After losing my memory, life moved forward in a strange, quiet way. Days blurred together, and I tried to settle into a rhythm. But then, I found an old photograph of a boy I didn’t recognize. Something about it felt… wrong. Was he a stranger? Or someone I should have never forgotten?
I stood in my apartment, staring at the picture, the silence pressing against my ears. It felt like a ghost from a life I no longer remembered.
After the accident, the doctors told me my memory might never fully return. So I had no choice but to rebuild my life from whatever pieces remained. I told myself it didn’t matter. That I would be okay.
But now, holding this photo, I wasn’t so sure.
A soft knock on the door broke the stillness. Before I could respond, the door creaked open.
“Gregory.”
Eleanor, my neighbor, stepped inside. She always entered without an invitation, always carried herself with confidence, and always had that slight smirk as if she knew something I didn’t.
“How are you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.
“Alive, I guess,” I forced a small smile. “They say I need to do everything as before.”
“Then let’s get coffee,” she suggested. “You couldn’t function without it before the accident.”
That sounded logical. I nodded. “Alright.”
We stepped outside, and the sun hit my skin. It felt new, like I was rediscovering the world for the first time. We walked to a small café on the corner. When the barista asked for my order, I hesitated, glancing at Eleanor.
“What do I usually get?”
“Double espresso. No sugar,” she said without hesitation.
I nodded. “Then I’ll have a double espresso. No sugar.”
The day passed in a series of routines that should have felt familiar but didn’t. I took my camera, photographed people on the streets, even tried to write a column for my newspaper. Everything was going smoothly—until I went through my old belongings.
Among the books, notebooks, and random objects, I found the photograph. A younger version of me stood next to a ten-year-old boy. We both looked happy. The back of the photo had a faded inscription: “Children’s Hockey Club.”
I didn’t remember that boy.
I stared at the photo for a long time, hoping for some buried memory to resurface. But nothing came.
“Eleanor?” I called. “Who’s this kid?”
She studied the picture carefully. “You always loved photographing kids. Maybe he was part of your job?”
I looked at the boy again. There was something in his eyes—something familiar. Deep inside, something told me he was more than just a random child in a photograph.
The next morning, I was in my old convertible, checking my medication. The closest hockey club matching the one in the photo was six hours away. I had to go.
“Gregory, this is a bad idea,” Eleanor stood by the car, arms crossed. “You need to stay in familiar surroundings. That’s how you’ll regain your memory.”
I didn’t answer. I pressed the gas pedal, listening to the steady hum of the engine. Then I turned to her.
“What if there’s someone out there who once needed me?”
Eleanor’s expression darkened. “And if there is, maybe there’s a reason why you two lost touch. Digging into the past is dangerous.”
Before I could reply, I heard the thud of the passenger door closing. Eleanor was in the seat next to me.
“I’m coming with you,” she said. “At the very least, I’ll keep you from starving on the way.”
I smiled. She was always there, even when I hadn’t noticed.
As we drove, the conversation drifted. I found myself asking, “Why am I alone, Eleanor?”
She sighed, gazing at the open road ahead. “Because you were obsessed with finding the greatest story of your career. Always chasing something, never settling.”
She smirked. “What kind of woman would put up with that?”
I laughed. “Oh, so I’m difficult now?”
“Oh, incredibly,” she rolled her eyes. “But someone has to handle you.”
For the first time in a long time, I felt good. Comfortable. Maybe even happy.
The hockey club smelled of ice and rubber. Kids skated clumsily across the rink, their jerseys oversized. The sound of blades scraping against the ice sent a shiver down my spine. I had been here before. I was sure of it.
A blurry memory flickered in my mind—standing by the rink, the cold air on my face, my voice calling out to someone. A boy, laughing. But the moment slipped away before I could grab it.
“Gregory?” Eleanor’s voice grounded me.
“I’ve been here before.”
We approached the front desk. A young woman looked up. “Can I help you?”
I slid the photo onto the counter. “Do you recognize this boy? He played here years ago.”
She shook her head. “I’ve only been here three years. If it was fifteen, twenty years ago, I wouldn’t know.”
Frustration built inside me. I was so close, yet had nothing to hold onto.
“Are you looking for someone?”
I turned. An older security guard studied me carefully. I held up the photo.
“Yeah. I remember him,” the guard nodded. “He always came with his father. Good kid. Loved hockey. But he got injured—bad hit. That was the end of his hockey dreams.”
Something twisted in my chest. “Do you know his name?”
The man hesitated, then nodded. “Jason. Lives nearby. Works in town. I see him sometimes.”
He tilted his head. “You know… you two look alike.”
I turned to Eleanor, my hands trembling. “I need to see him.”
She sighed. “If I could stop you…”
The house was modest, well-kept. My heart pounded as I knocked.
A woman in her early fifties opened the door. The moment she saw me, her lips pressed into a tight line.
“What are you doing here?”
I swallowed. “I lost my memory after an accident. But I found this photo and… I need to know who this boy is.”
Her eyes flickered to the picture, then back to me. She clenched her jaw. “You don’t remember?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I know it’s important.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “And your companion? Does she remember?”
I glanced at Eleanor. “What is she talking about?”
The woman let out a sharp exhale. “I see. It’s better this way.”
She shut the door.
I turned to Eleanor, my pulse racing. “Talk. Now.”
Eleanor sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Jason is your son. And that woman is your ex-wife.”
My breath caught. No. That couldn’t be right.
“You knew?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “But the truth is painful. Your ex blamed you when Jason got hurt. She shut you out. You tried to move on, but you never really did.”
Before I could respond, the door opened again.
A young man stood there. Tall. Strong. Dark brown eyes—my eyes.
“Are you Gregory?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled. “Mom said I could say hello.”
Jason. My son.
I swallowed hard. “Would you… like to get pizza?”
Jason smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And for the first time, I felt whole again.
