After losing my memory, life went on like an empty book with missing pages. I tried to move forward, but something always felt off, like a puzzle missing its final piece.
Then one evening, while sorting through old belongings, I found an old photograph. My own younger self smiled back at me, but it wasn’t just me in the picture—there was a ten-year-old boy beside me. A happy-looking boy, standing close, as if we had a bond. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember him.
Who was he? A stranger? Or someone I should have never forgotten?
The air in my apartment felt heavy. I tried to remember if it had always been this lonely. The accident, the hospital, the doctor’s words—“Your memory might never fully return”—played in my head like a haunting melody.
A soft knock on the door broke the stillness.
“Gregory.”
Eleanor, my neighbor, stood in the doorway. She had a habit of letting herself in without asking. Her expression was a mix of confidence and curiosity.
“How are you?” she asked.
I managed a small smile. “Alive, I guess. The doctors say I should try to do everything like before.”
She raised an eyebrow playfully. “Then let’s get coffee. You couldn’t function without it before the accident.”
That sounded logical. I nodded. “Alright.”
The sunlight kissed my skin as we stepped outside. It felt like I was rediscovering the world. At the small café on the corner, the barista asked for my order.
I hesitated. “What do I usually get?”
Eleanor answered without skipping a beat. “Double espresso. No sugar.”
I nodded. “Then I’ll have that.”
The day passed in a blur of activities that should have been familiar but felt foreign. I took my camera out, photographed people on the street, and even attempted to write a column for my newspaper.
Everything seemed fine—until I found that photo in my closet.
Among books, notebooks, and scraps of my past, there it was. My younger self, grinning next to the boy. On the back, in faded ink, were the words: “Children’s Hockey Club.”
I stared at the picture, hoping some lost memory would surface. But nothing came.
“Eleanor?” I called, showing her the photograph. “Who’s this kid?”
She studied it for a moment. “You always loved photographing kids. Maybe it was just part of your job?”
I looked at the boy again. There was something in his eyes—something familiar.
Deep inside, I knew. This wasn’t just a random snapshot.
By the next morning, I was already in my old convertible, checking my supply of medication. The nearest hockey club, the one that matched the interior in the picture, was six hours away.
“Gregory, this is a bad idea.” Eleanor stood next to the car, arms crossed. “Staying in familiar surroundings will help your memory.”
I gripped the steering wheel but didn’t start the car just yet. “What if there’s someone out there who once needed me?”
Her expression darkened. “If there was, there was also a reason you lost touch. Digging into the past can be dangerous.”
Before I could respond, the sound of a door closing made me turn. Eleanor had climbed into the passenger seat.
“I’m coming with you,” she said, buckling her seatbelt. “At the very least, I’ll keep you from starving on the way.”
I smiled. She was always there, even when I hadn’t noticed.
“Why am I alone, Eleanor?” I asked as the car sped down the highway.
She sighed, looking ahead. “Because you were obsessed with finding the greatest story of your career. Always chasing sensations, traveling from city to city… What kind of woman would put up with that?”
I grimaced. “So I’m hard to handle?”
“Oh, incredibly.” She rolled her eyes. “But someone has to.”
I laughed. And for the first time in a long time, I felt good.
We arrived at the hockey club at noon. The crisp scent of ice and rubber from inside the rink hit me, sending a jolt of recognition through my body. Kids skated clumsily, laughter filling the air.
The sound of blades scraping ice sent a shiver down my spine. I had been here before—I was sure of it.
A blurred vision flashed through my mind: standing by the rink, cold air brushing my face, calling out to someone. A boy, laughing. But before I could grasp it, the memory slipped away.
“Gregory?” Eleanor’s voice brought me back.
“I’ve been here before,” I whispered.
The club’s front desk was run by a young woman, surrounded by trophies and framed team photos. I stepped forward.
“Hi, I was hoping you could help me find someone.”
“Do you have a name?” she asked.
“Not exactly.” I pulled out the photo. “This boy played here years ago.”
She studied it, then shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve only worked here three years. If he played here as a kid, that was fifteen, twenty years ago. Before my time.”
My heart sank.
“Are you looking for someone?” a voice said from behind me.
I turned. An older man in a security uniform stood there.
“Do you recognize this boy?” I held up the picture.
He took it, his brows furrowing. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. I remember him.”
I held my breath.
“He always came with his father. Good kid. Loved hockey. But he got injured—bad hit. That ended his hockey dreams.”
A painful twist hit my chest. “Do you know his name?”
The guard hesitated before nodding. “Jason. Lives nearby.”
Then he looked at me more closely. “You two look alike.”
I turned to Eleanor, my hands shaking. “I need to see him.”
The house was small but well-kept. My heart pounded as I climbed the steps.
Before I could knock, the door swung open.
A woman in her fifties stood there. Her lips pressed into a thin line when she saw me.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
I swallowed. “I don’t remember much. I lost my memory after an accident. But I found this photo, and I need to know who this boy is.”
Her eyes flicked to the picture, then back to me. She clenched her jaw. “You don’t remember?”
“No. But I know it’s important.”
She exhaled sharply. “And your companion? Does she remember?”
I turned to Eleanor, confused. “What is she talking about?”
Eleanor avoided my gaze. The woman let out a bitter laugh.
“I see. It’s better this way, isn’t it?” She shut the door before I could respond.
Slowly, I turned to Eleanor. “Talk. Tell me what’s going on.”
She sighed. “Jason is your son. And that woman is your ex-wife.”
I felt like the ground had been ripped from beneath me.
“You knew?”
“Yes. But I thought maybe forgetting was a blessing.”
Then the door creaked open again. A young man stepped out. He had my eyes.
“Are you Gregory?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He exhaled. “Mom said I could say hello.”
“Would you… like to get pizza?” I asked hesitantly.
Jason chuckled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
As we walked toward the pizzeria, I finally understood—I didn’t want to be alone anymore.
