Dawn broke over Abidjan under a stormy light.
The sky was neither blue nor gray—just a milky veil that often preceded heavy rains, when the air thickens and the sea seems to hold its breath.
From her balcony, Ami watched the damp rooftops. The palm trees swayed slowly, their leaves soaked. A distant taxi honked, its sound muffled by the mist.
Everything looked normal. Yet something felt… wrong.
It was as if she had returned to a place she knew without really recognizing it.
Her apartment smelled of clean laundry and fresh rain. On the table, a wilted bouquet waited to be thrown away. Her computer screen glowed pale blue, still open on folders tied to projects she no longer remembered.
She rubbed her forehead—a dull, persistent headache.
Her thoughts drifted, fragmented.
As if parts of herself had been lost along the way.
Sitting on the couch, she lazily picked up her phone.
Notifications. Emails. Calendar alerts…
And one message. Just one.
A foreign number. Unregistered.
She hesitated before tapping.
Ami, I hope you made it home safely.
Tell me you haven't forgotten.
— Yo-han
Her heart jumped, and she didn't know why.
That name.
That voice in her mind.
It rang no bells… and yet, a chill ran through her.
A strange metallic taste filled her mouth. A wave of heat.
As if the mere sound of his name awakened a sorrow she couldn't name.
She read the message again and again.
Each word felt both familiar and foreign—like a song whose melody she once knew but now couldn't recall.
Finally, her trembling fingers dialed the number.
The ringing began.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Then a voice. Male. Soft. Tired.
— Ami?
She said nothing.
His tone wasn't accusing—just hopeful.
But in her chest, everything clenched.
— …Who is this?
Silence.
Then a sharp, audible breath on the other end.
It sounded like someone's heart breaking.
— Are you serious? It's me… Yo-han.
Can't you hear me? It's me.
Ami felt her throat tighten. The tone, the breathing, the pain in his voice—it all felt real.
And yet… nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
No image. No memory.
Just this odd sensation of having lived something she couldn't grasp anymore.
She whispered:
— I'm sorry. I think you have the wrong person.
A long pause.
The kind of silence that weighs heavier than words.
Thunder rolled in the distance.
Rain began to fall—soft at first, then suddenly hard, hitting the windows like impatient fingers.
On the other end, Yo-han was quiet. Only his shaky breathing could be heard.
— I… understand, he finally said. Maybe… maybe it's better this way.
His voice broke slightly.
Then a click.
The call ended.
Ami stood still, phone still pressed against her ear, unable to move.
Tears filled her eyes without warning. One slid down, then another.
It wasn't pain—at least not the kind she could name.
It was something deeper, older.
The ache of a void she couldn't explain.
Thunder echoed once more.
The sky over Abidjan darkened.
And in the growing shadows, a thought surfaced, fragile and fleeting:
"Souls never forget."
Ami closed her eyes.
And when she opened them again, the thought had vanished—
carried away by the rain.