I was engulfed in total darkness. Was it night?

I tried to take a deep breath, but the air was thick and heavy, refusing to enter my lungs. I choked. In panic, I brought my hands to my throat. I made several desperate attempts until a thin stream of air finally reached my lungs. 

Then I kept trying, each time taking a slightly larger breath, until I could gradually breathe normally again. The effort exhausted me. My heart was pounding.

I had no idea where I was. I tried to see my surroundings, but my vision was blurred. I could see walls, but they looked like empty sets, without substance. A dense darkness hung between them, almost like a tangible presence. My vision was blurred, as though my eyes couldn’t focus. 

Was it evening? I didn’t know; I was lost, disoriented. I felt empty—terribly empty—like a hollow shell, and the world around me seemed equally hollow.

Where was I? How did I get here? Something terribly important was just at the edge of my memory. I had to remember it at all costs, but the more I tried, the further it slipped out of reach. Then another question suddenly crossed my mind, pushing everything else aside.

Who am I?

And panic overwhelmed me. I tried to calm down and think. My memories had to be within reach. If I could center myself, I would remember. I searched my mind. Images appeared. They floated in my mind, disconnected and disjointed, as if struggling to piece together a life—my life. They seemed to have a will of their own. 

The images gradually became clearer, as if they were taking shape, finding or rediscovering their place. But these were the images of someone else’s life, a stranger’s life. I saw this stranger walking around the city, rebelling as an adolescent, crying over the death of a loved one, laughing. I watched the movie of his life and felt nothing. Something was wrong—I was just a spectator of these memories. They evoked nothing, no emotion.

My heart must have been racing because I could hear it pounding in my ears. A sharp pain pressed against my chest, and my breathing was labored. I tried to calm myself—panic would lead nowhere. I forced myself to take fresh gulps of air. 

Gradually, I managed to regain control of my body, pushing the panic to a corner of my mind. This exercise in self-control felt familiar. My heart rate gradually calmed, and the oppressive pain in my chest subsided.

At that moment, the dense darkness split in two and disappeared. The veil before my eyes lifted. The street was now bustling with passersby, talking, moving, full of life. The cold light of a winter morning illuminated the scene.

I tried to hold onto this scene of reality—this sunlit street, all those living faces—but I felt like a spectator at the back of a theater, watching a play I couldn’t join. I couldn’t take my place in it; it didn’t feel real. I floated on the surface of this world without being part of it.

I struggled to gather the scattered pieces of my thoughts, memories, and sensations. I needed something real to hold onto—just one thing that made sense. One thing would suffice. Think, focus, think!

Alexius.

And my identity snapped back around that name—my name. I anchored myself to it. The memories kept flowing, attaching to this central piece, and gradually I stopped being just a spectator of these images and remembered being an actor. I had cried, felt, suffered, laughed. I had existed. 

At that moment, my identity reformed, crystallizing around these memories. I was Alexius, and all those images floating in my mind were my memory, my life.

I regained control. I studied the faces of the passersby. Although they were strangers, seeing them brought a small sense of comfort. I clung to them. I connected to those unfamiliar faces: a couple, a smiling and happy family, a hurried man carrying a shopping bag, a woman looking at shop windows, and a man standing across the street, watching me.

The man stood motionless on the opposite sidewalk. He wore a long black leather coat. His brown hair was cut so short that his scalp was visible. I locked eyes with his steel-blue gaze, and the expression on his face sent a chill down my spine. I saw only cold determination.

Was he just a passerby who noticed my strange behavior? Yet an alarm went off deep in my gut. His build, his posture, his way of watching me—all of it seemed familiar and suggested a terrible threat. He was dangerous.

I straightened up, leaning against the wall. My body was still numb, but I had to pull myself together quickly.

The man began crossing the street. He extended his hand, signaling the cars to stop; one car had to slam on its brakes to let him pass. He exuded certainty, authority, the habit of being obeyed.

Was he simply a passerby coming to my aid? But why did I feel such an overwhelming urge to flee? Something was wrong; this sense of danger wouldn’t leave me. Just before my distress—no, the memory was too fleeting—but there was danger. I was too weak to confront him; I had to run.

I moved away. At first, I leaned against the wall, but gradually, enough strength returned, and I managed to walk without support.

The man had crossed the street, and we were now on the same sidewalk. I walked faster; the man mirrored my pace.

All my doubts about his intentions vanished. 

Flee. Survive. Protect. 

I gathered all my strength and started to run. My body screamed in pain and exhaustion, but I ignored it, pushing it beyond its limits, controlling it with surprising ease.

I heard the man running behind me. He was closing in effortlessly; he seemed trained, and I was worn out. His footsteps pounded the pavement, coming closer and closer. I heard him shout, but I paid no attention. 

My decision was clear: I had to escape. I refused to think about anything else. If I weakened my resolve by hesitating, I wouldn’t have the strength to continue. And the man would catch me. And he stopped addressing me; he addressed the passersby: “Police! Stop that man immediately!”

They turned to look at me, their faces marked by indecision. Should they intervene and risk getting hurt? One of them was braver than the others and grabbed my arm as I passed. Instinctively, I twisted his wrist, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground. 

