Chapter 3

I don’t sleep.

I keep my eyes closed, listening to the quiet, to the steady rhythm of Julian’s breathing. He hasn’t moved from the chair. His presence is a weight in the room, silent but heavy, like an anchor keeping me from floating away completely.

I should feel comforted by it.

I don’t.

There’s a space between us, something vast and unspoken. I can feel it every time he hesitates before speaking, in the way he looks at me like he’s holding something back.

He knows something.

Something about me.

And he’s not telling me.

My fingers tighten around the sheets, restless. I can’t just sit here and wait for my memories to return. I need something real to hold onto.

Something to prove that I existed before I woke up in this bed.

My heart pounds as I open my eyes. Julian is still there, his head tilted slightly forward, his eyes closed. He looks exhausted, like sleep hasn’t come easily for him in a long time.

Good.

Because I don’t want him to stop me.

I slide out of bed slowly, my bare feet pressing against the cool wooden floor. My body still feels weak, but I steady myself, careful not to make a sound.

One step.

Two.

Julian doesn’t stir.

I don’t know why I feel like I’m doing something wrong. Why the air in the room feels charged, like I’m breaking some invisible rule just by standing.

I press my hand against the door. Unlocked.

The hallway outside is dim, lit only by the soft glow of old-fashioned wall sconces. The walls stretch high, lined with elegant dark wood paneling, and the air smells faintly of something familiar—aged paper, lavender, something else I can’t place.

I take a breath and step forward.

This place is too grand to be a normal home. It feels like something out of a dream, the kind of place that shouldn’t exist outside of time.

And yet, it does.

I trail my fingers along the smooth wood, moving through the hallway, past doors that remain closed, past corners that turn into more endless corridors. Everything is silent. Too silent.

How big is this place?

A flicker of unease crawls up my spine, but I push it down. Keep going.

A door at the end of the hallway stands slightly open, and something about it pulls me forward.

Inside, the room is lined with bookshelves, floor-to-ceiling, filled with thick leather-bound books that smell of dust and time. A study. The large mahogany desk is covered in neatly stacked papers, a silver pen resting on top. A fire crackles softly in the fireplace, its glow flickering against the dark walls.

And above the fireplace—a wall of framed photographs.

My pulse stutters.

I step closer, my fingers brushing over the frames.

There are so many. Moments frozen in time. A dark-haired man in a crisp suit—Julian—standing beside a woman with her back to the camera. Another of him laughing with someone whose face is turned just slightly too far to the side. One of his hands holding someone else’s—a delicate hand, smaller, familiar.

Me.

It has to be me.

I scan the wall frantically, searching for something—anything—that will show me the truth.

But every single photograph with me in it is wrong.

Blurred. Scratched out.

Erased.

My stomach turns.

Someone didn’t want me to see myself.

Who?

Why?

My breathing comes faster, the room pressing in on me. This isn’t normal. People don’t just—disappear from their own memories.

I take a shaky step back, my head spinning. The floor creaks beneath me, and the sound is too loud in the silence.

I whip around—

And slam straight into Julian.

His hands catch my arms before I can stumble. His touch is steady, firm, but there’s something else in his grip. Something urgent.

He knows what I saw.

His gaze flickers to the photographs, then back to me. A muscle in his jaw tightens. “Ana—”

I pull away from him. “What is this?” My voice is sharper than I intend, but I don’t care. “Why can’t I see my face?”

His expression doesn’t change. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

That’s not an answer.

“Julian.” My voice shakes. “Who erased me?”

He doesn’t speak.

His silence is worse than any lie he could tell me.

My heart pounds painfully. “Tell me.”

A long beat. Then, finally—softly:

“You did.”

I freeze. “What?”

Julian exhales slowly, his shoulders stiff. “You told me to get rid of them.”

The words don’t make sense. They don’t fit.

“No,” I whisper. “I wouldn’t have—”

“You did.” His voice is quiet, but there’s something raw beneath it. “You made me do it.”

I shake my head. “That doesn’t—why would I do that?”

Julian runs a hand through his hair, looking away. For a moment, I think he won’t answer. But then—

“Because you wanted to forget.”

The world tilts.

I step back, my fingers gripping the edge of the desk to steady myself. “You’re lying.”

He looks at me then, and his eyes—they’re haunted.

“I’m not.”

I shake my head harder, heat rising in my chest. “I don’t believe you.”

His voice is quieter this time, but it doesn’t waver. “You don’t have to.”

Tears burn at the back of my eyes, frustration and confusion tangling into something unbearable. This isn’t fair.

I should be the one deciding what I remember. Not him. Not some past version of me who thought she could run from herself.

I glare at him. “Then give them back.”

Julian stills.

I take a step closer. “Give me my memories back.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Because you begged me to take them, Ana.” His voice cracks slightly. “You said you couldn’t live with them.”

I can’t breathe.

I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this.

And suddenly, I don’t want to be in this room anymore.

I push past him, ignoring the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for me, like he wants to stop me. I don’t let him.

I step into the hallway, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Julian’s voice follows me, quiet and heavy.

“Ana—”

But I don’t stop.

I walk faster, down the long corridor, past the unfamiliar doors, past the flickering sconces. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I can’t be here.

Not when everything is wrong.

Not when I am the one who made it that way.

I don’t remember what I was running from.

But maybe… maybe I was right to be afraid.