A woman wakes in an alley with no name, no memories, and a haunting sense that something is terribly wrong. But one word stirs something deep Artemis. With only that name and flashes of strange things, she’s thrust into a world she doesn’t recognize. As she searches for clues to her identity and what happened to her it becomes clear her past isn’t just lost… it may be dangerous.

This story is a follow up story to Eidolon Nexus: The Shattered Realm however it is not necessary to read the previous story if you don’t want to as with the main character having no memory it works if you have or haven’t read it. If you do wish to see the first story you can read it here https://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/book-page/104648/eidolon-nexu...

Early access to new chapters, stories, and more plus votes and non canon XXX chapters here https://www.patreon.com/LightBringerStories?utm_campaign=cre...

Chapter 1
The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, casting a sterile glow across the emergency room. The faint scent of antiseptic lingers in the air, mixing with the quiet murmur of voices from other patients waiting to be seen.

I stand at the reception desk, gripping the edge of the counter as I try to steady my breath.

The woman behind the desk—mid-forties, tired eyes, polite but detached—stares at me expectantly. “You said you woke up in an alley?”

I nod. “Yeah. I don’t—” My throat tightens. I don’t know how to finish that sentence.

She glances at her computer screen, clicking through something before looking back at me. “Do you have any identification?”

I shake my head.

“Your name?”

Silence.

My mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out.

I don’t know.

The realization hits like a punch to the gut. My pulse spikes, panic creeping in. I try to grasp at something, any fragment, any clue—who am I? Where did I come from?

Nothing.

The receptionist watches me carefully now, her tired expression shifting to mild concern. “You don’t remember?”

I swallow hard. “No.”

“Not even your name?”

I shake my head again, my fingers curling against the countertop.

She exhales through her nose, nodding slowly, like she’s seen this before. “Alright. You might have dissociative amnesia. It’s not uncommon in cases of extreme stress or trauma.” She types something into her computer. “Do you remember anything at all? Any faces? A place? A feeling?”

A feeling.

Something tugs at the back of my mind, distant but there.

Not a memory—just an impression. A sensation.

Like I’ve lost something important.

But when I try to focus on it, it slips away.

“I…” My voice is hoarse. “I don’t know.”

She nods again, clicking more keys. “Alright, we’ll have a doctor see you as soon as possible. In the meantime, just take a seat.”

I turn away from the desk, my legs feeling unsteady as I walk toward the waiting area.

I don’t know my name.

I don’t know where I came from.

I don’t know who I am.

And somehow… I feel like I’m running out of time to figure it out.

“Ma’am, the doctor is ready for you.”

I blink, pulled from my thoughts as a nurse stands near the doorway, holding a clipboard. Her voice is gentle but professional, like she’s dealt with this kind of situation before.

I hesitate before standing, my legs still feeling unsteady beneath me. As I follow her through the hallway, the sounds of the ER fade behind us—the quiet murmur of voices, the beeping of monitors, the distant chatter of nurses at their station.

She leads me into a small examination room. It smells of disinfectant, and the paper covering the patient bed crinkles as I sit down.

“We’ll have the doctor in shortly,” she says with a small nod before stepping out, leaving me alone with the silence.

I stare at the floor, my mind racing.

Who am I?

I close my eyes, trying again to pull something—anything—from the void in my memory.

Nothing.

Just the same nagging feeling that something is missing.

No names. No places. Nothing. No one.

Just emptiness.

I press my hands against my temples, willing something—anything—to come back to me. But there’s nothing to grab onto, nothing solid. Just a void where my past should be.

My chest tightens. How can someone just wake up like this? How does a person exist with no history, no sense of self?

The door opens, and I quickly drop my hands, forcing myself to sit up straight.

A doctor steps in, flipping through a chart. “You’re the one who came in without ID or memory, correct?”

I nod stiffly.

He hums, scanning the notes. “No visible injuries, no signs of a head wound…” He looks up, meeting my gaze. “Do you feel any pain? Headaches? Dizziness?”

I shake my head.

“Do you remember anything before waking up?”

I want to say yes. I want to tell him something that makes sense.

But I can’t.

“…No.”