The move had been purely reflexive, surprising even me. I stopped running. The man lay on the ground, groaning with pain. A circle began to form around us. Passersby had stopped and were watching us.

I didn’t know what to do. I mumbled apologies. I felt my resolve weakening. The world around me started losing its meaning again. I didn’t belong to this world; I wasn’t supposed to be here. Everything was a lie. I slipped into a state of stupor, a sort of soft, surreal madness, unable to grasp a single logical thought. The moment seemed to last an eternity; my thoughts were disjointed, they didn’t connect. They had no coherence. My mind was in chaos.

Then I felt something incredible—the strands of my mind reconnecting, drawing meaning from each other, stabilizing, balancing, giving meaning to things and words. I regained control. I heard the murmurs of the crowd around me; I saw the man on the ground. Only a few seconds must have passed. The memories were coming back. Slowly, I turned my head toward my pursuer.

He was there, very real. He had stopped and was waiting inside the circle that had formed around the incident. I could see the bulge of his weapon under his coat. His steel-blue gaze shifted from the fallen passerby to me. He was assessing the situation. I guessed his thoughts. If he opted for a direct confrontation, he would probably have to fight. He would win—I was too weak—but he probably didn’t know this crucial information. He also had to consider the many witnesses surrounding us now.

I had to think quickly. The sense of danger was still there, deep in my gut. I had to flee, and the crowd could help me. A voice, a distant memory deep in my mind, suddenly resonated as clearly as if the person was right next to me:

Always use the immediate environment to your advantage, Alexius.

I took a step back, simulating a man staggering from fatigue and shock—which was quite easy in my current state. The man didn’t react immediately. I took a second step, then a third—faster—backward, and reached the inner circle of the crowd. A gleam passed in the steel-blue eyes of the man as he realized what I was doing, but it was already too late. He lunged forward, and I disappeared into the crowd. I exited the group while he was still pushing through. I had a five-second lead, which I intended to maximize.

I ran to the corner of the street and turned into the adjacent alley. Luck was on my side; a coffee shop was just a few

 steps away. In a few large strides, I entered it.

A chalkboard listed the day’s specials; a large mirror behind the counter gave the illusion of a bigger room. It was half full. I quickly surveyed it, tagging each person: a family outing, a group of businessmen, a couple. I sat at a table near the service door, with a good look at the entrance but far enough back to not be seen from the street. If necessary, I could exit through the back.

People being pursued often have the reflex to keep running to get away as quickly as possible. Yet in some situations, you have to do the exact opposite. Find a place to wait out the commotion before quietly slipping away. And I was in one of those situations—physically exhausted and unable to outrun the man chasing me.

After a few more minutes of anxious waiting, I began to relax. My body was exhausted and sore. A headache was splitting my skull. I went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, hoping to clear my mind.

Rolling up my sleeves to run my hands under the water, I saw a thick leather bracelet on my left arm. It was nearly six inches long and covered half my forearm, like a second skin. The leather was old. I didn’t remember putting it on, or even buying such an armband. There were gaps in my memory of the day—another disturbing element to add to my growing list of problems.

I cupped my hands to catch the water and refreshed my face. I glanced in the mirror. I was pale. My short brown hair was tousled, but my green eyes stared back at me with determination. I ran my fingers through my hair to smooth it down. I took a deep, full breath. A sharp pain immediately shot through my side. My ribs hurt.

I lifted my sweater and, incredulous, stared at the purplish marks on my body in the mirror. They looked like bruises. My ribs might be broken. I touched the bruises gently, and a jolt of pain confirmed it. I winced. These were indeed marks of blows. The adrenaline had masked the pain until now—but not anymore.

Suddenly inspired, I searched my pockets for my wallet, only to find them empty. I had been robbed. The only logical conclusion was that I’d been attacked. That would explain my panic attack. I must have stumbled into the crowded street to seek help. One of my attackers had chased me to finish the job. I must have recognized him, at least on a subconscious level, and fled. Everything made sense. All the pieces fit perfectly.

I leaned against the edge of the sink. Whatever had happened earlier had deeply affected me. I’d had my share of hard moments, but I had never been so profoundly shocked. Losing memory of recent events had never happened to me before. And I found it... extreme.

I returned to the coffee shop and, after ensuring the place was still secure, sat down and drank my glass of water very slowly. I tried to remember the attack, but in vain. My memories stopped a few hours earlier, when I had taken a short leave in town. I had no family to visit. I was just wandering the streets, enjoying the day.

Mechanically, my right hand stopped on the armband I wore on my left forearm. I must have bought it during the hours my memory had lost. The craftsmanship seemed old and of excellent quality. Why hadn’t the thieves tried to take it? Maybe they didn’t have time. Maybe I had managed to slip away before. Maybe they hadn’t seen it.

A child and his mother were sitting at the neighboring table. The boy was drinking hot chocolate while his mother calmly sipped her coffee. The boy’s ears were reddened by the cold. He surrounded his cup with his hands as if to draw warmth from it. His mother ran her hand through his hair to tidy it up. He made an impatient grimace.

Something in that simple, maternal gesture hit me with surprising force—a kind of grief I couldn’t name.

Then, without explanation, the feeling of anxiety returned.

I couldn’t stay any longer.