“After the fire, I had… post-traumatic amnesia,” Gabriel said. “That’s what the doctors in Switzerland called it. Smoke inhalation. Burns. They said my brain… it went into survival mode.”
I clenched my fists together.
“Tell me what you came for,” I said.
He looked up. His gaze was steady now, even through the tears.“I came because I finally got control of my records,” he said. “I came because my mother can’t stop me anymore.”
My heart stuttered.
“I had… post-traumatic amnesia.”
We spent hours in that kitchen, unspooling the threads of our lives.
He talked about days lost to pain, to foggy memories, to the ache of being erased. I told him about my wedding — how my ex-husband never knew the real me.
I confessed to lying awake at night, wondering if forgiveness was something you had to ask for.
“Does anyone else know?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “Just you. And my mother, of course. She needs to know where I am. I need your help.”
“Does anyone else know?”
The next day, I was collecting my mail when Mrs. Harlan from the HOA caught me at the curb.
“Morning, Sammie,” she said, smiling too hard. “Your new neighbor seems… intense.”
Before I could answer, a sleek black sedan rolled up. Camille stepped out.
“Elias,” she called, warm and loud enough for the cul-de-sac to hear. “Sweetheart. I just came to check up on you.”
Gabriel came out of his house, shoulders tight. Camille’s eyes slid to me.
“Sammie, dear… I’m so sorry. He’s been recovering for years. Grief can do strange thing — especially when someone resembles a memory.”
“I know who he really is, Camille.”
