SOMEONE ELSE REMEMBERS US

 Kim Mira believed memory was an overrated organ. People came to her clinic carrying grief disguised as forgetfulness. They wanted precision—dates, names, faces—but what they truly needed was permission to move forward without guilt. Memory, she had learned, was not a record. It was a wound that refused to close cleanly. That was why she noticed the man immediately. He stood in the doorway of her office as if crossing a border that might erase him. The bell above the door chimed softly, then went silent, leaving the air heavier than before. Mira looked up from her notes and met his eyes. He did not look lost. He looked unfinished. "I don't have an appointment," he said. "That's fine," Mira replied. "Neither do most regrets." He almost smiled at that, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he asked the wrong question. "Can you help someone remember something that never happened?" The room shifted—not physically, but emotionally, like a floorboard loosening beneath a familiar step. Mira leaned back in her chair. She studied him carefully now. His voice was steady, but his hands betrayed him—fingers curled too tightly, as if holding onto something invisible. "No," she said gently. "Those usually hurt the most." Something passed across his face. Relief, not disappointment. "Then I'm not sick," he murmured. He did not sit. He did not explain. After a moment, he nodded to himself, thanked her, and left. The bell chimed again. And just like that, he was gone. Mira returned to her notes. Thirty seconds passed. Then she realized she could not remember his face. She knew she had just seen him. She could recall the sound of his voice, the way the room felt altered by his presence—but his features slid away when she tried to focus on them, like a reflection disturbed by water. Her pen stilled. That night, Mira dreamed of a bridge she had never crossed. Wind pulled at her coat. City lights blurred below. Beside her stood a man counting breaths aloud. "One," he said. "Two." As if afraid she would vanish between numbers. She woke with tears on her cheeks and no idea who she had been standing beside.