Amelia woke up to the sound of unfamiliar silence.
No school bell. No morning traffic outside her window. Just stillness.
She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. It wasn't her ceiling. The fan above her was older, slightly rusted at the edges. A small crack ran across the corner like a thin scar.
Her heart skipped.
She sat up quickly, the blanket slipping from her shoulders.
This wasn't her room.
The walls were a softer color. There was a framed photo on the bedside table—a man smiling beside a woman who looked painfully familiar. Her breath caught when she realized the woman was her mother.
Mom's house.
Amelia pressed her fingers to her temples.
"How did I get here…?" she whispered.
She searched her mind desperately. Walking through the door. Taking off her shoes. Saying goodnight.
Nothing.
It was like someone had erased the night and left the morning behind.
Her chest tightened, panic rising slowly, like water filling a room.
She stood up, her legs shaky, and walked into the hallway. The floor creaked under her feet. The smell of morning tea drifted from the kitchen.
"Mom?" she called.
Her mother appeared instantly, as if she'd been standing there the whole time, waiting.
"You're awake," her mother said softly.
Amelia looked at her, eyes wide. "Why am I here?"
Her mother's smile faltered for just a second.
"You stayed over," she replied gently. "You were tired after school, remember?"
Amelia shook her head. "No. I don't remember coming here. I don't remember anything after the gate."
Her mother's hands clenched at her sides.
"It's okay," she said quickly, stepping closer. "You're safe. Everything's fine."
But Amelia could see it—the fear behind her eyes, the same fear that had lived there once before.
"Mom," Amelia asked, her voice small, "did I forget again?"
Her mother pulled her into her arms, holding her like she might slip away.
"Just a little," she whispered.
But both of them knew.
This wasn't little at all.
The hospital carried a scent of bleach and quiet sorrow.
Amelia sat beside her mother in the waiting area, her knees pulled close to her chest. Everything around her looked too white, too clean—like a place where bad news lived politely behind doors.
Her mother kept glancing at her, as if afraid she might vanish between blinks.
"Do you remember why we're here?" her mother asked softly.
Amelia nodded. Then stopped. "I… think so." She hesitated. "Because I forgot how I came to your house."
Her mother's jaw tightened, but she nodded. "That's right."
Inside the doctor's office, Amelia answered questions that felt like traps.
"What did you eat this morning?"
"What day is it today?"
"Do you remember your father?"
Amelia answered some. Others… she couldn't.
When the doctor asked about her father, her chest ached in a way she didn't understand.
"I know he existed," she said slowly. "I just… can't remember his voice."
Her mother turned away.
After the tests, while they waited for results, Amelia sat alone by the window. Sunlight spilled onto the floor, warm but distant.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
She frowned. She didn't remember opening it.
On the screen was a file she didn't recognize:
Voice Diary – Entry 1
Her breath caught.
"I don't remember recording this," she whispered.
With trembling fingers, she pressed play.
Her own voice filled the air—soft, shaky, unmistakably hers.
"Voice Diary. Entry one.
Today, I forgot where I put my hairbrush. I know it sounds stupid, but it scared me."
Amelia's eyes widened.
"If you're listening to this and don't remember recording it… then it's already getting worse."
Her heart began to race.
"Please don't panic. This is for you. For me. For us.
You're sick, Amelia. The doctors will explain.
And if Mom is with you… hold her hand."
Amelia looked up sharply. Her mother was sitting across the room, staring at the floor.
"You're not alone," her recorded voice continued, breaking slightly.
"Even if you forget today… remember this—
you were scared, but you were brave enough to try."
The recording ended.
Silence rushed in like a wave.
Amelia's hands shook as she lowered the phone.
She didn't cry.
She just sat there, staring at the screen, realizing something terrifying—
She had known this would happen.
And she had started saying goodbye to herself
before anyone else could.