She called her mother after school, standing alone at the bus stop while the evening sky slowly turned gray.
"Mom?" her voice was light, almost careless. "I think… I'm forgetting things too much."
There was a pause on the other end. Too long.
"What kind of things?" her mother asked, trying to sound calm.
Amelia kicked a small stone with her shoe. "Small stuff. Where I put things. What day it is. I forgot my best friend's birthday today." She laughed nervously. "It's probably nothing, right?"
Silence.
"Mom?"
Her mother's breath caught. Amelia could hear it—sharp, uneven. Memories rushed back to her mother all at once. Hospital corridors. Doctor's voices. The way her husband used to ask her name near the end. The way he smiled like he knew her, but didn't.
"Mom, are you there?"
Her mother pressed a hand to her mouth.
"No," she said quickly. "No, it's not nothing."
Amelia frowned. "Mom?"
"Come home," her mother said, her voice trembling now. "Don't take the bus. I'll come get you."
"Why are you scared?" Amelia asked softly.
Another pause. This one heavier.
"Because," her mother whispered, "your father said the same thing once. Exactly the same."
Amelia's chest tightened. She remembered her father only in pieces—photos, recorded videos, the warmth of a hand she couldn't fully recall.
"He used to say," her mother continued, tears breaking through her words, "'I think I'm forgetting too much.' And after that… he slowly forgot everything."
Amelia swallowed hard.
"Mom," she said quietly, "does that mean I'll forget you too?"
Her mother's voice broke completely.
"No," she cried. "I won't let you. I promise."
But promises couldn't stop time.
And as Amelia ended the call, standing alone with the phone pressed against her ear, she felt something cold settle deep inside her—
The fear that she had inherited more than just her father's eyes.
Amelia saw her mother's car before she saw her face.
It stopped too suddenly in front of the school gate, the tires making a soft screech against the road. Her mother stepped out immediately, not even bothering to lock the door. She looked smaller than usual, her shoulders tense, her eyes searching wildly until they found Amelia.
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
Then her mother crossed the distance and pulled Amelia into a tight hug, so tight it almost hurt.
"You're cold," her mother murmured, brushing Amelia's hair back with shaking fingers. "Why didn't you wear your sweater?"
"I… I don't remember where it is," Amelia replied softly.
Her mother's hand froze for half a second before she forced it to move again.
"Let's go," she said gently. "Get in the car."
Inside, the car was silent. The radio stayed off. The road passed by, familiar but strangely distant.
After a few minutes, her mother spoke.
"Do you want to go to the hospital now?" she asked, eyes fixed on the road. "Or… we can go tomorrow."
Amelia turned to look at her.
"Do I have to go today?"
Her mother hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
"We don't know anything yet," she said carefully. "Maybe it's stress. Maybe you're just tired." Her voice softened. "Maybe it's not like your father."
The words sounded like a prayer more than a sentence.
Amelia nodded slowly. "Can we go tomorrow?"
Her mother swallowed. "Yes. Tomorrow is fine."
She glanced at Amelia, forcing a small smile. "Let's pretend tonight is normal."
That night, Amelia sat on her bed while her mother stood at the doorway, watching her like she might disappear if she blinked.
"Mom?" Amelia asked suddenly.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"If I forget things…" she paused. "Will you remind me?"
Her mother walked over and held Amelia's face between her hands, pressing her forehead against hers.
"I'll remind you," she whispered. "Every day. Even if you forget a thousand times."
Amelia smiled faintly. "Okay."
Her mother stayed long after the lights were turned off, sitting on the edge of the bed, listening to Amelia's breathing.
Because she remembered another night just like this.
Another promise she couldn't keep.
And as she watched her daughter sleep, she silently hoped—
Please, not again.