He studies me for a moment before setting the chart aside. “Alright. We’ll run some tests to rule out anything medical. But cases like this are usually psychological—severe stress, trauma. Memory loss like this is rare, but not impossible.”

Stress? Trauma? It’s not like I’d know if I’d been through something awful.

He continues, “For now, we’ll keep you here for observation. If nothing changes, we’ll help connect you with services that can assist in finding out who you are.”

I nod, but my hands grip the fabric of my clothes tightly.

No names. No places. Nothing. No one.

Just me.

Whoever that is.

The doctor nods, making a few more notes before standing. “Alright, let’s get started. Just follow me.”

I stand slowly, still feeling that strange disconnect between myself and my body—like I should know how this feels, but it’s all unfamiliar.

The halls blur as I walk, the bright fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly. Nurses pass by, voices blending into background noise. I don’t pay attention to where we’re going until I’m seated in a small examination room.

They run a series of tests—checking my reflexes, my pupils, asking simple questions that I should be able to answer.

“What year is it?”

I hesitate. My mouth opens, but no words come out. I don’t know.

The doctor doesn’t react, just notes it down and moves on.

“Do you recognize yourself in the mirror?”

They hold one up, and I look.

Green eyes. Long blonde hair. A face I should know but don’t.

I nod stiffly. It’s not a lie. I recognize the reflection—just not who she is.

More tests. More waiting. Eventually, they take me to a hospital room.

It’s small. Quiet. Sterile.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the IV stand in the corner, the machine next to it displaying vitals that don’t mean anything to me.

No names. No places. Nothing. No one.

Just me.

And I still don’t know who that is.

“I’m going to prescribe you some medicine that helps boost memory function,” the doctor says, scribbling something on his notepad. “And Nurse Emily is going to try some mental exercises with you to see if we can trigger anything.”

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

With that, he turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

A moment later, the nurse—Emily—steps forward, a warm but professional smile on her face. She’s holding a thick baby name book, the kind expectant parents flip through when deciding what to call their child.

“Alright, sweetie,” she says, pulling up a chair. “I thought we could go through some names and see if any of them sound familiar to you.”

I swallow, nodding. “Sure.”

“We’ll start with some of the most popular ones, okay?” She flips the book open and begins reading.

“Olivia… Emma… Charlotte… Sophia… Amelia… Evelyn… Abigail…”

She pauses, watching my face. I shake my head. Nothing.

She continues.

“Liam… Noah… Oliver… Elijah… James… Benjamin… Lucas…”

The names all blur together, meaningless sounds without connection.

I exhale sharply. “I don’t know. None of them feel… right.”

Emily gives me a reassuring smile. “That’s okay, sweetie. We’ll keep going, alright?”

She flips another page.

“Let’s try some more.”

“Ava… Ariel… Aubrey… Addison… Alice… Allison…”

I shake my head at each one. Nothing. No spark of recognition, no flicker of familiarity. Just empty words.

“Autumn… Arya… Alex—”

She pauses, glancing up at me. “Is that it? You made a face when I said Alex.”

I hesitate, frowning. “I don’t think so…” My fingers tighten slightly on the thin hospital blanket. But it sounds familiar.

Not like it belongs to me, not like it’s my name. But there’s something there, buried beneath the fog.

Emily nods, jotting something down. “Alright, that’s a start. Let’s keep going, okay?”

She flips the page.

“Let’s try a few more A names.”

She continues.

“Alexa… Alexandra… Alexis… Anastasia… Andrea… Angela… Anna… Aurora… Athena… Audrey…”

I listen carefully, waiting for something—anything—to stand out.

Then—

“Artemis…”

My breath catches.

“Say that again.”

Emily looks up from the book, surprised by my reaction. “Artemis?”

The name lingers in the air, heavier than the others.

I don’t know why, but it feels… closer. Like a word on the tip of my tongue, something I should know but can’t quite reach.

I frown, trying to grasp onto it, but my mind is still blank.

“It… sounds right,” I say slowly. “Or familiar, at least.”

Emily’s expression softens. “That’s a good sign. Maybe it’s your name, or maybe it’s connected to something important.”

I nod, even though it doesn’t bring me any closer to remembering who I am.

But it’s something.

