John's eyes fluttered open to find a woman lying peacefully beside him. He remained motionless for several heartbeats, confirming he was experiencing someone else's memory before beginning to survey his surroundings.
Normally, a memory sarcophagus would completely immerse someone in the experience, but John's formidable willpower allowed him to maintain his own consciousness even while navigating another person's recollections.
He found himself in a modern residence decorated with crisp white bed sheets and pristine walls. Framed photographs were carefully arranged on a nearby table.
Examining them closely, John recognized a face that was both alien and strangely familiar—a man with a neatly trimmed beard, warm reddish-brown eyes, and slightly longer hair. An older version of John Wick.
Before he could process this revelation fully, movement beside him drew his attention. The woman shifted closer, nestling her face against his chest with practiced intimacy.
"Good morning, John," she whispered softly.
John's body tensed involuntarily as he responded with careful restraint, "Good morning."
Her name surfaced naturally in his mind: Helen. As he observed her gentle expression, memories began flooding his consciousness—memories that belonged to this other John.
Helen Wick. The beloved wife of this memory's owner.
She pressed closer to John, savoring these precious morning moments together.
"How wonderful," she murmured with contentment.
"What's wonderful?" John found himself asking.
Helen gazed up at him with a radiant smile. "That we're together."
The couple rose from bed, and John stood before the mirror, wearing a comfortable white t-shirt and loose pants. He touched his beard, feeling its familiar roughness.
"Is this truly the grown-up me?" John wondered silently. "Or perhaps another version from a different world entirely?"
This was an unexpected discovery. He had anticipated encountering the half-vampire or the magic-inhibiting woman, yet instead found himself experiencing the life of an alternate self—one who appeared whole and unburdened by the injuries that marked his own existence.
A photograph on the table caught his attention, showing a man in a leather jacket with a genuinely joyful smile standing beside Helen. John murmured thoughtfully, "It seems he found genuine happiness in marriage."
Leaving the bedroom, he discovered they lived in a spacious detached villa decorated in elegant minimalist style, free from excessive ornamentation.
The gentle hum of a coffee machine drew him to the kitchen, where Helen was preparing their morning brew. As John approached, his body moved with natural familiarity, wrapping around Helen's waist while his bearded cheek brushed against her ear.
The instinctive intimacy jolted John back to awareness, his expression darkening as he realized how deeply the memory was affecting him.
Helen responded to the embrace with practiced comfort, leaning into John's arms until the coffee finished brewing. Only then did John manage to separate himself from the memory's emotional pull.
This was an ordinary yet precious morning—coffee brewing, television playing cheerful puppy videos, creating an atmosphere of domestic warmth that made this family feel treasured.
Later that afternoon, they prepared for an outing together. Helen lovingly adjusted John's shirt buttons while he carefully arranged a scarf around her shoulders. After completing these tender rituals, they stepped out together.
Their natural synchronization revealed years of sweet, affectionate companionship.
In this version of New York, John escorted Helen through beautiful gardens and elegant restaurants, sharing exquisite meals and intimate conversation.
As dusk settled over the city, cool evening breezes carried the promise of night. Warm golden light bathed them both as they stood together on a terrace.
Helen gazed across the cityscape, marveling at the artificial beauty that made this metropolis so captivating.
"What a perfect day," she said, turning to meet John's eyes with deep satisfaction. "One could die without any regrets."
"Die without regrets?" John had surrendered control, watching his body automatically draw Helen closer as he whispered, "We'll grow old together, Helen."
Helen's hand caressed his face tenderly, though her eyes held shadows of regret and inexplicable sadness.
Beneath the romantic lighting and stunning scenery, they began drawing closer together. Just as their lips were about to meet, Helen's strength failed her.
Her body collapsed forward, caught immediately by John's strong arms.
John heard the trembling panic in his own voice as he called Helen's name repeatedly.
The piercing wail of ambulance sirens, the harsh fluorescent lighting of hospital corridors. The sterile white sheets lacked any trace of home's warmth.
Death—the ultimate equalizer—had come to claim its due.
Disease, incurable and merciless, had marked Helen for its own.
She lay dying in the hospital bed, no longer possessing the vibrant glow she'd had while nestled in his embrace. Her face had grown gaunt, her lips colorless. She appeared as fragile as delicate porcelain.
John maintained his vigil without sleeping for days. He feared that closing his eyes might mean losing her forever.
Despite desperate prayers offered to whatever God might listen, death mercilessly claimed his beloved.
