One person came to mind immediately. He would help me. Why hadn’t I thought of him sooner? 

The educator who had accompanied me during my difficult teenage years lived with his family in an apartment in this city. He had been a stable, parental figure for a significant part of my life. He had taken me under his wing when I was a lost young teenager. He had encouraged me when I decided to join the army. We had kept distant contact—a couple of phone calls a year, a card at Christmas. Nothing spectacular, but he was the closest thing to family I had.

He didn’t live far, but it took me quite a while to get there. I had to stop frequently to get my bearings. I hadn’t been to his place in years.

During one stop, my attention was drawn to an old brown door with four golden words standing out in the center: SATER APERO TENET ROTAS. The door was in the city center, in a small historical pedestrian street named after a famous writer. Pedestrians passed by this astonishing mystery without questioning or stopping. Something about that door seemed familiar. I must have passed by it before without noticing it on my way to my educator. I was on the right path.

I walked past an antique shop. After a brief hesitation, I decided to sell the armband I wore on my forearm. I still didn’t know where I had bought it, but it was the only valuable thing I had left, and I needed money for my immediate needs: a jacket and food.

The antique dealer didn’t need much persuasion. His eyes gleamed with interest. Apparently, the armband was a very fine piece. It had probably belonged to a noble or wealthy family because its grain, design, and craftsmanship were of superior quality. He explained that archers wore this type of armband on their forearm to avoid injury from the bowstring. I told him I had bought it at a flea market. In fact, I still didn’t know where I had found it. My memory hadn’t yet filled that gap. I must have bought it just before the attack, during the two hours my memory couldn’t account for.

The antique dealer offered me a good price, but I felt a strange pang as I parted with it. The sensation was curious. I had had this armband for only a few hours—how could I be so attached to it? I rubbed my bare wrist with my right hand, feeling a strange discomfort.

With the sale price, I was able to buy a jacket and a sandwich, which my stomach was infinitely grateful for. I was slowly starting to feel better. My body was still exhausted, but it was healthy. After a night’s sleep, I would be on the road to recovery.

Now, I just needed to find my educator. I could probably return to the police station with him, and he’d vouch for my identity. With his support, I could file my complaint and begin the process of getting my papers reissued.

Arriving at his apartment door, I had a premonition of what was about to happen—a feeling in my mind that foretold disaster just before it struck—but I didn’t listen. I refused to listen. I knocked on the door.

The few seconds of waiting felt like an eternity. The door finally opened to the smiling face of an elderly man with twinkling eyes and a neatly trimmed white beard. It took me a moment to recognize him.

"Yes?"

"I need your help. I feel a bit confused. Earlier in the street… I think my papers were stolen. I was attacked."

I only saw consternation in the eyes of the man observing me. A stranger—I was a complete stranger to him.

"Oh dear, sir, sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong person. I don’t know you."

His response felt like a dagger. The only person who had meant something in my life—who had shown any interest in me—didn’t recognize me. No, he didn’t forget me. 

He genuinely had no idea who I was.

My throat was dry. I couldn’t speak. I wanted to make an effort to convince him, grab him by the shoulders and shake him. I wanted to ask him for whom he was lying. But I knew he wasn’t. His face reflected the polite interest one shows to a perfect stranger. He must have seen the despair on my face because he gave me an apologetic smile, then closed the door. 

I was drowning in confusion. My waking nightmare continued, but I refused to give up. It wasn’t a tragedy. My educator was simply too old or too tired to remember me. After all, it had been a long time since we had been in contact. I had probably attached more importance to him than he had ever had for me. I was just one kid among many, and he had forgotten me. I was about to knock again, hoping to jog his memory, but I stopped myself. Deep down, I knew insisting was pointless. I had to seek help elsewhere.

In a shop, a vendor explained how to use a payphone. I bought a phone card. My intention was to call my base, contact my superior officer, and get his help. I entered an old phone booth and called directory assistance to get the number for the military base. And the nightmare continued.

I called my barracks nearly ten times until the duty soldier had had enough of politely telling me he couldn’t find any soldier by my name and hung up on me. I called my former foster home, one of the foster families where I had stayed for a while, and an ex-girlfriend. I even managed to trace an old classmate. No one knew me. No one knew who I was. Each call hammered the nail deeper into the coffin of my fake existence. The pieces didn’t fit together.

I was trapped in a nightmare.