A single thread in the emptiness.

Emily taps her pen against the notepad. “Do you want to try more names, or should we sit with this one for a moment?”

I hesitate, then shake my head. “I think I want to stay with this one for now.”

She smiles. “Alright, Artemis. Let’s see if we can figure out the rest of you.”

Emily nods, closing the baby name book and setting it aside. “Alright, Artemis,” she says, testing the name like she’s trying to make it stick. “Let’s see if we can figure out the rest of you.”

Hearing it out loud makes my chest tighten. It feels right, but also… wrong. Like I’m wearing something that belongs to me but fits differently than it should.

I shift uncomfortably on the hospital bed. “Artemis,” I repeat under my breath. It doesn’t unlock anything, no flood of memories, no sudden clarity—just that same familiarity.

Emily watches me carefully. “Do you want to try saying your full name?”

My heart stutters.

Full name.

I shake my head. “I don’t know the rest.”

She nods like she expected that. “That’s okay. Maybe we can try something else. Places, faces, objects—anything that stands out?”

I close my eyes, trying to focus, trying to pull something from the void.

At first, there’s nothing but darkness.

Then—

A flash.

A symbol. A glowing mark—etched into stone. It pulses, shifting, twisting.

And then—

A voice.

“Artemis… run.”

My eyes snap open. My breath is shaky.

Emily notices immediately. “Did something come to you?”

I stare at her, pulse hammering, the memory—if it was a memory—already slipping away.

“I…” My voice is hoarse. “I don’t know.”

But something is wrong.

I know it now.

Even if I don’t remember who I am, even if my past is still missing—

Something is waiting for me to remember.

“I think I remembered something,” I say, my voice unsteady. “Just for a second.”

Emily leans in slightly, her expression encouraging but cautious. “That’s good, Artemis. Do you know what it was?”

I shake my head slowly, frustration bubbling in my chest. “No. It was just… a flash. A feeling. And then it was gone.”

Like trying to hold onto a dream after waking up. The more I try to focus on it, the more it slips away.

Emily nods, scribbling something on her notepad. “That’s completely normal with memory loss. Sometimes things surface for a moment, but if your brain isn’t ready, they fade again. It doesn’t mean they’re gone forever.”

I exhale sharply, rubbing my temples. “Then why does it feel like they are?”

She gives me a small, understanding smile. “Because right now, you’re in the dark. But even the smallest light means you’re getting closer.”

I let her words sink in, but the frustration lingers. That flash—it felt important. But I can’t grab onto it.

Emily closes her notepad. “Do you want to try another exercise, or do you need a break?”

I hesitate. I should keep going. I need to remember.

But the more I push, the more my head aches—and the more I feel like I’m missing something I shouldn’t be missing.

“…A break,” I admit quietly.

“All right,” she says with a nod. “I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

She stands, offering a reassuring pat on my arm before stepping out.

As soon as the door closes, I let out a breath and stare at my hands.

Artemis.

That’s all I have.

But it’s not enough.

A few days pass.

I wake up in the same sterile hospital room, eat the same bland meals, answer the same questions from doctors and nurses.

But nothing changes.

I don’t remember anything.

No past. No family. No home. Just the name Artemis—the only piece of myself I have.

They scheduled a psychiatrist visit for me. They said it could help. Maybe therapy will unlock something. Maybe my memories are just buried somewhere deep, waiting to be pulled back up.

But what if they aren’t?

What if there’s nothing left to find?

A few days later, they decide it’s time for me to leave.

“You’ll need to find temporary residency,” one of the hospital administrators tells me. “We can refer you to a shelter or transitional housing while you meet with the psychiatrist.”

I nod numbly. Where else would I go?

But then the real problem hits me.

“I… don’t have any money,” I say, the words feeling heavier than they should.

No ID. No credit cards. No bank account. Nothing.

The administrator gives me a sympathetic look. “That’s why we’ll set you up with a caseworker. They can help you apply for an ID, check missing persons reports, and get temporary financial assistance.”

I swallow hard, nodding again. It all makes sense. It’s logical.

But it doesn’t make me feel any less lost.

The hospital wasn’t home, but it felt safe. Out there?

I have no idea where I belong.