During those final days, numbness consumed him completely. His body felt nothing, his face showed no expression whatsoever.
After sleepless nights of watching, he felt no fatigue—only hollow emptiness as he stood in the rain during her burial.
He couldn't process his friends' consoling words. The rain-soaked shoulders and bone-deep chill provided the only sensations that penetrated his emotional void.
At the memorial service, dressed in formal black, he listened to heartfelt eulogies from those who had known and loved Helen. When his turn came to speak, words formed in his mouth, but he couldn't remember what he'd said afterward.
His heart felt as though a razor-sharp blade had been thrust deep inside, cruelly carving away essential pieces of his soul. The overwhelming pain had left him completely numb, with only the gaping wound remaining.
After everyone departed, he returned to their empty house. The carefully chosen decorations Helen had personally selected could no longer provide any warmth or comfort.
He wandered into the garage, approaching his prized car. The passenger seat had always been Helen's domain—she'd often joked that the vehicle should rightfully belong to her.
At this point in the memory, John stopped trying to control the experience. From the memory owner's perspective, he could feel that death-like sensation of absolute loss.
Love— How strange, yet universally pursued by countless souls. John remembered an old man with half-moon spectacles and a long white beard who had always spoken passionately about love's power.
Through this borrowed experience, he was gaining profound new understanding.
Upon waking each morning, John would instinctively look toward Helen's side of the bed. Her absence left him silent and increasingly withdrawn.
The bright, charming woman in their final photograph together represented their last shared moment of happiness. He had been smiling so genuinely then.
One evening, the doorbell rang unexpectedly. He answered to find a delivery requiring his signature—a small dog accompanied by a letter.
The letter contained Helen's final apology. She had known her time was ending and understood the depth of her husband's devotion even more clearly than he did.
So in her last conscious moments, she had been thinking of him, fearing his extreme reactions to her death. She had arranged something that might give him motivation to continue living—a companion representing hope and faith in the future.
John's vision gradually blurred as tears clouded his sight. He struggled not to cry aloud, but days of suppressed grief erupted at this moment.
The puppy seemed to sense his emotional state, looking up at its new owner with timid curiosity.
It had a name: Daisy. Helen's final gift to him, intended to make his wounded heart beat once more.
He should have entered a new chapter of life, healing gradually through Daisy's companionship.
Instead, a single incident plunged him back into hell.
Reckless criminals broke into his home, stealing his car and killing his innocent dog.
"They should have killed me too," the memory whispered with bitter resignation.
But he hadn't died—perhaps the intruders hadn't wanted to create a murder scene. Since he survived, the shattered love needed replacement with something equally powerful.
Hatred became the emotion that filled love's void.
John watched as this memory's owner wandered through confusion and numbness, finding purpose only in methodical killing. Only amid gunfire and violence, drawing upon past lethal skills, did he feel truly alive.
His body accumulated wounds and scars. Multiple times, death nearly claimed him, yet he was reborn like an avenging ghost.
If he couldn't die, then others would perish instead. Many others.
Corpses accumulated like fallen leaves, death spreading fear of his very name throughout the criminal underworld.
He stood completely alone.
Until...
Gravely wounded beneath a crimson sunset, he experienced a transformative dream. John could sense the memory owner's renewed determination emerging.
Before him appeared still water, peaceful as a mirror's surface.
Walking into it, the memory finally ended.
Just before it faded completely, John glimpsed something from the corner of his vision. In the mirror-like water, golden light awakened with purpose.
The sound of a heartbeat accompanied by rebirth.
Present Time
Beside the sarcophagus, the legendary Auror frowned with deep concern.
Martha paced anxiously. "Will he be alright?"
John had been inside far too long. Three hours had already passed.
The legendary Auror spoke gravely, "We must wait a bit longer. Opening it prematurely risks him becoming permanently lost within the memory."
As someone skilled in Occlumency, he understood the serious dangers of memory immersion. Anyone infused with foreign memories could suffer severe psychological damage.
Wizards could extract memories safely but would never directly implant them into someone's mind. They always used Pensieves or other protective tools when viewing memories.
Martha's worry deepened with each passing minute.
Time crawled by until the fourth hour arrived. Just as Martha could no longer resist the urge to open the sarcophagus, the lid creaked open automatically.
John's eyes snapped open, and he sat up abruptly, startling Martha with his sudden movement.
The constantly tense legendary Auror released a barely perceptible sigh of relief.