Ashes of reality

Chapter 4 - Dust Over Memory - Part 2

He woke up.

The noise outside the hospital room door, barely perceptible, like a distant echo, brought him back to reality. Ethan opened his eyes and immediately felt a slight headache, but most importantly — the sensation that the world had become real again, solid. He was here, in this place, and not in some forgotten world where his dream had lived. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling, trying to calm the sharp surge of anxiety, which quickly disappeared as soon as he realized: it was all a dream. A simple memory, mixed with his fears and emotions.

Silence filled the room, and Ethan felt his heart beating steadily again. He was safe. He was alive again. It didn’t matter what came before. What mattered was what was now.

Ethan felt his muscles begin to relax, and the weight on his soul slowly fade away. He was here again, in reality. In a world where everything was possible — where his life hadn’t ended at that terrible moment when he had lost everything.

The noise outside the door caught his attention again. It was something familiar — some quiet footsteps and a strange, almost imperceptible sound. It all felt... distant, yet real. Not like in his dream. Real.

His gaze once again slid across the room. The familiar hospital room. White walls, dim light, green curtains swaying slightly in the wind. And all of it — not a ghost of the past, but a quite tangible reality. He was here, and that alone was more than just survival.

Still, deep in his consciousness, there lingered a strange feeling, as if a fragment of that world he had just left was still reaching for him, like an invisible thread.

The doctor, who had been watching over him earlier, slowly entered the room.

Ethan felt the faint anxiety that had been sitting in his chest recede, giving way to a heavy resolve. He was no longer locked inside this hospital room, but in the air remained the aftertaste of something he was not yet ready to hear.

The doctor, seeing his gaze, stepped closer. For a few seconds he looked silently at Ethan, as if weighing every word he was about to say.

— You want to know the truth, — he finally said. His voice was calm, but beneath its surface there was weight. — But the truth isn’t always what brings you back to life. Sometimes it leaves only scars.

Ethan remained silent, his fists clenched on his knees.

The doctor lowered his gaze, then looked at him again.

— There are moments when a person does something so... — he faltered, searching for the words, — after which going back isn’t always possible. Even if the body recovers, the soul may remain in ruins.

Ethan felt his breathing grow heavier.

The doctor sighed:

— Sometimes the pain is so great that the mind tries to erase it, to hide the truth in the farthest corners of memory. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there.

He stepped to the window, pulled the curtain aside, letting the cold light into the room.

— You’ve lost more than you can comprehend right now, Ethan. And the responsibility for it lies with you. Entirely.

Ethan closed his eyes. Somewhere on the edge of consciousness, in an echoing, empty place, a shadow began to surface — a scream, a flash, blood on his hands.

The doctor turned to him again:

— Sometimes a second chance isn’t the opportunity to fix everything. It’s just the right to live with what you’ve done.

Ethan slowly opened his eyes. The world around seemed dimmed, dead.

The doctor nodded silently, as if putting a full stop to the conversation, and without waiting for a response, left the room, leaving him alone.

In the silence, disturbed only by the hum of machines, Ethan was left alone with what he was beginning to remember… and with what he had no right to forget.

His fingers trembled, although the room was warm. Inside, deep down, beneath a layer of murky memories, a heaviness stirred — sticky, viscous, unrelenting.

He lowered his head, clenched his fists.

Fragments began flashing in his memory — loud screams, the crash of shattered glass, heavy footsteps in the hallway… A woman’s voice, trembling with fear.

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth.

“You brought yourself here,” — the doctor’s voice echoed in his head. — “The responsibility is entirely yours.”

He remembered — no, felt — the cold of metal in his hand… a flash of rage… And then, a deafening silence, just like in this room.

Ethan stood up abruptly. His legs trembled, but he forced himself to stay upright. He couldn’t remain here. Couldn’t sink into oblivion again.

The shadows on the walls shifted, as if mocking him.

Ethan stepped toward the door, still hesitating. He didn’t know where the path would lead. But inside, a resolve was born:

To find the truth to the end. To find himself — no matter what kind of monster he turned out to be.

He placed his hand on the doorknob.

Behind the thin partition, voices could be heard. Muffled, as if from another world.

— …he mustn’t be told right away, — one voice whispered, — he won’t be able to handle it.

— He has to remember on his own, — another, firmer voice replied. — That’s the only way.

Ethan gripped the handle tighter.

He stepped forward, and the door slowly opened before him…

The door creaked, revealing a narrow, dimly lit corridor.

