Chapter 2: An Orphan’s Quiet Years
1063 Words
“Your shift's over, kid. Go home before the rats start ordering coffee."
Amelia laughed as she peeled off her apron. “I'm just making sure you don't burn the place down, Marty."
The grizzled manager waved her off with a grunt, flipping another stale donut onto the rack. It was past midnight at Shields Diner. Rain tapped the windows like a nervous guest, and the flickering neon sign made everything feel vaguely haunted.
Amelia zipped her hoodie, pulling it tight around her neck. Outside, the wind had teeth.
Her phone buzzed. A tuition alert—final installment confirmed.
She smiled faintly. “Thank you… whoever you are."
Since freshman year, tuition payments had appeared like clockwork. No name. No messages. Just the money. Some anonymous benefactor with a conscience and a bottomless bank account.
The walk back to her shoebox apartment meant cutting through the alley behind campus. Normally she avoided it, but tonight the rain soaked her socks, and the shortcut was tempting.
She turned the corner.
And stopped.
A man lay crumpled beside the dumpsters, blood streaking his temple, designer coat torn, rain soaking his limp form.
“Hey!" She ran to him. “Can you hear me?"
His eyes flickered open—hazy, wild, confused.
Then his hand shot out, clamping around her wrist with surprising strength.
Her breath caught. “Okay, easy! I'm not here to hurt you."
He stared at her like she was something alien. His lips parted, but no words came. His grip didn't loosen.
“Let go," she whispered.
He didn't.
“You're hurt. Bleeding. I can help you, but you need to trust me."
A pause.
Then slowly, his fingers uncurled.
She exhaled.
Dragging him was hell. He was heavier than he looked, and every few steps, he mumbled—nothing coherent, just fragments.
By the time she reached her building, she was soaked and shaking.
Inside her apartment—a studio the size of a closet—she laid him on the futon. Blood stained the pillow.
“Stay awake," she said, snapping her fingers. “No dying on me, alright?"
He blinked slowly.
She cleaned the wound with rubbing alcohol. He hissed.
“Yeah, well, try not getting beat up next time."
Using floss and a sewing needle, she stitched the gash. Her hands trembled, but precision had been her thing since childhood. She wrapped gauze around his head and bandaged a bruise on his ribs.
“Name?" she asked softly.
He said nothing.
“You hit your head pretty hard. Maybe… memory loss?"
No answer. Just vacant confusion.
She sank into the beanbag chair and stared at him.
“Well… you need a name," she murmured. “Can't just call you Mystery Man."
Her eyes flicked to her textbook. Latin 101.
“'Augus,'" she said. “It means dignity. Seemed like something you lost tonight."
Still no answer.
She smiled faintly. “Alright then. Augus it is."
---
He woke again the next morning, disoriented but calm.
“You should eat," she said, handing him instant noodles.
He sniffed them. “What is this?"
“Dinner of champions," she replied.
He took a cautious bite, then another. “You saved me."
She shrugged. “You were bleeding in my alley. What was I supposed to do? Step over you?"
He studied her face. “You're… not afraid?"
She tilted her head. “Should I be?"
“I don't know."
He spoke like someone used to command, even in brokenness.
“Where do you think you're from?"
A pause. “I don't know."
“Well, we'll figure it out."
He looked at the tiny room—one futon, one beanbag, one microwave. “You live here?"
“Yep. Third-year accounting student. Shields Diner waitress. Champion of ramen."
He frowned. “Why help a stranger?"
“Because someone once helped me. Gotta pay it forward."
He nodded slowly.
She handed him a water bottle. “No offense, but you're not exactly safe on your own. Until your memory comes back, you're crashing here."
“I don't want to be a burden."
“Too late."
He smirked. “Then I'll repay you."
“Oh yeah? How?"
He hesitated.
She leaned in playfully. “How about this—when you're rich and powerful again, you marry me."
He blinked. “What?"
“Kidding. Mostly." She grinned. “I mean, it'd be nice. A rich husband who can cook."
“I can cook."
She arched an eyebrow. “You remember that?"
“I… think so."
“Then it's settled. You'll cook, I'll study. Roomies."
A flicker of something passed through his eyes—something deeper than gratitude. Something dangerous.
---
Over the next few weeks, “Augus" transformed from a ghost into her shadow.
He fixed the leaky sink, organized her textbooks by subject, and memorized her class schedule faster than she did.
“You sure you're not ex-military?" she asked one night as he rearranged her kitchen knives in order of efficiency.
“No idea."
They fell into rhythm. She studied by the window while he read over her shoulder, asking oddly insightful questions about economic theory.
Sometimes, she caught him staring—not in a creepy way, just… like he was searching for something he'd lost.
“You get nightmares," she said one morning.
He looked down. “Do I?"
“You wake up gasping. Sometimes whispering names. But never mine."
“I'm sorry."
She smiled softly. “Don't be. Just… try to find your way back, alright?"
One evening, a blackout hit the campus. Candlelight flickered on the walls, casting long shadows.
They sat on the floor, wine in paper cups between them.
“Do you ever feel like life forgot about you?" she whispered.
He nodded. “But then someone finds you."
Their eyes met. Silence stretched.
“Marry me," she said again, half-drunk and joking.
His lips twitched. “You're persistent."
“Only with things worth chasing."
Another pause.
“I don't deserve you," he said quietly.
She tilted her head. “You don't know who you are."
“Maybe that's the problem."
Outside, headlights passed slowly.
Neither of them noticed the black sedan that circled twice, then parked down the block.
A crimson tracker blinked under its hood.
Inside, a man watched them through a scope.
His voice crackled over the comms.
“Target located. Confirmed visual. Awaiting orders."
- Writer
