Point of View: Lana

I stand in the doorway and do not step in right away.

The house is quiet, but not empty. It feels like it is holding its breath. The air is cool and clean. Light slides across the floor and rests on white walls and glass. Everything looks sharp and smooth, like it was polished this morning.

It is too much.

Adrian waits behind me. I can feel him there without looking. He does not rush me. That makes it worse somehow. If he pushed, I could push back. His patience wraps around me like a soft rope.

"Take your time," he says.

I nod, even though my body feels stiff. I step forward.

The door closes behind us with a soft sound. It echoes longer than it should. My chest tightens.

The smell hits me next.

It is faint, but it is everywhere. Clean soap. Warm skin. A soft flower I cannot name. It is my smell. I know that without knowing how I know. My stomach flips.

I lift my hand and press my fingers to my wrist. My pulse is fast.

"This place smells like me," I say.

Adrian answers quietly. "It should."

I take another step. Then another. My shoes make a small sound on the floor. The sound feels wrong in such a big space.

The living room opens in front of me. White couches. Glass tables. A tall wall of windows. Outside, trees stand still like they are watching too.

I turn slowly, like the room might move if I do not watch it.

Photos line the walls.

Frames of all sizes. Black. Silver. White. Some simple. Some heavy and expensive. Every frame holds the same woman.

Me.

I stop breathing.

I walk closer, slow, careful, as the pictures might bite.

There I am, laughing on a beach. My hair is loose, my face open. There I am in a red dress, standing beside Adrian, my hand on his chest. There I am in a kitchen, barefoot, holding a mug, smiling like I am happy to be awake.

I touch the glass of one frame.

My fingers shake.

"That's... me," I whisper.

"Yes," Adrian says.

I do not look at him. I keep looking at her. At me.

She looks comfortable. She looks sure. She looks like she belongs.

I do not know her.

My throat tightens. "I don't remember being this person."

He does not answer right away. When he does, his voice is careful. "You don't have to remember yet."

I pull my hand back from the frame. My skin tingles where it touched the glass.

It feels like the house is watching me. Every photo is an eye. Every smile is a question.

Why don't you know us?

Why did you leave

Why did you forget

I step back. My heel bumps into a table. The sound makes me jump.

"I feel strange," I say. "Like I walked into someone else's life."

Adrian moves a little closer. Not too close. "It was your life."

I shake my head. "It doesn't feel like it."

He nods once. He looks tired. "I know."

I walk past him, deeper into the house. My fingers brush the back of a chair. The fabric is soft. Familiar. I move my hand away quickly.

The kitchen opens to my left. White counters. Clean lines. Everything in its place. A bowl of fruit sits on the island. I stare at it.

"Those," I say, pointing. "I like those?"

Adrian follows my gaze. "You used to. Especially in the morning."

My chest tightens again. Morning. He says it like he has seen many of mine.

I turn away before he can say more.

A hallway stretches ahead. Doors line both sides. I pick one at random and open it.

A study.

Bookshelves fill the walls. Art hangs in neat rows. A desk faces a window. On the desk sits a small plant, green and alive.

I touch one leaf. It bends under my finger and springs back.

"I kept killing plants," I say without thinking.

Adrian's eyebrows lift. "You said that all the time."

I freeze.

"How do I know that?" I ask.

He does not answer. He watches me, his eyes full of something heavy.

I step out of the room.

Another door. A guest room. Clean. Untouched. No photos.

I let out a breath I did not know I was holding.

"Whose room is that?" I ask.

"Ours is upstairs," he says.

Our.

The word lands between us.

I do not answer. I walk to the stairs. Each step is wide and pale. The railing is glass. My reflection moves beside me as I climb.

Halfway up, I stop.

My reflection stops too.

I look at her closely. At me. Pale face. Tired eyes. A small cut near my hairline.

"I don't look like her," I say.

Adrian stands one step below me. "You do."

I shake my head. "She looks... certain."

He says nothing.

The bedroom is at the end of the hall.

The door is open.

I step inside and feel the air change.

It is warmer here. Softer. The smell is stronger.

My smell.

