethan entered. He was already dressed for the day, crisp navy slacks and a white fitted shirt. His dark hair was perfectly styled, s if he had just stepped out of a catalog. He smiled at her, warm and comforting.

"I was going to make coffee. Thought you'd like some."

Lena nodded, attempting to smile. "That sounds nice."

He entered, kissing her forehead. The pressure made her tense, but she would not let it show.

"I'll see you downstairs," he said, before heading out into the hallway.

Lena let out a slow breath.

Something wasn't right.

It wasn't the forgotten memories themselves-it was how her mind still refused what she was being shown. If she had lived there, if this was her life, then why did she feel like a guest in her home?

She had to know more.

Without thinking, she walked to the bookshelves, running her eyes over the rows of tidily stacked books. Classic novels were in the majority, a few bestsellers. She ran her finger over the spines before settling on a photo album jammed between the books.

She pulled it out, opening the first page.

More photos of her and Ethan. Laughing, smiling, holding hands.

But something was off.

She gazed at one photo of herself standing in a sun-drenched garden, wearing a flower-print dress. Her eyes sparkled, her smile genuine.

She stroked the face of the photo, a shiver at the base of her brain.

She didn't recall that day.

She turned the page and found another photo photo of herself reclining on a picnic blanket, Ethan's arm across her shoulders.

Something tightened in her chest.

She was not wearing the same dress as the first photograph. The lighting was incorrect. The background wasn't even at the same location yet, her pose, her smile-they were the same as the previous photo.

Her breath hitched.

The photographs were not real.

They were fabricated.

Staged.

The realization struck her with a cold, hard shiver.

She slammed the album shut, heart pounding.

What else was a fabrication?

She spun, surveying the room, looking for anything-anything-that might reveal the truth. She went to the closet, pulling open the doors. Clothes hung row by row, all of them her size. Shoes filled the bottom shelf, neatly lined up.

Then she saw it. A lone vacant hanger on the far end of the rack.

Something had been taken down.

She reached out, her fingers tracing the image where the fabric had been.

Before she could even consider it, a voice called from downstairs.

"Lena?"

It was Ethan's.

She took a breath, smoothing her face before stepping away from the closet. Whatever this was- whatever was happening, I had to be careful.

She descended to the kitchen, thinking.

Ethan stood in the kitchen, pouring two cups of coffee. He smiled when he saw her.

"There you are," he said, handing her a cup. "Did you sleep well?"

Lena nodded stiffly. "Yeah. Fine."

She swallowed, the richness of the scent filling her head. For an instant, the heat grounded her and led her back from the edge of fear.

Ethan leaned against the counter, watching her. "I was thinking we could take a walk today. Get some fresh air."

She hesitated. A walk seemed normal, simple. But within, she knew that Ethan never suggested anything without moa tive.

"Sure," she said cautiously.

He smiled again, his hand reaching out to sweep a strand of hair behind her ear. The contact was gentle and timely.

She fought not to move away.

"I just want you to feel at home," he breathed.

Lena swallowed.

Home.

The word felt foreign.

She looked past Ethan's shoulder, her eyes on the kitchen window. Outside it, the sun blazed brightly, the world unbroken.

It felt real.

But so had the photographs.

And she wasn't sure she could trust anything anymore.

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