They give me a set of donated clothes—simple jeans and a hoodie—and a list of addresses for shelters and resources. A caseworker is supposed to contact me soon, help me figure out what to do next.

The nurse who handled most of my care, Emily, walks me to the front of the hospital. “You’ll be okay,” she says gently. “It’ll take time, but you’ll figure things out.”

I nod, but I don’t feel okay.

Stepping outside feels… wrong. The air is crisp, the sky overcast. People pass by without a second glance, cars move along the street, the city hums with life. It should feel normal.

But to me, it feels off.

Like I’ve been dropped into a world I don’t belong in.

Emily gives me a small wave before heading back inside, leaving me alone on the hospital steps.

I take a slow breath, gripping the paper in my hands. Shelters, food banks, caseworker numbers. Resources for people like me. People who have nothing.

A gust of wind rustles my hoodie, and I shiver.

I have no home. No past. No one looking for me.

Just a name.

And I don’t even know if it’s really mine.

Tomorrow is when I’m meant to see the psychiatrist. Maybe they’ll help, maybe they won’t. Either way, it’s something.

For now, I need a place to stay.

I glance down at the paper in my hands, skimming the list of shelters. The hospital said they’d call ahead to let one of them know I might be coming, but there’s no guarantee they’ll have space.

I sigh, stuffing the paper into my hoodie pocket. I should also contact the caseworker, get started on whatever process they have for people like me. People with nothing.

Standing here won’t change anything.

I step forward, heading down the sidewalk, unsure where I’m going—just following the directions on the paper.

I don’t belong anywhere.

But I have to start somewhere.

It takes a while. The city is big, and even with the directions, I can’t help but feel lost.

Everything feels unfamiliar—the towering buildings, the endless streets, the steady hum of cars and voices. I don’t know if I’ve ever been here before. Maybe I have. Maybe this place should feel like home. But it doesn’t.

I stop a few times, double-checking the street signs, rereading the instructions on the paper. It shouldn’t be this hard, but my sense of direction feels just as empty as my memories.

Eventually, I reach the shelter.

It’s an old brick building, worn but sturdy. A sign near the entrance lists rules and curfew times. A few people linger outside, some chatting quietly, others just sitting alone.

I hesitate before stepping in.

Inside, the air is warm, carrying the faint scent of coffee and something being cooked in the back. A woman at the front desk looks up as I approach.

“Looking for a bed?” she asks, her tone kind but tired, like she’s had this conversation a hundred times today.

I nod. “Yeah. The hospital said they might call ahead for me.”

She checks a clipboard, scanning the list. “Name?”

I open my mouth, then pause. It still feels strange to say it.

“Artemis,” I answer finally.

She nods, making a note. “You’re in luck. We have space for the night.”

I exhale, not realizing how much tension I was holding in.

It’s not much.

But at least, for now, I have somewhere to go.

After checking in, they give me a cot number and point me toward the common area. It’s a simple space—rows of beds in a large room, a few chairs scattered near the walls, and a handful of people keeping to themselves. Some are talking quietly, others just staring at nothing.

I sit on the edge of the cot, the thin mattress creaking under my weight. The hospital told me to call the caseworker as soon as I could, so I should probably do that now.

Near the front desk, there’s a communal phone—old, slightly worn, but functional. I pull the paper from my pocket and dial the number listed under caseworker contact.

It rings twice before someone picks up.

“Office of Social Services, this is Marissa, how can I help you?”

I hesitate for a second before speaking. “Um… the hospital gave me this number. They said a caseworker would help me figure out… everything.”

There’s a pause. A slight shuffle, the sound of typing. “Alright. Do you have a name?”

I grip the receiver a little tighter. “Artemis.”

She hums like she’s writing it down. “And you’re currently at…?”

I glance at the shelter’s sign near the door and read the name to her.

“Got it,” she says. “We’ll need to get you an appointment set up. Right now, our earliest opening is in three days. Does that work?”

I don’t exactly have a packed schedule. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

“Good. In the meantime, I’d suggest checking missing persons reports if you haven’t already. You might also want to think about any skills you have, anything that feels natural—you’ll need a job at some point.”

Skills. I have no idea what I can do.