The bed is large. White sheets. Pillows arranged just so. Sunlight spills across the floor. A chair sits by the window with a folded blanket on it.

I take one step in. Then another.

My body reacts before my mind can stop it. My shoulders drop. My breath slows.

I hate that.

"This was mine," I say.

"Yes," Adrian answers.

I walk to the dresser. On top sits a small tray. Jewelry rests there. Rings. Earrings. A thin chain.

I pick up the chain. My fingers know how to hold it. I do not.

"Did I wear this often?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. "You touched it when you were thinking."

I put it down too fast.

"How do you know all this?" I ask.

His voice is low. "Because I loved you."

The word hangs in the air.

Loved.

Past tense.

My chest aches.

I turn to the bed and sit on the edge. The mattress dips under my weight as it remembers me. I press my hands into the sheets.

"I feel like I'm being watched," I say.

Adrian looks around. "By what?"

"By her," I say. "By the woman in the photos."

He does not argue.

I lie back slowly. The ceiling is white and smooth. I stare at it.

"I don't recognize myself," I say.

Adrian sits in the chair by the window. He keeps space between us.

"That doesn't mean she wasn't real," he says.

Tears slide from the corners of my eyes. I do not wipe them away.

"What if I never become her again?" I ask.

He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "Then we learn who you are now."

I turn my head and look at him. His face is open. Honest. It scares me.

I sat up again.

"I need to see all of it," I say. "Every room."

He nods. "Okay."

We walk through the rest of the house. A bathroom with clean lines and soft towels. Another room filled with clothes I do not remember buying. Shoes lined up like soldiers. Bags hanging in neat rows.

My stomach twists.

"This is too much," I say.

"I know," he answers.

We return to the living room.

I stop in front of one photo.

It is large. Bigger than the others.

It shows me standing in the garden. My hair is longer. I am wearing blue. My head is tilted back as I laugh. Adrian is behind the camera. I can tell by the way my eyes look.

They are looking at him.

I stare at the photo for a long time.

"She looks happy," I say.

"Yes," he replied quietly.

I press my palm to the glass.

"I don't know her," I whisper.

The house stays silent but the photos keep smiling.

And for the first time, the fear sharpens into something clear and cold.

If I do not know the woman in these pictures, then I do not know the life she lived,

And I do not know what she may have given away before she disappeared.

The house knows me but I do not know myself and that feels like the most dangerous thing of all.

Lana's Point of View

The hot water hit my shoulders, which were soft and warm, but my body still shook like I was outside in the cold rain. I closed my eyes and let the steam cover my face. If I stayed here long enough, I might wake up in a different place. Somewhere that made sense. Somewhere that didn't have a man who said he was my husband watching me like he was afraid to blink.

I pulled my fingers through my wet hair and let out a slow breath. Lana, just breathe...

The water got louder. My heart raced faster too.

I raised my hand to rub my forehead, and then I stopped.

There was something dark on my wrist.

A mark.

A form.

Not dirt.

Not a shadow.

Not something that could be cleaned off.

A tattoo.

There is a small, neat, sharp black mark just below the thin skin on my wrist. A small shape that looks like a crescent with a line through it.

I opened my mouth. I couldn't breathe.

"No... no... no..."

My voice broke. The water went everywhere because my hand shook so hard.

I put my wrist close to my face. I blinked quickly, thinking my eyes were playing tricks on me, but the mark stayed there-dark, clear, and real.

For real.

A tattoo.

On me.

Something cold crawled up my back.

I never liked getting tattoos.

I never wanted one.

I told the nurse that yesterday.

What was it doing there?

My stomach dropped so quickly that my knees gave way. I leaned against the wall, and my wet fingers slid over the tile.

"What is this?" I whispered, and my voice shook.

"What's this? What's this?"

Then the fear hit me all at once, hard and fast-

"NO!"

Without warning, the scream came out of me. A sound that is rough and broken.

The kind that happens when your body tells you something that your mind can't figure out.

The door to the bathroom slammed open.

"Lana!" Adrian's voice came before his body did.

He didn't seem mad.

He didn't seem angry.

He looked really scared.

He stepped into the steam and asked, "What happened?"

