After losing my memory, life continued in a strange blur—until the day I found an old photo of a boy I didn’t recognize. Something about the image felt off. Was he a stranger, or someone I should have never forgotten?
I stood in my apartment, the silence pressing against my ears. Had it always been this quiet? Or was it the emptiness of my own mind making it feel this way?
After the accident, the hospital stay, and the doctors telling me that my memory might never fully return, I had only one choice—to rebuild my life with what little I had left.
A soft knock on the door snapped me out of my thoughts. Before I could even respond, the door creaked open.
“Gregory.”
Eleanor, my neighbor, stood in the doorway, as she always did—confident, slightly amused, never waiting for an invitation.
“How are you feeling today?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Alive, I guess,” I replied with a small smile. “Doctors say I should try to live as I did before.”
“Then let’s get coffee,” she suggested, raising an eyebrow. “You were a complete disaster without it before the accident.”
I nodded. That made sense. If I used to love coffee, then maybe it would help me feel more like myself.
We stepped outside, the sun warm on my skin. It was like I was rediscovering the world. At the café, I hesitated when the barista asked for my order. I looked at Eleanor for help.
“What do I usually get?”
“Double espresso. No sugar,” she said without hesitation.
“Then I’ll have a double espresso. No sugar.”
The day passed with me trying to reconnect with my past—taking photos of people in the streets, attempting to write for my newspaper. But nothing felt quite right. That changed when I decided to go through my old belongings in the closet.
Among books and random items, I found a photograph. In it, I was young, smiling, standing next to a ten-year-old boy.
“Children’s Hockey Club” was scribbled on the back. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember that boy.
I stared at the photo, willing some memory to surface. But my mind remained blank.
“Eleanor,” I called, showing her the picture. “Do you know who this kid is?”
She studied it carefully. “You loved taking pictures of kids. Maybe it was just part of your job?”
I looked at the boy again. He seemed happy, just like I did in the picture. But there was something about his eyes—something hauntingly familiar.
Deep down, I knew he wasn’t just some random child.
The next morning, I sat in my car, checking my supply of medication. The trip would be long—six hours to the nearest hockey club that matched the background in the photo.
“Gregory, this is a bad idea,” Eleanor warned from beside the car. “Staying in familiar surroundings will help your memory.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I pressed the gas, listening to the engine purr. Then I finally looked at her.
“What if somewhere out there, there’s someone who once needed me?”
Her expression darkened. “And if there is, maybe there’s a reason you two lost touch. Digging into the past can be dangerous.”
I gripped the steering wheel. Then I heard the dull thud of a car door closing. I turned my head—Eleanor was in the passenger seat.
“I’m coming with you,” she said simply. “At the very least, I’ll make sure you don’t starve on the way.”
I smiled. She was always there, even when I hadn’t noticed.
“Why am I alone, Eleanor?” I asked as we drove.
She sighed, staring at the road ahead. “Because you were obsessed with finding the greatest story of your career. You were always chasing a sensation, moving from city to city…” She smirked. “What kind of woman would put up with that?”
I grimaced. “Oh, so I’m hard to handle now?”
“Oh, incredibly!” she rolled her eyes dramatically. “But someone has to.”
I laughed. I hadn’t felt this good in a long time.
Why had I never asked her on a date?
We arrived at the hockey club at noon. The scent of ice and rubber from inside the rink hit me instantly. The sound of skates scraping against the ice sent a shiver down my spine.
I had been here before. I was sure of it.
A blurred memory—standing at the rink, calling out to someone. A boy laughing. But before I could hold onto the moment, it vanished.
“Gregory?” Eleanor’s voice pulled me back.
“I’ve been here before.”
She gave me a small nod before leading me inside.
At the front desk, I showed the receptionist the photo. “Do you recognize this boy?”
She frowned. “Sorry, I’ve only worked here for three years.”
“Maybe a coach?” Eleanor suggested.
She sighed, shaking her head. “If he played here as a kid, that would’ve been at least fifteen years ago. I don’t know.”
I clenched my jaw. This place meant something, but I was running out of leads.
“Are you looking for someone?”
I turned to see an older man in a security uniform. Hope flickered inside me.
“Yes,” I held up the photo. “Do you recognize him?”
The man studied it, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I remember him. He always came with his father. Good kid. But he got injured—bad hit. His hockey dreams ended.”
Something twisted inside me. “Do you know his name?”
The man hesitated, then nodded again. “Jason. Lives nearby. I see him sometimes.” Then he frowned, looking at me closely. “You two look alike.”
My breath caught.
The house was modest, with a flickering porch light. My heart pounded as I climbed the steps. Before I could knock, the door opened.
A woman in her fifties stood there, lips pressed into a thin line.
“What are you doing here?” she asked coldly.
I swallowed. “I lost my memory in an accident. I found this photo and needed to know who this boy is.”
She glanced at the picture, then back at me. “You don’t remember?”
“No. But I know it’s important.”
She exhaled sharply, then turned to Eleanor. “And your companion? Does she remember?”
I frowned, turning to Eleanor. “What is she talking about?”
Eleanor avoided my gaze. The woman laughed bitterly. “I see. It’s better this way.”
She shut the door. I turned to Eleanor, my hands trembling. “Talk. Tell me the truth.”
Eleanor sighed. “Jason is your son. And that woman… she’s your ex-wife.”
My chest tightened. “You knew?”
“Yes. But I thought forgetting might be a blessing.”
Before I could respond, the door creaked open again. A young man stood there—mid-twenties, my eyes staring back at me.
“Are you Gregory?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Mom said I could come say hello.”
Jason. My son.
“Would you… like to get pizza?” I asked.
Jason chuckled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
As we walked away, I realized—I didn’t want to be alone anymore.
And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late to fix what was broken.