But I nod anyway. “Okay.”

“Alright, Artemis. I’ll see you in three days. Stay safe.”

The line clicks dead.

I set the phone back down, exhaling slowly.

Three days.

Until then, I just have to keep going.

I wanted to complain, to ask if there was any way to be seen sooner, but what choice do I have? They probably have dozens of people in the exact same situation as me—lost, with no ID, no history, no past.

I sigh, gripping the edge of the counter before turning away from the phone.

Missing persons report.

That’s what she suggested. Maybe I should check.

Would I even be listed?

I hesitate. If I am in the system, would seeing my real name trigger something? Would it make this all feel real? Or would it just be a name that means nothing to me?

Still, it’s a lead. And right now, I don’t have many of those.

I step back toward the front desk. The woman there looks up, raising an eyebrow. “Need something?”

“Yeah…” I shift awkwardly. “Do you have a computer I could use? I want to check missing persons reports.”

She nods, gesturing toward an old desktop in the corner of the room. “It’s slow, but it works.”

“Thanks.”

I walk over, sit down, and pull up the search page.

There’s a box for entering details—age, gender, location, anything that might help narrow it down.

I hesitate at the name field.

Then, slowly, I type Artemis and hit search.

A few results pop up, but as I scroll through the images, none of them look anything like me.

A teenage girl with dark hair. A middle-aged woman with glasses. A man in his twenties with a tired expression.

I try adjusting the search, changing the filters, but nothing changes.

Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

I lean back in the chair, rubbing my temple.

I hesitate, then delete my search and try again.

This time, I leave the name field blank and just search for recently reported missing persons in the last few months.

The list is longer. Much longer.

I start scrolling.

There are so many people. Too many.

Even with the search narrowed to just female cases, there are hundreds of thousands of results. Names, faces, ages—all blending together into an overwhelming sea of lost people.

I take a slow breath and adjust the filters again, setting the location to the city I’m in.

The list shrinks.

Not by much.

But now it’s at least manageable.

I start scrolling, checking each image carefully, searching for something—a face that sparks recognition, a name that feels right, anything.

But nothing stands out.

No names. No places.

Eventually, I give up—at least for now.

The endless scrolling, the countless names and faces… it’s exhausting. It feels pointless.

If I was on that list, wouldn’t I have seen myself by now? Wouldn’t something have clicked?

I sigh, rubbing my eyes. It’s getting late. The shelter has curfew soon, and I should at least try to rest.

Pushing back from the desk, I stand and make my way toward my assigned cot. The room is dim now, most of the other people settling in for the night.

I sit on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling.

I don’t know who I am.

I don’t know where I belong.

But tomorrow, I’ll keep looking.

For now, I close my eyes and hope for dreams that actually mean something.

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

The cot is thin, the fabric rough against my skin, and the quiet murmurs of the shelter seem to stretch on forever. People shifting, coughing, murmuring in their sleep. A door creaks somewhere in the distance.

I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket up, but it doesn’t help.

Because even with my eyes closed, my mind won’t stop racing.

Who am I?

I keep going over everything—the name Artemis, the feeling that something is missing beyond my memory, the flashes of something. A symbol. A voice.

“Artemis… run.”

The words echo in my head, making my chest tighten. Who said that? Why?

I press my hand against my forehead, frustrated. The hospital said I could’ve forgotten things due to stress or trauma, but what kind of trauma makes you forget your entire life?

A deep breath. I try to let the thoughts go, to focus on the steady rhythm of my breathing instead.

Eventually, exhaustion takes over, and I drift into sleep.

And then—

I dream.

At first, it’s just colors. Deep purples and shifting golds, swirling together like mist. Then shapes begin to form. Stone. A massive doorway. Symbols carved into the surface, glowing faintly in the dark.

I step closer.

Somewhere, in the distance, I hear whispers.

Then—

A figure.

I can’t see their face, only a silhouette standing in front of the doorway, staring at me.

I should be scared, but I’m not.

Instead, I feel something I don’t expect.

Recognition.

Like I know them. Like I should remember their name.

I take another step forward, reaching out—

Then my vision fractures.