I fell back, clutching my wrist to my chest as if it were a wound.

"Get back!" I yelled.

His hands slowly went up, which meant he wasn't getting closer. His chest rose and fell quickly. "What's wrong?"

My whole arm shook. I raised my wrist, and water ran down it.

"WHAT IS THIS?"

His eyes dropped to it, and something in his face changed.

A little thing.

Fast.

Not very visible.

But I did see it.

Like... dread.

I took one more step back.

He said softly, "Lana, you've seen it before."

"No," I said, shaking my head hard. "No, no, no, I would never do this."

He took a deep breath.

"You did."

My heart was beating so hard it hurt.

He said softly, "You got it on a weekend trip."

"What trip on the weekend?" My voice broke again.

He gulped. "Two years ago."

"But I don't recall!"

He said, "That's not your fault." "I know."

"I don't believe you."

The room was quiet, and the air was thick and wet like steam.

He looked at me the same way he did when I woke up yesterday, like I was a glass cup falling off a shelf. His fingers curled a little, like he wanted to run to me but stopped himself.

He said, "That was your idea." "You said the sign meant a promise."

"What promise?"

"You didn't tell me."

I couldn't breathe.

My head buzzed again. The lights above me looked like they were moving. My skin felt too tight all over my body.

Everything was off.

I whispered, "That's not my wrist." "That's not my life." Someone else, not me, did all of this.

"Lana..."

His voice got softer. Not hard enough. The kind of soft that hides something sharp.

"I don't know you," I said. "I don't know this house." I don't know this-this mark.

A flash cut through my mind all of a sudden.

Fast.

Soft.

Like warm light coming through curtains.

My hand, this same wrist, was resting on a man's shoulder.

My fingers curled around the back of his neck.

My voice is laughing.

His lips brushing against my tattoo-

I gasped and let go of my wrist. The flash came and went in a flash, leaving me empty and dizzy.

Adrian stepped forward, and his eyes filled with fear. "Did you think of something?"

"No," I lied quickly and sharply.

His eyebrows came together. "Lana-"

"I SAID NO!"

When I pushed past him, water splashed all over the place. He didn't try to stop me. He might have been afraid to touch me. Or maybe he knew I would break if he did.

With shaky hands, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself. My skin was still hot from the shower, but I was cold all the way through.

He stood by the door and watched every little thing I did.

He said softly, "I'm here to help you."

My chest felt tight.

He sounded so sure of himself.

Too sure.

I whispered, "How can I trust you when every new thing I find makes me feel like I'm living someone else's life?"

He closed his eyes for a second, as if my words hurt.

He opened them again after that.

Face calm.

Be quiet.

Full control.

"Let me explain everything at your own pace," he said. "No stress." No fear.

But there was fear.

It went around my ribs.

It was in the air between us.

It hurt in the little tattoo on my wrist.

I didn't say anything else as I left the bathroom.

At first, he didn't follow.

But then I heard him walk-slowly, heavily, and carefully.

"Lana," he said.

I kept walking.

He tried again.

"Please."

The way he said "please" made me stop for a second.

One second.

But I didn't look back.

I opened the door to the bedroom and stood there, dripping water on the floor, breathing hard, and trying to think and figure things out.

He walked into the doorway behind me and stopped a few feet away.

He said, "You don't have to be afraid of me."

I touched the tattoo with my fingers again.

I said in a low voice, "I'm scared of myself."

The air stopped moving.

His voice got lower and steadier.

"You are safe here."

I slowly turned my head so that I could see his eyes.

I asked, "So why do I feel like everything in this house is hiding something?"

He took a deep breath.

He opened his mouth to say something-

But the loud, sharp ring of a phone broke the silence in the room.

Not his phone.

Not mine.

Somewhere else in the house.

He stopped moving.

And for the first time since I met him, I could see fear in his eyes.

Fear that is real.

He quickly turned towards the sound.

Too quickly.

I took one slow step back, holding my wrist, while he whispered in my ear:

"No... not now..."

His voice wasn't for me.

But I heard every word.

And I knew that the tattoo wasn't the truth I was afraid of.

It was the guy who was running to answer the phone.