I tried to sleep, but I didn't. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling until the dark thinned into a gray that pretended to be morning. Every time I closed my eyes, my mind returned to the same word.
Transferred.
Like memories were furniture.
By the time the sun edged through the blinds, I gave up. I made coffee I barely tasted and stood at the kitchen sink holding the mug until it cooled.
I got dressed and left the apartment earlier than usual. I locked the door behind me and paused, listening. The hallway was quiet. Caleb's door looked the same as it always did, closed and still. I didn't knock. I told myself that if something was wrong, I would only make it worse by asking.
Outside, the air was sharp and clean. People passed me on the sidewalk, already wrapped in their own mornings. No one looked twice. No one knew a year of my life was missing.
I went straight to my doctor's office.
The building was old and narrow, squeezed between a pharmacy and a dry cleaner. I had been coming here for years. For checkups, prescriptions and reassurance that the small aches and worries were nothing serious. I had trusted this place without thinking about it.
That trust felt thin now.
The waiting room looked the same. The soft chairs. A wall clock ticking too loudly. A television playing a morning show with the sound off. I checked in at the desk, gave my name, and waited.
When the nurse called me back, she smiled like nothing had changed. She led me into an exam room and took my vitals. "Everything's normal." She said.
But my heart rate a little fast. She asked if I was nervous.
"A little," I said.
She nodded as if that explained it.
After a few minutes, the doctor came in. He was older than I remembered. Or maybe I was just looking at him differently. He greeted me warmly and asked what brought me in so early.
"I need my medical records," I said. "All of them."
He blinked. "Of course. We can request—"
"Now," I said. "I need to see them today."
He studied my face. "Is something wrong."
"Yes," I said, then softened it. "I think so."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Give me a moment."
While he was gone, I stared at the framed posters of the diagrams of organs on the wall. Helpful reminders of how a body worked. There was no diagram for memory. No neat labels for what made a person themselves.
When he returned, he carried a folder thicker than I expected. He set it on the desk and pulled up a chair.
"I need to be honest with you," he said. "Some records may take time to retrieve."
My stomach dropped.
"Why."
He folded his hands. "There was a system migration last year. Some older files were archived."
"How old," I asked.
He glanced at a screen. "About fourteen months back."
A year.
The word pressed against my ribs.
"I want to see what you have," I said.
He opened the folder and slid it toward me.
I read slowly.
Annual physicals, and normal results. Lab work. Adjustments to medication. A note about stress. Another note about sleep. Things I remembered that felt like mine.
Then the dates shifted. The entries stopped.
Not gradually. Not with an explanation.
They simply stopped.
The last note before the blank space was ordinary. A follow-up appointment. Nothing remarkable. Then the next page jumped forward.
One year later.
My breath caught.
I flipped back. Then forward again. The gap remained. A clean, silent stretch where my life should have been.
"This can't be right," I said.
The doctor leaned closer. His brow creased.
"That is unusual," he said carefully.
"What happened here," I asked.
He adjusted his glasses. "I would need to check the archive."
"Do that," I said. "Now."
He hesitated again. Then he nodded and left the room.
Alone, I traced the dates with my finger. Twelve months gone. No visits, notes or tests. No explanations at all. It was as if I had vanished from my own body.
When he returned, his face had changed.
To something more cautious, but not fear.
"There are references," he said. "But not detailed notes."
"References to what."
"To an external consultation," he said.
"With who."
He didn't answer right away.
"With a private research entity," he said finally. "At your request."
My pulse thudded in my ears.
"What entity."
He named it.
Elyon Drayce Industries.
The room felt smaller.
"I asked for this," I said. It sounded like a question.
"Yes," he said. "You were very clear."
"I don't remember that."
"I know," he said quietly.
"You knew," I repeated. "That I wouldn't remember."
He looked pained. "You were informed there could be side effects."
"What kind of side effects," I asked.
"Memory disruption," he said.
I laughed under my breath. "That's one way to say it."
He pushed the folder toward me again. "There is more."
I swallowed and nodded.
He turned to a page marked with a sticker. In it bears my consent forms and signatures. My name written in my own hand. The date matched the start of the gap.
"You signed these," he said.
I stared at the signature. The curve of the letters. The pressure marks. It looked like my handwriting. Clearly confident and certain.
But I didn't feel confident. I felt hollow.
"What was the medical event they mentioned," I asked.
He exhaled slowly. "You were admitted."
"For what."
He lowered his voice. "For a neurological episode."
I sat very still.
"What kind."
"Acute," he said. "Severe enough to warrant intervention."
"What intervention," I asked.
He paused. "Experimental."
I closed my eyes.
"Did I have a choice," I asked.
"Yes," he said. "You insisted."
"Why."
He shook his head. "That part is restricted."
"By who."
"You signed a confidentiality clause," he said. "It limits what I can disclose."
I opened my eyes and looked at him.
"Do you think I would give up a year of my life for nothing," I asked.
"No," he said gently.
"Do you think I would forget someone on purpose," I asked.
"I don't know," he said.
I slid the folder shut.
Somewhere in that missing year, I had made a choice. I had trusted someone enough to let them reach into my mind and rearranged it.
Someone named Elyon Drayce.
"Can these memories be restored," I asked.
The doctor hesitated.
"Technically," he said. "Yes."
"But."
"But there are risks," he said. "And legal barriers."
"Legal," I repeated.
He nodded. "Ownership rights."
The phrase settled heavy and familiar.
The words from the call slid back into place.
"So what happens now," I asked.
He met my eyes. "You decide how far you want to push."
I gathered the folder and stood. My legs felt unsteady, but they held.
"I want copies of everything," I said. "Even the incomplete parts."
He nodded.
When I left the office, the world outside felt unreal. Too bright and loud. I sat in my car and stared at the steering wheel until my hands stopped shaking.
A year.
Twelve months of decisions, relationships, fear, and hope. Gone from me but not from the world.
Someone else knew what happened in that time, and wanted to keep it that way.
My phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
I didn't answer.
Instead, I opened the folder on the passenger seat and flipped to the last page. There, tucked behind a form, was a note I hadn't seen before.
Handwritten and brief.
"Patient demonstrates strong emotional attachment. Recommend continued suppression."
No name. Not even a signature.
Just a decision. I closed the folder.
Whatever I had lived through in that missing year had been important enough to erase.
And must have been dangerous enough to hide.
I started the car. I wasn't missing that year anymore. It was waiting for me. I had a feeling it didn't want to stay buried.