The ceiling lights flickered, as if on the verge of going out, casting long, quivering shadows along the walls.

He stepped over the threshold, leaving behind the room where the heavy scent of antiseptic and something indefinably sick still lingered.

The corridor was strangely empty. No doctors, no patients. Only his footsteps, thudding softly against the walls, broke the dead silence.

With each second, Ethan felt a growing weight pressing on his shoulders. As if the building itself knew what he had done and wasn’t going to let him go so easily.

To his right, in a small glass window, the registration desk was visible. Standing there were the very two whose voices he had heard behind the door.

They didn’t notice him. Or pretended not to.

Ethan squinted, trying to make out their faces. But they remained blurry, as if seen through murky water.

On the desk, next to a stack of papers, lay a thin folder with his name on it:

“Carter, Ethan.”

Ethan stepped closer. His heart thudded in his temples.

The folder was slightly open, as if taunting him.

He slowly extended his hand... and opened it.

On the first page — a cold, merciless medical report:

"Admitted as a result of a car accident. Diagnosis: severe traumatic brain injury, alcohol intoxication, loss of consciousness. Incident circumstances: prior to the accident, committed the violent murder of his wife, Allison Carter, under aggravating circumstances."

The lines, printed in black letters, seemed to stab into his eyes.

Next to it, written in red pen, was a note:

"Do not inform the patient immediately. Allow him to recall on his own through memory recovery. Strictly follow the instructions."

Ethan recoiled.

The world around him trembled, like water after a stone is thrown in.

Wife. Allison. Her face flared up in his mind — smiling, alive... and then immediately breaking apart in screams and blood.

Ethan pressed his hands to his head, breathing heavily.

He remembered.

And with this memory, an unbearable weight stirred in his chest — guilt, so sharp it sliced from within.

He took a step back, nearly losing his balance.

...Ethan grabbed the edge of the counter to keep from falling.

The corridor around him seemed to shrink, the walls closing in, the lights flickering faster, pulling sharp pieces of reality out of the darkness.

A whisper. Or the echo of his own consciousness?

"You killed her."

Ethan clenched his teeth, forcing himself not to collapse onto the floor.

No, he couldn’t afford weakness right now.

He forced himself to look up at the two behind the counter — the ones whose faces were still blurred, as if they weren’t supposed to be in this place. They still didn’t look at him, occupied with something invisible.

Ethan slowly closed the folder and put it back, feeling every cell in his body ache with guilt and fear.

"I need to get out of here," he muttered under his breath.

He stepped back from the counter, feeling a tremor run through his legs, and took several uncertain steps forward down the corridor.

Every movement came with effort, as if the air had become thick and sticky.

His heart in his chest pounded so loudly it felt like its roar could be heard across the entire floor.

Ethan moved along the walls, dragging his palm along the cold surface to keep his balance. He didn’t know where he was going — just forward, away from here.

Somewhere ahead, a door with a green sign reading "Exit" appeared.

Ethan quickened his pace, almost tripping over his own feet.

It seemed to him that the walls were stretching behind him, that the hospital didn’t want to let him go. But he kept walking.

When he pushed the door open, cold night air hit him in the face. Sharp, real. Ethan found himself in a deserted parking lot. The dim light of sparse street lamps cast long shadows on the cracked asphalt. For a moment, he froze, breathing erratically, staring into the darkness.

Inside, the storm of memories still raged, but outside, it was quiet. Real.

He was free. For now.

Ethan clenched his fists and took his first real step into the night. Forward, to whatever awaited him next.

Ethan crossed the parking lot, feeling how the fragile silence pressed against his ears.

No cars, no voices — only the wind rustling the asphalt, and the distant creak of the sign above the hospital entrance.

He glanced back for a moment. The building loomed behind him, gray and lifeless, like a squeezed-out shell. There, inside, remained his old life — the life before the truth.

Ethan turned away and walked on.

Off in the distance, beyond the parking lot, a road began, winding through a grove of half-dried trees. The streetlights here were sparser, and the darkness grew denser, almost tangible.

Ethan walked, not caring for the path. He didn’t know where he was going. It didn’t even matter.

Just away, just somewhere he could breathe.

The cool wind struck his face, sobering him and cutting him off from the whirlpool of thoughts that were trying to break free.

Step by step, only forward.

The asphalt beneath his feet gradually gave way to cracked concrete, then to dry, trampled earth.

Ethan kept walking until the rare streetlights were behind him, swallowed by the black mass of trees. Before him stretched a small grove — twisted tree trunks rose to the sky, disappearing into the darkness, their branches scraping against each other in the wind, producing a hoarse rustling.

