He Mourns Me, I Don’t Know Myself

I open my eyes, and the first thing I notice is the light. It spills across the hardwood floor in thick, golden rectangular patches, illuminating dust motes that dance slowly in the quiet air. I am sitting on the floor, my back pressed against the cool plaster of the wall, my knees pulled up to my chest. For a long moment, I just watch the dust. It feels peaceful. Then, the silence is broken by a sudden, sharp realization that strikes me like a physical blow: I don't know where I am. I blink, my gaze sweeping the room. It’s a living space. A beige fabric sofa sits in the center, facing a switched-off television. There’s a woven rug underneath a low wooden coffee table. A half-read book rests on the arm of the sofa, a bookmark sticking out haphazardly. The air smells like roasted coffee beans, a hint of cedar, and something else—something warm and intimately familiar, like rain on a worn cotton shirt. The familiarity of it tugs at the edges of my mind. I feel as though I should know this place. My body seems to recognize the angle of the light, the exact shade of the curtains. But when I try to put a name to it, there is nothing. I press my palms against the floorboards and push myself up. My legs feel weightless, almost dreamlike. I look down at my hands. They are pale, the fingers long and slender. I try to command my brain to supply a name. An address. A childhood memory. Anything. Who am I? The question echoes in the void of my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut and dig into the recesses of my consciousness, grasping for a thread to pull. But my memory is like a piece of paper left out in a heavy downpour—the ink has bled out, washed away, leaving nothing but a blank, sodden pulp. There is no name. No age. No history. Panic, cold and sharp, begins to prickle at the base of my throat. I force my eyes open and start to move through the apartment, desperate for an anchor. The open floor plan leads from the living room into a small, meticulously kept kitchen. I walk toward the counter. There are two ceramic coffee cups resting on the drying rack. One has a small chip on the rim; the other is a dark navy blue. Two cups. I move past the kitchen and down a short hallway. The first door on the right is a bathroom. I step inside. The air here smells faintly of mint toothpaste and damp towels. On the sink counter, there is a toothbrush holder. Two toothbrushes. One green, one white. I stare at them. Two people live here. A couple, maybe? Roommates? Do I live here? I step back out into the hallway and walk toward the bedroom at the end. The door is slightly ajar. I push it gently, and it swings open without a sound. The bed is made, but it looks a little rumpled on one side, as if someone had lain on top of the covers. Above a low wooden dresser, there is a shelf cluttered with small trinkets: a seashell, a ticket stub, and a framed photograph. I step closer, my breath catching in my throat. This is it. This has to be the answer. The photograph shows two people. A man and a woman, standing against the backdrop of a windy beach. The man is tall, with dark, unkempt hair and a smile that reaches his eyes. His arm is wrapped securely around the woman’s waist. The woman is laughing, her head thrown back, her light brown hair whipping across her face. I stare at the woman’s face. The arch of her eyebrows, the curve of her smile, the small mole just below her collarbone. She is beautiful. She looks utterly, entirely happy. But I feel nothing. No spark of recognition. No sudden flooding of memories. I look at her as though I am looking at a stranger in a magazine. Is that me? I reach out to touch the glass of the frame, needing to feel the cool surface, needing to ground myself in this reality. But before my fingertips can graze the picture, I hear it. The heavy, metallic clack of a key turning in the front door. I freeze. The sound is loud in the silent apartment. Then comes the squeak of the hinges, followed by the soft thud of the door closing. Footsteps echo against the entryway floorboards. Heavy, dragging footsteps. My heart hammers against my ribs. I don't know who I am. I don't know if I belong here. If the person who just walked in is the man from the photograph, will he recognize me? If he’s a stranger, what will he do when he finds a woman standing in his bedroom? I step out of the bedroom, my bare feet silent on the floor, and peek down the hallway toward the front entrance. It is the man from the photograph. He looks... different. In the picture, his face was alight with joy. The man standing in the entryway looks like a hollowed-out shell. His shoulders are slumped, his dark hair is messy and unwashed. He is carrying two plastic grocery bags, his knuckles white from the grip. He sets the bags down on the floor with a dull thud. Then, he lifts his head. His eyes are rimmed with angry, bruised red. The skin beneath them is bruised with exhaustion. He looks as though he hasn't slept in a week. He looks broken. I press my back against the wall of the hallway, holding my breath, hoping the shadows will conceal me. I want to speak, to ask him who he is, to ask him who I am, but my throat is completely sealed shut with fear. He shrugs off his dark coat, letting it fall onto a chair, and turns his head. His gaze sweeps down the hallway. I shrink back, but there is nowhere to hide. His eyes move past the bathroom door, past the framed art on the wall, and then— They stop. They lock onto me. My breath hitches. He is staring right at me. The distance between us is perhaps twenty feet, but the intensity of his stare bridges it instantly. His breath hitches, a jagged, wet sound that echoes in the quiet hall. The absolute devastation in his expression falters, replaced by a shock so profound it seems to paralyze him. He can see me. "Seraphina...?" he whispers. The name cracks in the air, fragile and desperate. Seraphina. Is that my name? He takes a slow, trembling step forward. He never breaks eye contact. He looks at me like I am a miracle. Or a ghost.