The Place for Rememberance
He woke up in a bedroom.
The walls were pale yellow.
A soft hum came from the ceiling fan, rotating slowly, wobbling a little as it spun.
Morning light poured through the window. Birds chirped. The kind of sound that came with summer breaks and long naps.
There were books on the shelf. Toys arranged neatly. Posters on the walls—slightly curled at the corners. A baseball glove on the nightstand.
It felt… normal.
Safe.
Like nothing had ever gone wrong here.
He sat up slowly, blinking.
His arms felt light.
His thoughts were foggy—but not in a way that scared him. Just a gentle blankness, like waking up too early and forgetting what day it was.
He looked around.
He didn't know where he was.
He didn't think to ask.
He stood up and padded across the room in bare feet.
The carpet was soft. Familiar.
He picked up a photo from the dresser. It showed a boy—maybe him?—smiling beside two adults. Their faces were blurred by glare, or maybe by memory. But they looked happy. He smiled back instinctively.
He set it down.
On the desk was a drawing in crayon.
Stick figures.
Three of them.
A house with smoke rising from the chimney.
A sun in the top corner.
Red shoes on the smallest figure.
He didn't know why that detail caught his eye.
He checked the closet. Just clothes.
He checked the drawers. Socks. Paperclips. A pair of scissors.
Everything had its place.
Everything was accounted for.
He sat on the bed again.
Felt the indent his body had made in the blanket.
Something tugged faintly at the back of his mind.
Like he was supposed to be doing something.
Like this wasn't where he was before.
But he couldn't remember a before.
Not really.
He lay back down and stared at the ceiling.
The fan turned in slow, lazy arcs.
He closed his eyes.
Somewhere in the back of his thoughts, a sentence echoed faintly.
"You've done this before."
He didn't hear it.
Not consciously.
He just turned his head on the pillow.
And went still.