What Makes You Who You Are?

“Seraphina,” my mother whispered like a prayer. Her hand brushed my cheek. “You’re awake.” The light stung my eyes. Everything was too white, too quiet. “I’m… home?” My throat scratched like sandpaper. Dad’s laugh cracked. “You scared us.” He leaned closer. “But you’re okay now.” I nodded, even if I didn’t feel okay. The nurse adjusted the IV. “Welcome back,” she said—but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. When I looked at Mom again, her eyes were wet. But her fingers… they hesitated before touching mine. “Were you… crying?” I asked. “We’ve all been waiting,” she said instead. But something in her voice broke. She let go too fast. My chest ached—not from pain, but from the absence of it. There was no relief, no joy. Just the sound of machines. “Sweetheart, do you remember Auntie Rina?” Mom beamed, tugging a woman into the room. The stranger waved. “You gave me your necklace when you were five.” “I did?” “You said it matched my earrings,” she laughed softly. I tried to smile, but my fingers twisted in the blanket. “Sounds like me…” She turned away too quickly. The hallway was always cold at night. “Want to try walking, dear?” a nurse asked. I nodded. She held my arm. Her grip was too firm. As we passed the nurses' station, a young man looked up. “She’s awake?” he whispered to another nurse. The other nurse hushed him. I blinked. “Was I… not supposed to be?” “Of course you were,” the nurse beside me said too quickly. “Everyone’s happy you’re back.” Her smile stayed. But her gaze flicked over my face like she was memorizing something wrong. A vase of lilies sat beside my bed again the next morning—fresh. No card. I leaned close. The petals smelled too sweet. “I hate lilies,” I whispered. But no one was there to hear me. “Mom?” I reached for her hand, brushing my fingers across her palm. She startled—just slightly. The twitch was small. But it was there. “Sorry, it’s just… you were cold before,” she said quickly. “Still getting used to the warmth again.” “Right,” I nodded, my smile strained. “Cold hands. Warm heart.” She didn’t laugh. Just smoothed my hair like I hadn’t noticed. “Do you remember the day you fell?” she asked. I blinked. “Fell?” She hesitated. “The accident. You were trying to save a cat.” I searched my brain, but the harder I reached, the further it slipped. My temples throbbed. “There was… glass. And a sound. Screaming?” “No,” she said too quickly. “You fainted.” “I don’t faint,” I muttered. She tightened her grip. “Let’s not think too much right now, okay?” I nodded. But something twisted in my stomach. Later, I caught my reflection. The mirror above the sink—tilted. My face stared back, slightly off-axis. For a second, I didn’t recognize it. The blood pressure cuff hissed around my arm. “Ninety-eight over sixty-eight,” the nurse said, jotting notes on her tablet. “Stable.” Her tone was calm, clipped, too smooth. “Have I asked you this already?” I said. “What exactly happened to me?” She didn’t flinch. She just reached for the thermometer. “You were lucky. No internal damage. Minor concussion. Nothing lasting.” “Right… but what caused the fall?” Her eyes didn’t move from her chart. “Some things are better left for your family to explain.” I narrowed my gaze. “You were the one who found me, weren’t you?” She smiled. “I was on duty when you were brought in, yes.” “Then you must’ve seen… something.” “I saw a girl who beat the odds,” she replied, voice too soft. When she turned away, I noticed it. A photo frame on my bedside table. Me, laughing on a picnic blanket. Sunglasses. Wind in my hair. “That photo,” I said slowly, “when was that taken?” The nurse froze mid-step. “I… wouldn’t know. It was already here.” I stared at the image. I had no memory of that day. And yet… that girl looked exactly like me. Only freer. Like she belonged. The door opened with a soft knock before I could respond. “Look who’s got perfect timing,” Dad said with a grin, stepping in with a bouquet clutched tight. The scent hit me before the color did—sweet, cloying, thick. “Lilies,” he announced proudly. “Your