The whispers turn to screams, the ground beneath me shifts, and suddenly I feel like I’m falling—

I jerk awake, gasping for breath.

The shelter is still dark, the sounds of quiet breathing around me unchanged.

But my heart is racing.

That wasn’t just a dream.

It felt real.

But it couldn’t be real.

The place in my dream—the massive stone doorway, the glowing symbols, the shifting colors—it was too odd to be real. Too impossible.

But maybe… maybe it means something.

I press a hand against my chest, trying to slow my racing heartbeat.

The hospital said trauma can cause things like this. Vivid dreams, hallucinations, fragmented memories.

“Artemis… run.”

The words send a shiver down my spine.

Maybe I was kidnapped. Maybe I escaped. Maybe the dream was some warped version of what happened—a distorted memory, twisted by fear and confusion.

Maybe that place was where I was held. Or where I was supposed to be taken.

I swallow hard, lying back down, staring at the ceiling.

If that’s true…

Then someone must be looking for me.

Right?

I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe slowly, evenly.

The thoughts swirl in my head—questions with no answers, fears I can’t prove—but exhaustion pulls at me.

Eventually, I drift off again.

This time, there are no strange doorways. No whispers. No shifting colors.

Just darkness.

When I wake, the shelter is already alive with quiet movement. Some people are gathering their things, others are eating a small breakfast in the common area.

I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes before glancing at the clock on the wall.

9:48 AM.

A little over an hour until my appointment.

I exhale slowly.

I have no idea how I’m supposed to get there.

I should ask someone if they can help.

Swallowing my hesitation, I stand and make my way toward the front desk. The same woman from yesterday is there, flipping through some paperwork.

“Hey,” I say, shifting awkwardly. “I have an appointment soon, but I don’t really… know my way around. Do you know how I can get there?”

She looks up, studying me for a moment before nodding. “Let me see the address.”

I pull out the paper with my appointment details, and she scans it quickly. “You’ll need to take the bus. Route 12 runs a few blocks from here, and there’s a stop right outside the clinic.”

Bus. That makes sense.

“Do you have a pass?” she asks.

I shake my head.

She sighs but reaches into a drawer, pulling out a small card. “We keep a few one-day passes for situations like this. This’ll cover your ride there and back.”

I take it, relief washing over me. “Thank you.”

“Just make sure to be at the stop down the street in the next ten minutes,” she says. “It’s not a long ride, but you don’t want to be late.”

I nod, gripping the bus pass tightly.

Now I just have to get there.

I make my way to the bus stop, the cold morning air settling against my skin. The streets are busy, cars passing by, people moving with purpose—like they all belong here.

Unlike me.

I grip the bus pass tightly, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

Then—

Something catches my eye.

A reflection in the glass of the building to my left.

A castle.

Stone walls, towering spires, something old and imposing—but when I turn to look at it directly, it’s gone.

Just the normal city skyline.

I stop mid-step, my pulse quickening.

Did I imagine that? Was it just some weird trick of the light?

I glance back at the reflection, but now it’s nothing but glass.

I swallow hard and force myself to keep walking.

It was nothing.

Just my mind playing tricks on me.

Right?

They said I hadn’t been hit in the head. No concussion, no brain injury, nothing like that.

And now I’m seeing things.

Awesome.

I let out a slow sigh, pushing the thought away. It was just a trick of the light. A weird reflection. It had to be.

I keep walking, focusing on the sidewalk ahead.

A few minutes later, I reach the bus stop. A small bench, a metal sign with the route number, and a few other people waiting nearby.

I sit down, gripping the bus pass in my hands.

Just get to the appointment.

One step at a time.

I get on the bus, finding an empty seat near the back. The ride is quiet, just the hum of the engine and the occasional chatter of other passengers. I try not to think about the reflection I saw earlier, but the image lingers in my mind.

A castle.

It didn’t feel like a normal hallucination—if hallucinations even had a normal. It felt… familiar.

I shake my head, pushing the thought away.

After a while, the bus reaches my stop. I step off, checking the paper with the appointment details one last time before heading toward the building.

It’s a simple office—glass doors, neutral-colored walls, nothing out of the ordinary.

I take a breath, step inside, and spot the receptionist sitting behind a desk.

