They say that even if you lose all memories of your past, you still feel a sense of familiarity—an unspoken recognition of people and places that once belonged to your life.

But I feel nothing.

No warmth.

No pull.

No sense of home.

Nothing around me feels familiar.

Rebeca says that may be because I never actually lived here before. That could explain why everything feels so foreign, so distant, like a place I was dropped into without warning.

The twins tell me I was a writer—a famous one. I had written many books, and quite a few had become bestsellers. Apparently, I started writing at a very young age.

They say I was free-spirited. Restless. I loved to travel and never stayed in one place for too long. I didn’t have many friends.

Five years ago, during one of my trips to a rural village in Nagaland, I met Rebeca and Teressa. I brought them with me after that. Since then, they traveled wherever I went—keeping me company, helping with chores, becoming my only constant.

A year ago, I returned.

That was when Mr. Malcolm Mandes allegedly fell in love with me. He met me in London during one of his business trips. Soon after, he spoke to his father. His father spoke to my father. An engagement was arranged.

Then—soon after the engagement—I met with an accident.

And now, here I am.

It has been a week since I returned from the hospital. Since then, I’ve been treated like a porcelain doll with a warning label attached to my skin:

FRAGILE — HANDLE WITH CARE

I’m not allowed to leave my room.

I’m not allowed to talk to anyone freely.

I only get out of bed under two circumstances—when I need to use the bathroom, or when the physiotherapist arrives to help me move. Nurses bring my medicines. Rebeca and Teressa bring my food, my clothes, whatever I need.

In simple terms—I am locked in my room.

Everyone in this house wears a uniform.

The maids wear outfits identical to the twins.

The drivers wear navy-blue driver uniforms.

Male servants wear black shirts and trousers.

Apparently, Mrs. Coelho prefers everyone to be “properly dressed.” She was the one who instructed Rebeca and Teressa to follow the same rule. Even my nurse wears a crisp nurse’s uniform.

The house is immaculate.

The garden pristine.

The swimming pool untouched.

The backyard perfectly maintained.

I’ve seen all of this only once—on the day I arrived.

Mr. and Mrs. Coelho are rarely home, yet everything runs with absolute control.

There are surveillance cameras everywhere.

Everywhere—except the bedrooms and bathrooms.

This place feels less like a home and more like a well-disguised prison.

I still haven’t met Mr. Malcolm Mandes. He’s apparently been out of the country, though he promised to return today. I’ve spoken to him on the phone, but even his voice feels unfamiliar.

Every time I try to ask Mrs. Coelho about Alex, she finds an excuse. The question is always dodged. Always postponed.

I haven’t recovered any new memories—except for that night.

Only that night refuses to let go of me.

Right now, I’m reading a book written by me—Sunshine and Moonlight—hoping it might offer some clue about who I used to be.

After the first few lines, I already feel sleepy.

Sunshine and Moonlight , which one do you prefer? If you think carefully both of them comes from Sun , because Moon doesn't have light of its own.

It reflects the light that it gets from the Sun.

Sunshine and Moonlight both comes from the same source yet one of them is warm and the other one is cool.

Which of the two are you ? Are you the blazing and warm Sunshine who has  its own light? Or are you the Moonlight who borrows the Sunlight and converts it into cool soft glowing light that helps us see the way in the dark when Sunshine is not there to guide us?

I don’t know why this book is a bestseller.

I feel drowsy.

I decide to stop reading this nonsense.

Just as sleep begins to pull me under, the door suddenly opens.

A tall, well-built man strides into my room and wraps me in a crushing embrace.

“Tia, my love—you’re really awake.”

He kisses my forehead and tightens his hold.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t stop the car in time. I couldn’t stop the accident. I’m so sorry you had to go through all this.”

He doesn’t let go.

“Thank you for waking up. For giving me another chance. The guilt was killing me. This time everything will be right—I’ll make everything right. You’ll never have to go through anything like this again. Ever.”

Still trapped in his arms, I stiffen.

“E-excuse me,” I say softly. “Who are you?”

He freezes.

“Oh… I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back slightly. “I forgot—you don’t remember. But that’s okay. Everything will be fine.”

“I’m Malcolm.”

“Oh,” I reply politely. “Hello, Mr. Mandes.”

“Call me Malcolm,” he says quickly. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll help you remember everything. And even if you don’t—it’s okay. We’ll make new memories. Together.”

He smiles—hopeful, desperate.

“I’ve arranged the best doctors in the country. They’ll help you. I promise.”

I study him closely.

He looks like someone who has just recovered his most prized possession after losing it forever. Even now, he refuses to let me leave his sight—as though I might vanish the moment he loosens his grip.

After an intense and uncomfortable hug, he finally releases me.

He takes me to meet Dr. Bose—the doctor who will help with my amnesia.

I feel uneasy. Vulnerable.

So I bring Teressa with me.

It feels good—briefly—to step outside my room.

In doctor's chamber

“Hello, Miss Tiara,” he says kindly.

“I’m Dr. Bose.”

“In order to help you, I need to know—do you remember anything? And if so, how much?”

I want my memories back.

But I cannot let them know that some of them have already returned.

I don’t trust anyone.

Who knows what they’ll do if they find out?

“I only remember my name,” I lie calmly. “Nothing else.”

“Very well,” he nods.

Turning to Malcolm, he continues, “Since she doesn’t remember, you’ll need to help recreate her memories. Take her to places she used to visit—her college, workplace, favorite restaurants. Let her meet people from her daily life. Involve her parents, friends—anyone who can help.”

“Familiar places may trigger recognition. Some memories may return.”

“Does she need medication?” Malcolm asks.

“No,” Dr. Bose replies. “No medication for now. One session every fifteen days will suffice.”

“But do not pressure her,” he adds firmly. “That could be counterproductive. And you must accept that there’s a chance she may never remember. We proceed with that understanding.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Malcolm says.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

“Anytime,” he replies with a smile.

Outside the chamber, I exhale deeply.

“Now what?” I ask.

Malcolm’s face lights up.

“How about your favourite butterscotch ice cream? With lots of chocolate chips and syrup?”

I hesitate—then smile.

“That sounds great.”