Ethan slowed his pace.

The darkness here was almost complete. Only faint moonlight pierced through the sparse gaps in the canopy. He could feel everything inside him screaming: back! — but his legs didn’t obey. They carried him forward, to where his only road lay in the night.

Each step echoed with pain in his body. His head hummed with tension, his temples throbbed.

Ethan stumbled over a root sticking out of the ground but managed to stay on his feet. Staggering, he kept going, feeling the damp smell of rotting leaves clog his lungs. Deeper in the grove, the wind intensified, and the trees seemed to whisper among themselves — heavily, maliciously. For a moment, it seemed to him that these rustlings were forming words, but he pushed the thought away. It was all just fatigue. Just the aftermath of the injury.

Ethan moved blindly, trusting only his senses. His legs dragged him further until ahead, a faint light appeared — like a reflection from a lantern or a window.

He didn’t know what kind of place it was, but there was no other way for him.

Clenching his fists, Ethan moved towards the light.

Every step was hard, but inside, something urged him: don’t stop. Not now. Not here.

He squeezed through thick bushes, scratching his hands on the dry branches, and finally emerged into a small clearing.

In the center stood an old wooden house.

Darkened boards, a sagging roof. From one window, a faint yellow light poured out, trembling like the flame of a weak candle.

Ethan stopped, breathing heavily.

The house looked abandoned, but the light inside suggested otherwise.

Someone was there. He clenched his fists until they cracked. Fear and exhaustion fought with curiosity and desperate hope: maybe there was help? Maybe there were answers? Ethan slowly approached the porch. The boards creaked pitifully under his weight. He raised his hand... and knocked.

One. Two. Three.

Silence.

Ethan held his breath, listening to the night.

For a long moment, he thought there would be no answer. That the house was empty, that he had made a mistake.

But then, footsteps came from inside — heavy, slow. Someone was approaching the door.

Ethan took half a step back, his heart tightening in his chest. His hand instinctively clenched into a fist, as if it could protect him.

The door slowly creaked open. A man in his fifties stood in the doorway: tall, with short gray stubble and a heavy gaze. He wore an old flannel shirt and dark work pants, stained with dirt.

The man looked at Ethan, not rushing to make a judgment. For some time, he was silent, merely studying him with his eyes. Ethan stood, feeling his heart beat faster. The night was too dark, too quiet for such an unexpected visit.

— People don’t usually stay the night here, — the man finally said, tilting his head slightly as if thinking out loud. — This isn’t a tourist spot.

Ethan blinked, not knowing what to say. His mind was spinning with disconnected thoughts.

— I... didn’t plan on it, — Ethan exhaled, feeling his voice sound dry and unnatural. — I just... got lost, I guess.

The man frowned but didn’t seem overly surprised. He stepped aside slightly, indicating that he was ready to listen.

— What brought you here at this hour? Strange place for a walk.

Ethan swallowed, trying to gather his thoughts. Little by little, he began to realize that he himself didn’t know what he was looking for.

— I don’t know, — he muttered. — I just... had to get here. Something... isn’t right.

The man fell silent, listening carefully, but not asking any unnecessary questions. Silence hung between them again, and Ethan felt his nerves were stretched to the breaking point.

— Alright, come in, — the man said, opening the door wider, but his voice sounded more casual than Ethan had expected. — Since you’re here, explain everything. This isn’t the safest area for night wanderers.

Ethan felt his shoulders relax slightly, but stepping over the threshold was still difficult. Ethan hesitated before crossing the threshold, as if entering a foreign world. Inside, there was a smell of wood, old fabric, and something else — either dusty paper or dried earth. The man closed the door behind him, locking it with a heavy bolt, and gestured toward the well-worn couch against the wall.

— Sit down. Let’s talk, — he said, heading for the kitchen that was visible through an archway.

Ethan sat down, feeling the couch sink weakly beneath him. A ceramic lamp stood on a small table nearby, casting a dim, warm light. The room was surprisingly quiet — only the old clock on the wall ticked steadily and heavily. A minute later, the man returned, holding two mugs. He handed one to Ethan.

— Water. Safe, — he said simply, without extra assurances.

Ethan took the mug, although his hand still trembled slightly.

The man sat down across from him, leaning on his knees.

— So, tell me. Who are you, and what brought you here on such a night? — he asked in a calm voice, with neither trust nor suspicion — only cautious alertness.

