The wind feels different when you're facing it directly. There's a lift to it, like it's trying to tell you something you should already know.
I stood at the edge of a rooftop with that wind brushing against me, and for a moment I just let it. It's easier than trying to figure out why I'm here in the first place.
I don't remember how I got up here. I don't remember what I was doing, let alone anything that should explain how I ended up looking down at a city that feels strangely distant. When I try to piece it together, my mind gives me nothing.
That's when I noticed the clothes. A fitted office suit that is neat, expensive-looking, completely unfamiliar. I don't own anything like it. It fits too well, sits on my body like it was chosen for someone with more direction than I have right now.
…Then I heard footsteps from behind.
I turned, and that's when I saw a tall figure standing a few steps away, wrapped in a long coat. His face is covered with bandages, every part of it layered and hidden. He doesn't speak, nor does he move. He just stood there, facing me. There's something familiar about him, in the way you sometimes recognize a stranger's gesture without remembering where it came from.
I try to ask who he is. "Who–"
He started to walk forward before I finished.
My body reacts instinctively, shifting back and landing my heel against the ledge.
He reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder.
Without a warning, he pushes.
And I fell.
The air rushes past me fast enough to sting. Buildings stretch and blur as I fall, and my thoughts break apart in the rush. I tried to catch something for balance, trying to grasp what's really happening, anything, but there's nothing to hold onto.
…
I woke up.
My body snaps upward so fast the bed scrapes loudly across the floor. Sweat clings to my skin, and my breath comes too fast, like my lungs think they're still in free fall. The room around me is familiar in shape but not in feeling. For a few seconds, I just sit there, trying to let my vision settle, trying to remind myself of where I actually am, and who I actually am.
I forced my trembling body to move as I reached for the drawer beside the bed. My hands shake enough that the entire contents spill out: old receipts, tangled earbuds, papers with blurred letters. Somewhere under all of it is what I need.
I find the bottle by feel. Shake out two pills, and swallow them without water. The dry scrape down my throat barely registers, like I'm trying to numb a part of myself I don't want to feel.
I lean back against the wall and wait for my heartbeat to slow. I sit there until the trembling in my hands finally starts to ease.
…
I turn the faucet on.
Cold water gathers slowly in my palms before I press it to my face. The shock helps, just enough for my thoughts to sharpen around the edges instead of drifting. I keep rinsing until the last of the sweat fades from my skin.
When I straighten, I catch something at the edge of my vision.
Something about my reflection was wrong.
I immediately turned my head toward the mirror, and there was nothing wrong with it.
Though, for a moment, I could've sworn that face looked… extremely unsettling, but familiar.
I brush the last of the water from my face and push my hair back with my palm. The strands resist at first, then settle as I sweep them out of my eyes. With both hands resting against the sink, I lift my gaze again.
The mirror gives me the same face I've seen my whole life, or the face I'm supposed to have seen my whole life.
The longer I look, the more unfamiliar it feels.
I tighten my grip on the sink, the porcelain cool under my palms. My own face felt like it's waiting for me to realize something obvious. But all I feel is the hollow absence of answers that should be there.
Why can't I remember anything about myself?