The days following Leyla’s awakening blurred into a disorienting rhythm, small steps forward in her body, matched by a growing fog in her mind. No matter how hard she tried, memories of her past slipped away like slippery shadows, dissolving the moment she reached for them.
Every time she pressed Helen with a question, the answer never changed. Gentle, but unyielding: “I’ll explain everything when the time is right. Forcing your memory could drive you to madness.”
But Leyla couldn’t settle for that vague promise. What was she supposed to expect? How long was she supposed to wait for answers? Everything felt unreal, and her impatience burned hotter with each passing day, like a fire she couldn’t put out.
Her condition was an unfathomable riddle, a puzzle with too many missing pieces to ever complete. That was why she hesitated to share with her the dreams that visited her almost every night. Those dreams, vivid and overflowing with detail, were her only anchor when she woke. She couldn’t always recall them clearly, but the figures within them, her mother Evelyn and her grandmother, stayed etched in her mind with almost painful clarity, as if burned into her heart by an invisible flame.
“They’re probably just products of my imagination,” she found herself saying, “but since I don’t have real memories, I want to believe at least this can help me piece together a past that keeps slipping through my fingers. I don’t think chasing it could drive me mad… at least, I hope not.”
Deep down, Leyla clung to the hope that those two extraordinary women, Evelyn and her grandmother, had truly been part of her past. More than anything, she longed for the day she could see them again, wrap her arms around them, and never let go.
Lately, she had started feeding herself. Helen would carefully prop her up in bed, tucking pillows around her so she wouldn’t slump from sheer weakness. Her legs were still paralyzed, but she could slowly, stubbornly, lift her arms enough to bring food to her mouth. Every tiny movement was a victory, another shaky step toward a normal life that still felt impossibly far away.
Despite the haze of painkillers clouding her thoughts, and the nagging frustration of her missing memories, her days fell into a strange rhythm, short naps broken up by Helen’s visits. Helen was kind, attentive, almost tender in her care… yet always wrapped in an air of mystery Leyla couldn’t quite crack.
She had studied every corner of the room with silent focus: a compact studio, no more than two hundred and seventy square feet, designed with precise, functional care. Except for the bathroom, she could see everything from where she lay. The layout was deliberate, an open kitchenette, a broad table, and the queen-sized bed under her, which could double as a comfortable couch when needed. Blue curtains and brightly colored furnishings set against the white walls gave the place a warm, welcoming vibe. It was the kind of space that might have felt familiar, even comforting, if not for the constant sense of strangeness that washed over her every time her eyes wandered across it.
That morning, Leyla woke with effort, the first rays of sunlight slipping into the room and shattering the spell of the dreams that had carried her through the night. Once, those visions had been her lifeline, a source of comfort in the hardest moments. Now they felt hollow, deceptive, and almost toxic.
She spent her days drifting through fantasies of a past shared with those two beloved figures who lived only in her mind. In reality, the veil of oblivion smothered every memory of what had been, while the present stayed just as impenetrable, shrouded in mysteries she couldn’t begin to untangle.
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An urgent need for truth buzzed in her head like a swarm of wasps she couldn’t swat away.
I don't know where the hell I am, who Helen is, why she’s taking care of me while I’m paralyzed, or what wiped my memory. I feel like a prisoner in this room. I can't take it anymore. I need answers!
She decided it was time to act. She had to move carefully, couldn’t afford to jeopardize her fragile state, but beneath that caution she nursed a small, stubborn hope for a miracle. Every second waiting for Helen’s arrival felt like an endless crawl.
When Helen crossed the threshold with her usual bright cheer, the room shifted in an instant. The moment her eyes fell on Leyla, a cold prickle ran up her spine and her smile vanished; she knew right away that something was terribly wrong.
Leyla was unrecognizable, almost ghostlike, her hair a tangled mess, her usually pale face now tinged with a disturbing bluish cast. Her eyes were clenched shut with visible strain, and her mouth hung open wide enough to reveal her tonsils. But what struck Helen most were the screams, raw, gut-wrenching cries beyond anything she could have imagined, as if some inhuman force had taken hold of her.
When Leyla finally burned through her last breath, a frozen silence dropped over the room. The two women stood motionless, eyes wide in shock at what they had just witnessed. Time itself seemed to have stopped, every inhale echoing through the unnatural stillness.
It was Helen who finally broke the silence, her lips trembling as if every word demanded an unbearable effort.
“Oh my God, Leyla!” she gasped, visibly shaken, pressing a hand to her chest as if to steady the wild pounding of her heart. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. Forgive me… truly. I’ve waited too long. I know how frustrated you must feel, but what you’re going through now is just the faintest echo of the pain you’ve already endured. You, me, and so many others, we were all victims of torture, both physical and mental. That’s why Uttermost and his army are doing everything they can to save as many people as possible.”
Her words, thick with tension and regret, only fanned the flames of Leyla’s anger. With a steady voice and eyes blazing, she cut her off: “Then why am I like this? Why can’t I remember anything?”
Helen tried to answer, but the anxiety locked tight around her throat. Her trembling hands clutched at her apron as if it were the only thing keeping her from collapsing.
“We sustained deep damage,” Helen said. “And if those horrific memories had stayed with us, we wouldn’t have been able to go on. That’s why we underwent a surgical procedure to erase the past.”
Leyla fell silent for a beat, then pressed on, confusion and pain sharpening her voice. “Then why didn’t you tell me sooner? I asked you a thousand times, and instead of answers you kept me in the dark.”
Helen gave her a pleading look, choosing her words like someone defusing a landmine. She stepped closer to the bed, her eyes full of genuine worry.
“Remember when I told you forcing memories can drive you mad? When the brain gets ‘reset,’ it needs time to adjust. Information has to be fed slowly, like water drops on parched soil. I know it’s brutal, but in time you’ll realize how lucky you are to have made it this far. As the oldest here, it’s my job to guide newcomers. Please, let me do my job, and do it calmly. Don’t rush this; it could be dangerous, and you risk irreparable damage.”
Her words blurred together with the tears streaking down her face. A heavy silence filled the room, thick with emotion.
The fire of Leyla’s anger sputtered out all at once, leaving her raw and defenseless. Trembling, she lifted her arms as high as her frail strength allowed. Helen didn’t hesitate. She pulled her close, clutching her as if she were afraid of losing her all over again. In that fragile, genuine embrace, the first true bridge between them was built.
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