# Chapter 1: The Day I Woke Up

The first thing Lena Morgan remembered was the sound of rain.

Not the accident.

Not the hospital.

Not the people who had gathered around her.

Just rain.

Heavy rain hitting a window somewhere nearby.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

She opened her eyes.

White ceiling.

White walls.

A faint beeping sound beside her.

For several seconds, Lena didn't move.

She stared at the ceiling, trying to understand where she was.

Then a woman suddenly appeared beside her bed.

“Lena?”

The woman's voice trembled.

Lena turned her head.

The woman was crying.

She looked familiar.

Very familiar.

But Lena couldn't remember her name.

“Who are you?” Lena whispered.

The woman's face collapsed.

“Oh, Lena.”

She reached for her hand.

“It's me. Claire.”

Lena stared at her.

Claire.

The name felt familiar.

Like a word from a dream she couldn't quite reach.

“My sister,” Lena whispered.

Claire nodded quickly.

“Yes.”

Lena looked around the room.

“Where am I?”

“The hospital.”

“Why?”

Claire hesitated.

“You were in an accident.”

Lena closed her eyes.

An accident.

She tried to remember.

Nothing.

She remembered rain.

She remembered headlights.

Then darkness.

That was all.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You don't remember?”

Lena opened her eyes again.

“No.”

Claire squeezed her hand.

“The doctors said it might take time.”

“Take time for what?”

“To remember.”

Lena looked at her.

“How long have I been here?”

Claire didn't answer immediately.

“Six days.”

Lena's eyes widened.

“Six days?”

“Yes.”

Lena looked toward the window.

Rain covered the glass.

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“What month?”

Claire hesitated.

“October.”

Lena frowned.

“And the year?”

Claire looked away.

“2026.”

Lena stared at her.

Something was wrong.

She couldn't explain it.

She knew the year.

She knew her age.

She knew her family.

She knew where she had gone to school.

She remembered childhood birthdays, old friends, her first job, and countless ordinary moments.

But when she tried to think about the last few years, her mind became strangely empty.

Not blurry.

Empty.

As if someone had cut three pages out of a book.

“Claire.”

“Yes?”

“How old am I?”

“Twenty-two.”

Lena swallowed.

“And what was I doing before the accident?”

Claire's fingers tightened around hers.

“You were working.”

“Where?”

Claire looked toward the door.

“At a small publishing company.”

“What was it called?”

Claire didn't answer.

Lena noticed.

“Claire?”

“You've been through a lot.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“I know.”

Lena sat up slowly.

The room spun.

Claire immediately pressed a button beside the bed.

“Don't move too quickly.”

Lena ignored her.

“Why can't I remember the last three years?”

Claire went silent.

Lena watched her carefully.

“You know something.”

“No.”

“You do.”

Claire looked at her.

Then she forced a smile.

“The doctors said memory loss after trauma can be complicated.”

“But why three years?”

“I don't know.”

Lena knew she was lying.

She just didn't know why.

---

Later that afternoon, a doctor entered the room.

He was tall, probably in his fifties, with gray hair and thin glasses.

“Lena, I'm Dr. Blake.”

She nodded.

“Can I ask you some questions?”

“Of course.”

He sat beside the bed.

“What's your full name?”

“Lena Morgan.”

“Your age?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“St. Mary's Hospital.”

“Do you know today's date?”

“Yes.”

He smiled.

“Good.”

He continued with simple questions.

Her childhood.

Her parents.

Her school.

Her sister.

Her hometown.

Lena answered almost everything.

Then Dr. Blake asked:

“What is the last thing you remember before the accident?”

Lena looked at him.

“Rain.”

“Anything else?”

“Headlights.”

“Anything before the headlights?”

Lena shook her head.

“No.”

Dr. Blake wrote something down.

“That's normal.”

Lena frowned.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why does everyone look worried?”

The doctor paused.

“Because you're asking questions.”

“And that's a problem?”

“No.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

Dr. Blake slowly removed his glasses.

“You experienced significant trauma. Your brain may have protected itself by blocking certain memories.”

“Certain memories?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“We can't know.”

“But I can't remember three years.”

The doctor looked at Claire.

Then back at Lena.

“Sometimes memory returns gradually.”

“And if it doesn't?”

“We'll work with what you have.”

Lena didn't like that answer.

Not even a little.

After the doctor left, she stared at the ceiling.

Three years.

What had happened during those three years?

Why did Claire seem afraid whenever she asked?

And why did Dr. Blake avoid looking directly at her?

---

That evening, Claire went home to get some clothes.

Lena was finally alone.

Rain continued outside.

She turned toward the small table beside her bed.

A glass of water.

A phone charger.

A vase.

And a black handbag.

She didn't recognize the handbag.

Lena reached for it.

Inside were a wallet, some receipts, keys, and an old photograph.

She pulled the photograph out.

Her heart stopped.

It was a picture of her.

But she wasn't alone.

She was standing beside a young man.

He looked about her age.

Dark hair.

Serious eyes.

A faint smile.

Lena stared at him.

She didn't know him.

But something inside her reacted immediately.

Fear.

Her fingers began trembling.

She turned the photograph over.

There was writing on the back.

Three words.

**DON'T TRUST HIM.**

Lena's breathing became shallow.

She looked at the man's face again.

Who was he?

Why was she standing beside him?

And why had someone warned her not to trust him?

She searched the handbag again.

Nothing.

Then her phone suddenly vibrated.

Lena jumped.

The screen showed an unknown number.

She stared at it.

It stopped.

A few seconds later, another message appeared.

**You remembered the photograph.**

Lena froze.

A second message followed.

**That means they're going to come for you.**

Her heart began pounding.

She typed:

**Who are you?**

The reply came almost instantly.

**Someone who failed to protect you.**

Lena stared at the screen.

Before she could respond, another message appeared.

**Whatever Claire tells you, don't believe her.**

Lena's eyes widened.

Then came the final message.

**And whatever you remember about Ethan Cole, forget it.**

Lena looked down at the photograph.

The young man's name was Ethan.

She whispered it to herself.

“Ethan Cole.”

For a brief second, something flashed through her mind.

A dark room.

A broken window.

Someone shouting her name.

Then a man's voice.

**“Lena, you have to trust me.”**

She gasped.

The memory vanished.

Her phone slipped from her hand.

Outside the hospital room, footsteps approached.

Slow.

Careful.

They stopped directly outside her door.

Lena looked toward the entrance.

The door handle began to move.

And then she heard a familiar voice.

Claire.

“Lena?”

Lena stared at the photograph.

She didn't know what frightened her more.

The fact that someone was coming for her—

or the fact that a part of her already knew exactly who was standing behind the door.

The door opened.

And a young man walked into the room.

It was the man from the photograph.

Ethan Cole.

He looked directly at Lena.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then Ethan whispered,

“You weren't supposed to remember me.”

Lena's blood ran cold.

Because the moment she heard his voice, she remembered one thing.

She had met Ethan before.

And three years ago—

**she had begged him to help her disappear.**