The first thing Jonas noticed was the silence.
No birds, no wind, no hum of a city beyond the windows. Just an eerie stillness, like the air was holding its breath.
The second thing he noticed was the note taped to the mirror.
He stared at it, eyes crusted from sleep, the dim morning light painting his face in dull gray. A man he didn't recognize stared back at him. Tall. Mid-thirties. Faint scars along the jaw. Cold blue eyes that felt like they belonged to someone else.
He was staring at himself. But he didn't feel like him.
His gaze dropped to the note:
"Your name is Jonas Reed.
You have a memory condition. You lose everything after you sleep.
Don't panic. You've done this before.
Read the journal. Trust Mara.
Don't open the door unless she says your name twice. Remember don't forget my words trust no one, but Mara"
His heart picked up its pace, thudding against his ribs. His breath came fast now. "Memory condition maybe?"
He staggered back, glanced around the room, a minimalist space with pale gray walls, a desk, a dresser, and a small shelf of books. The bed he woke up in looked made with care he didn't remember giving. There were no pictures on the walls. No personal effects. Nothing to anchor him to this life.
Only the note.
A sudden knock at the door jolted him. Three short taps. A pause. Then:
"Jonas?" a woman called. Her voice was warm, careful. "It's Mara. Are you awake?"
He said nothing.
"Jonas Reed," she said again, slower this time. "It's okay. You're safe. It's just me."
Twice. She said his name twice.
His hand hovered over the door handle.
A part of him said don't. Another part—the part that had apparently written that note—told him he'd already decided to trust her.
He opened the door.
A woman stood on the other side, early thirties, blonde hair tied back, dressed in soft earth tones. She smiled, the kind of smile meant to comfort strangers in pain.
"Good morning," she said, holding out a steaming mug. "Coffee. Just how you like it."
He took it without replying.
"I know you don't remember me," she added gently. "We've been through this before. Every day. Sometimes twice."
"You're Mara," he said flatly, tasting her name.
She nodded.
He looked past her, down the hallway, and noticed the walls—neutral tones, sparse. Just like the room. Just like everything.
"You said I should read a journal?"
"Right." She pulled a small orange notebook from her sweater pocket. "This is it. Your entries. We review it each morning."
He took it with cautious fingers and flipped to the first page. The handwriting was precise, his own, apparently.
Day 121.
You're Jonas Reed. You were in an accident. You don't remember the days after you sleep. Every morning you forget. You forget me. You forget yourself. But there's more to it than that. You don't trust the people around you and with good reason. Keep reading.
He looked up sharply. "What accident, because I don't remember shit?"
"You were caught in a fire," Mara said quickly. "It damaged your hippocampus. The doctors said you have a rare case of anterograde amnesia."
"And I wrote this?"
"You've been writing every day since we started the therapy plan. To remind yourself. To stay grounded."
Jonas turned another page. More entries, looping into paranoia.
"I think I'm being watched."
"Someone is hiding things from me."
"I'm not who they say I am."
"Don't trust anyone without proof."
His hands trembled slightly. "Why would I write that?"
Mara's expression didn't change. "You've had a hard time adjusting. There are days where... you spiral. The trauma, the confusion, it makes you defensive and isolates you from everyone else."
"I sound scared," he said, flipping the page again. His eyes caught on a new word, written in angry, thick black ink across half the page:
"REMEMBER."
He stared at it.
"You were obsessed with leaving yourself reminders," Mara said softly. "Sometimes... they weren't helpful."
"But why would I need to remember something if I forget it all anyway?"
Mara hesitated. "Because you hoped that something would break through. That you'd remember... more. Even just one day."
Jonas closed the journal. "And has it worked?"
Mara didn't answer.
A silence passed between them. Then she took a careful step forward.
"Come downstairs when you're ready," she said. "There's more coffee. Breakfast too. Eggs, your favorite food."
He didn't stop her as she walked away, her footsteps soft against the hardwood floor.
When the hallway was quiet again, Jonas turned back to the mirror.
Same man. Same eyes. Still empty.
But there was something behind those eyes now. Something like fear, or maybe suspicion.
He looked down at the orange notebook, running his thumb along the worn cover.
He didn't remember who he was.
But he had a feeling someone didn't want him to.
And that terrified him more than the forgetting whoever he was.