favorite.” I blinked at the white blooms. “No, they’re not,” I said before I could stop myself. He paused mid-step. “They’re not?” “I… I’ve never liked lilies,” I added, quieter now. “They remind me of funerals.” He smiled, but it was slower this time. “You used to love them. Said they looked like stars turned inside out.” I stared at the petals. “I don’t remember that.” He placed the bouquet on the table anyway, fussing with the angle. “Maybe your tastes changed,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “Or maybe they never were mine,” I muttered. “What was that?” “Nothing.” I swallowed hard. “Thanks for the flowers.” He sat beside me, but left a small space between us. His phone buzzed. He didn’t silence it. I turned away from the lilies. Maybe he was right. Or maybe… someone had rewritten the version of me he wanted back. The room was too still. I walked slowly to the bathroom, dragging the IV pole beside me. The mirror above the sink tilted ever so slightly, like someone had tried to fix it—but gave up. I leaned in. “…Why do I look tired?” I whispered. My reflection tilted her head the opposite way. I stepped back. “Okay… okay,” I mumbled, heart starting to pound. The glass shimmered. Just for a second. And then— A flash. Charred earth. Smoke curling through a blood-red sky. A heartbeat. Loud. Mine. A hand—blackened, reaching toward me from flame— “Help me,” it whispered. No mouth. Just eyes. My eyes. “Stop—stop it!” I screamed, stumbling backward. The door burst open. “Seraphina!” The nurse rushed in. I was on the floor, gasping, eyes wide, sweat soaking through the gown. She knelt beside me. “You’re okay, you’re okay, sweetheart—breathe.” My gaze darted toward the mirror. It was… still. Just me now. No one mentioned what I saw. No one ever would. The hallway lights had dimmed. My room pulsed with soft machines and shadows. I turned in bed, restless. Then— “You saw her today, right?” A man’s voice. My father’s. “Yes. She smiled like she used to. But…” My mother. Whispering. Hesitant. I froze, breath tight in my chest. “She’s not the same,” she continued. “Give her time.” A pause. Then: “We agreed we wouldn’t say anything. Let her remember *naturally*.” My nails dug into the blanket. “Do you think she knows?” “She looked at me like a stranger today.” “I don’t know how much longer I can lie to her.” The voices blurred after that—too soft to catch, too sharp to ignore. I lay still, eyes wide open in the dark. The hum of the IV. The ticking clock. The wall that suddenly felt thinner than skin. They were lying to me. And I had no idea why. “Where is he?” I asked. Mom blinked at me from the foot of the bed. “He’s… been busy. You know how work gets.” “It’s been two weeks.” She gently folded the edge of my blanket. “You’ve been through so much. Let’s not rush things.” “Why won’t anyone just answer me?” “You’re still healing, Seraphina.” Her voice trembled, but her eyes didn’t meet mine. “That’s all that matters.” “No, it’s not,” I whispered. Later, they let me sit in the courtyard garden. It was too quiet, too pruned. I held out my hand, just to feel something. A butterfly landed on my index finger—wings pale blue, trembling. I watched it carefully. “At least you showed up,” I murmured. The wings stilled. And then it collapsed. Dead. “Don’t,” I muttered, brushing it off. The nurse approached with a wheelchair. “Ready to go in?” “No.” She waited. I stayed silent. And for the first time, I realized: No one else was coming. My slippers whispered across the polished floor. Soft piano music echoed faintly from the intercom—notes hanging like ghostly breath in cold air. The night nurse glanced up from her station. “Can’t sleep again?” I shook my head. She nodded toward the hallway. “Take a walk. Just stay near the east wing.” “I’m not a child.” Her lips curled slightly. “Of course not.” I wandered past empty rooms, IV poles clicking, curtain shadows dancing under fluorescent light. One door was ajar. Room 310. Inside, a girl lay still—too still. Comatose. Hooked to machines, wires like webbing. Her hair looked like mine. Too much like mine. I stepped closer. “Who is she?” A janitor pushing a mop looked up. “That one? Been here a while. No name. No visitors.” “Someone must’ve loved her.” “Maybe they did,” he said. “Maybe not anymore.” I pressed a hand to the glass. The girl didn’t move. But my pulse raced like it recognized her anyway. Like she was me—forgotten. Left behind. “Miss Seraphina, you have a visitor,” the nurse said, eyes tight with something she wasn’t saying. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.” The woman who walked in wore a cobalt coat and a perfume that hit before she even spoke. She stopped in the doorway. And then— “Eira?” I blinked. “I’m sorry… what did you call me?” “Eira,” she whispered again. Tears filled her eyes as she closed the distance and pulled me into a hug. “It’s you. My God. I thought I’d lost you.” I froze in her arms. “Who are you?” I asked, voice tight. The woman pulled back. “It’s me, Maive. You—you don’t remember?” A nurse cleared her throat behind her. “She’s not well,” she said gently. “You should go.” “But she’s—” “Ma’am,” the nurse’s tone sharpened. “Let’s not confuse her further.” Maive looked at me like she was drowning. “I’m not confused,” I muttered. But I was. Later, I stared at the visitor log. She had signed her name. Maive Aldrin. I pressed a hand to my chest. Why had that name made my heart ache? I turned toward the window, my reflection faint against the glass. “…Eira?” I whispered to myself. And for the first time… It didn’t feel entirely wrong. Flames licked the ceiling like they were alive—hungry, breathing. The air was thick with smoke and the metallic tang of burning wire. “Help me,” someone cried. I turned. A hand stretched out from behind the blaze, trembling. I reached for it. “Hold on—” The wall collapsed. “Don’t go!” But my hand never touched theirs. I just watched them vanish in orange and ash. I jerked awake. Darkness. Sweat poured down my neck. “Hello?” My voice cracked. “Is anyone—” No answer. The hallway hissed with static from the intercom. Faint whispers. Not in the dream. Real. Just outside. “…She’s starting to remember…” “…too soon. We weren’t ready…” “Who told her about Maive?” “Check the mirror.” I turned my head slowly. The mirror across the room. A jagged crack sliced through the middle—diagonal, clean, like a scar. I pressed my palm to my chest. “…Who was I supposed to save?” No one answered. Because no one ever came. The pen felt too heavy in my fingers. I stared at the blank page in front of me, heart tapping against my ribs like a warning drum. “I just want to see it,” I whispered. I wrote slowly: Seraphina. I frowned. Then again, next to it: Seraphina. The second one curved differently. My hand—my own hand—moved like it remembered someone else. I leaned in. “They don’t match.” “Maybe I’m tired,” I said aloud, voice brittle in the empty room. I crossed both names out. Wrote again: Eira. The pen moved smoother. Easier. “No…” I backed up in the chair. “Why did that feel right?” My fingers trembled. “Why does my name feel like a lie?” I looked down at the paper. Three names. None of them mine. Or all of them. Outside, the wind howled softly against the window like someone whispering a name I wasn’t ready to remember. The hallway was dim. Late. Quiet. I pressed my back against the cold cabinet drawers, listening for footsteps. Nothing. My fingers wrapped around the drawer handle. Click. It opened with a shiver. “Please be there,” I whispered. File tabs rustled like dry leaves. And then—my name. I pulled the folder close to my chest. Under the weak fluorescent light, I opened the file. Vitals. Blood work. Brain scan. Date of admission: 08/14 My breath hitched. “No… that’s not right. My accident was on the fifteenth.” I flipped to the back. Release authorization. My gaze locked onto the name signed at the bottom. “Who…?” It wasn’t mine. The handwriting was elegant. Sharp. Precise. But not mine. I whispered, “Who the hell signed me in?” The hallway behind me creaked. I turned fast. Nothing. But the file in my hands was suddenly heavier. Like it was never meant to be touched.