Chapter 5

The room was quiet.

I stood near the tall windows, barefoot on a thick rug that felt familiar in a way I could not explain. 

Pale curtains shifted with the ocean air. Somewhere below, waves met rock in a steady rhythm. The sound reached the room softened by distance and glass.

This was meant to be my room.

It did not feel like I was intruding. The bed was made the way someone makes it when they expect to return. 

A navy throw rested at the foot, folded once.

 Books sat on the nightstand with creased spines and bent corners. A faint scent hung in the air, clean and warm, the kind you notice only when you stop moving.

I felt calm like I was standing beside my own life and looking in.

On the low table by the window, several photo albums were stacked neatly. Leather covers, worn at the edges. The kind people keep because throwing them away would feel wrong.

I sat on the bed and pulled the top album closer.

My name was written inside.

Alessandra.

The first page held a photograph of a little girl with uneven pigtails and a wide smile, one front tooth missing. A man crouched behind her, hands steady on her shoulders. His face was open, and kind, that was my father.

I turned the page.

The girl was older now, arms wrapped around a woman in a wide-brimmed hat. They stood near the water, hair blown loose by the wind. The woman’s laughter was caught mid-moment, her mouth open, eyes bright, and that was my mother.

There were holidays. Snow-covered steps. A crooked Christmas tree. Birthday candles melting into frosting. School photos where I stood stiff, unsure what to do with my hands.

 A graduation picture where I looked surprised, as if I had not believed I would reach that moment.

I kept turning pages.

What struck me was not the lack of memory, it was the lack of pain.

I expected something sharp to take hold of me. A rush of loss. Instead there was only a dull pressure, distant, and manageable. I could see the girl I had been. I felt fondness for her. But the grief stayed quiet.

This girl had been happy.

The smiles were careless. The way she leaned into people looked easy. She looked loved.

I smiled before I noticed I was doing it.

Whatever happened three years ago had not created me. It had erased me. This girl existed long before Evie.

I closed the album, then dropped it on the bed.

The door was pushed open. I looked toward it because I did not hear a knock.

An older woman stepped into the room and stopped short when she saw me. She stood frozen, with her eyes wide. Her mouth opened, then closed.

“Alessa?”

The way she said my name reached somewhere deep and unsettled me in what I could not name. 

It was not doubt, this person knew me.

I stood up without thinking.

She crossed the room quickly and pulled me into her arms. The hug was tight, firm, her hands pressing against my back like she needed to be sure I was real. Her breath shook against my shoulder.

“Oh, my girl,” she whispered. “My girl.”

I did not remember her. Still, my body leaned into the embrace without hesitation.

She pulled back just enough to look at me, tears streaking down her cheeks.

“Mrs. Beatrice Rowe,” she said. “You used to call me Bea. Said it sounded friendlier.”

“I am sorry,” I said. “I do not remember.”

She shook her head at once. “That does not matter.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Her fingers moved quickly as she scrolled, then she held the screen out to me.

Photos filled the screen.

Me at different ages. Sitting at a kitchen table, chin in my hands. Standing beside her in a garden, dirt on my cheek. Laughing, head tilted back, hair loose. In more than one photo, my arm was slung around her shoulders.

“You baked with me,” she said, smiling through tears. “Burned everything the first time. And you always sat on the counter even when I told you not to.”

I studied the images, the smile was the same as the one I saw in the photo album.

“You were always kind,” she said softly. “Even when you were angry. Even when you were hurting.”

My chest tightened at her word.

“Yiur grandfather called me this morning,” she said. “Said you were home. I did not sleep after that. I have been awake since before dawn. I looked up recipes all night. Everything you love. Lemon chicken. That mushroom soup you asked for whenever it rained.”

“You do not have to,” I said.

“I know,” she replied. “I want to.”

She moved toward the door, already thinking ahead. Then she paused and turned back.

“Your memory will come back,” she said gently. “And if it does not, that is all right too. You are still you.”

“I am sorry,” I said again. “For not remembering.”

She waved it away easily. “You came back. That is enough.”

After she left, the room felt different.

I sat back down and picked up my phone. 

I searched for a name that had been disturbing my mind since morning. Serena Sterling.

Images of her appeared.

I studied her face carefully. The resemblance was undeniable. Bone structure. Mouth. The tilt of her head. It felt like looking at a version of myself shaped by a different life.

I couldn't help but question myself. 

Why did we look alike?

Why was I with Nathaniel?

Did he know who I was?

Did he hide it?

What caused the crash?

A dull ache spread behind my eyes.

I thought of my grandfather. Of his steady presence, and his authority in his voice.

Did he know more?

Then another thought followed, unwelcome and dark.

What if my grandfather hurt Nathaniel? My stomach turned at that thought. 

I pushed the thought away immediately, and the ache worsened.

I set the phone down.

I chose not to ask questions, but to rest.

Later, I lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling, listening to the breeze. 

The calm settled over me, heavy but I let it stay.

The door opened softly.

Mrs. Rowe stood there again, one hand resting against the frame, her expression was gentle. 

“Alessa,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Your

boyfriend is here.”

My what?

Your boyfriend,” she said again.

She hesitated, then added quietly,

“You used to love him very much.”