Ethan opened his mouth, trying to start with the simplest thing, but the words got stuck in his throat again. He suddenly realized: what could he possibly tell? How could he explain that he didn’t even really remember how he ended up here?...

Ethan gripped the mug with both hands, as if the cold metal could return the clarity he had lost.

— I... Ethan, — he finally said hoarsely. — Ethan Carter. I...

He hesitated, staring at the water in the mug, as if he could find answers there.

— I was going somewhere. Then... everything’s like a fog. I woke up here.

The man didn’t interrupt, just listened carefully, still leaning forward.

— I don’t know where this is. I don’t know how much time has passed, — Ethan added, feeling a strange fatigue build with each word.

The man nodded silently, as if he had heard such stories before.

— There are no roads here, — he observed. — And there are no cities nearby. Just ten kilometers of forest and hills. If you were walking, it’s a miracle you even made it here.

Ethan raised his eyes. For the first time, he saw not suspicion in the man, but rather a slight confusion, even concern.

— Maybe someone left you? — the homeowner suggested. — Did your car break down? Or something else?

Ethan shook his head. No memories. Only vague images — cracks in the asphalt, tree shadows, stars somewhere high above.

— I don’t know, — he said again.

The man scratched his chin.

— Hm... Alright. You won’t get far at night. We’ll figure it out in the morning.

He stood up and, without waiting for a response, went to the dresser by the wall, pulled out an old but clean blanket, and threw it onto the couch next to Ethan.

— You’ll sleep here. If you need anything, the bathroom is over there, behind the kitchen.

For a moment, he paused, staring directly at Ethan:

— Just a warning... if there’s something wrong in your head, you better tell me right away. I don’t need extra problems here.

Ethan shook his head negatively.

— No. I just... want to understand what’s happening to me.

The man nodded, as if accepting this answer, though without much confidence.

— Call me John. Good night, Ethan.

He went deeper into the house, leaving Ethan alone in the silence, where the clock ticked and the light from the lamp slowly faded away. Ethan slowly sank into the couch, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and stared at the ceiling. Where am I? How did I get here? And, most importantly — what awaits me tomorrow? The shadows on the ceiling shifted in time with his heavy thoughts.

He lay there on the couch, motionless, as if afraid that any movement would destroy this fragile sense of safety. The blanket smelled slightly of wood smoke and old fabric. That smell, unexpectedly familiar and warm, seemed to momentarily push the fears away. Ethan listened to the floor creaking under John’s footsteps at the other end of the house, and the wind trembling in the windows outside. The world seemed strangely distant, muffled, as if a thick veil had been stretched between him and reality. His head buzzed, but the pain was no longer as sharp as before. It had turned into a dull, aching echo somewhere inside.

Ethan turned onto his side, pulling the blanket higher. His eyelids were growing heavy.

His thoughts were tangled. They came in fragments — faces, places, snatches of conversations — but immediately slipped away, dissolving in the soft half-light of the room. He tried to catch at least one thread of memories, but instead sank deeper into the warm, sticky drowsiness. In the last moment, just before sleep fully embraced him, Ethan thought:

"I survived. At least, for now."

And the darkness gently closed around him, carrying the worries somewhere far away...

...

Ethan woke up from a strange sensation.

A heaviness — as if the whole world had pressed down on his chest, crushing him with its weight. Something dull, invisible, but painfully tangible.

He slowly opened his eyes.

The ceiling. Whitewashed, with tiny cracks. A dim lamp right in the center. A faint smell of dampness and old wood hung in the air. Ethan tried to move — his muscles responded with aching weakness, as though he had been beaten for a long time or had lain still for several days. Raising his head, he saw: a simple wooden bed, a thin blanket, a worn rug on the floor. A small window was covered with fabric, through which a faint grayish light seeped.

He was in an unfamiliar place.

A rustle. Somewhere nearby, behind a thin door, he heard someone’s footsteps — slow, measured.

Ethan tried to remember.

The man in the doorway. Cold. The conversation. The house.

"I’m here... they let me in..." — his thoughts slowly gathered, like shards of broken glass.

He struggled to sit up on the bed, his feet touching the floor. He was still in that same hospital gown, but now an old woolen sweater was thrown over it.

He was thirsty. His lips were dry.

Ethan looked at the door, the footsteps had stopped, silence.

He didn’t know what would happen next. But he could clearly feel — everything had changed. And there was no going back.

Ethan slowly got up, leaning against the wall to avoid falling. His legs wobbled, but with each step, he felt his strength slowly returning. He approached the door. Placed his palm on the rough wooden surface.

No lock.