She glances up as I approach. “Can I help you?”

I nod, adjusting my hoodie. “Yeah, I have an appointment.” I hesitate. “Uh… Artemis.”

She scans the schedule, then nods. “Got it. Have a seat, and the doctor will call you in shortly.”

I mutter a quick “thanks” before heading to the waiting area.

Now I just have to wait.

Maybe a psychiatrist can help somehow.

I hope.

I exhale slowly, trying to push away the frustration, the anxiety curling in my chest. I need to stay calm. Focus.

I glance up at the TV mounted in the waiting area, letting the sound of the broadcast pull me from my thoughts.

Some news story is playing—something about a game company under investigation for kidnappings. The words “missing persons” flash across the screen.

My fingers tighten slightly against my hoodie sleeve.

It’s probably nothing. Just another crime story, another corporate scandal. But something about it makes my stomach turn.

Then—

“Artemis?”

My head snaps toward the receptionist, my pulse skipping.

But she’s just looking at her computer, calling another patient’s name.

Not me.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to relax.

Just my mind playing tricks again.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stop overthinking.

Then—

“Artemis?”

I look up.

A woman stands at the doorway to the office, holding a clipboard. She gives me a small, professional smile.

“Right this way.”

I hesitate for just a second before standing. My legs feel unsteady, but I push forward, following her down the hall.

This is it.

“Okay, Artemis,” the psychiatrist says as she takes a seat across from me. “Let’s start with what you do remember.”

I shift slightly in the chair, my fingers gripping the fabric of my hoodie.

I want to give her something. Anything. But the truth is, there’s not much to say.

“I woke up in an alley,” I say finally. “No ID. No phone. Nothing.”

She nods, jotting something down on her notepad. “And before that?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“No flashes? No images? Even vague feelings?”

I hesitate. “Just… my name. Artemis.”

She tilts her head slightly. “And you’re sure that’s your name?”

I swallow. “It’s the only thing that feels right.”

She studies me for a moment before writing something else down. “Anything else? Dreams, instincts, gut reactions to certain things?”

Dreams.

I think about the stone doorway, the whispers, the voice telling me to run.

And then the castle reflection in the glass.

I hesitate.

“…Maybe.”

“I don’t think it was anything,” I say, shifting in my seat. “Just… some weird place. But definitely not a real place.”

The psychiatrist watches me carefully. “Weird how?”

I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “Like… a stone doorway? Symbols? It didn’t feel like a memory, just… something my brain made up.”

She nods, jotting something down. “And you’ve had this dream more than once?”

I swallow. “Not exactly. But I keep hearing someone telling me to run.”

Her pen pauses for half a second before she continues writing. “A specific voice? Or just the words?”

I try to remember, but it’s frustratingly vague. “I don’t know. I think it’s a man’s voice, but it’s… distant. Like I should recognize it, but I don’t.”

She studies me again before setting her pen down. “Dreams and repeated phrases like that can sometimes be tied to trauma. Your brain might be trying to process something you can’t consciously access yet.”

I nod slowly, but deep down, something about it doesn’t feel like trauma.

It feels like a warning.

“Am I in danger?” The thought creeps in before I can stop it.

But no—one thing at a time.

I take a slow breath, forcing myself to stay grounded. No use spiraling over something I can’t even begin to understand.

The psychiatrist watches me carefully. “You seem tense. What are you thinking?”

I shake my head quickly. “Nothing. Just… trying to make sense of it all.”

She nods, as if she expected that. “That’s completely normal. Your mind is trying to put the pieces together, even if you don’t have all of them yet.”

I swallow. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t have the pieces. Just fragments. Shadows.

And that voice—run.

But from what?

“And you don’t remember anything else at all?” the psychiatrist asks, her voice steady.

I shake my head. “No.”

She exhales softly, flipping her pen between her fingers. “Come on, Artemis. I need more than that.”

I freeze.

That wasn’t her voice.

It’s different—sharper, more familiar, edged with frustration but not unkind.

I look up—

And the woman across from me is gone.

In her place sits a younger girl with red hair, eyes focused on me like she expects an answer.

I blink—

And she’s gone.

The psychiatrist is back, watching me with a calm, clinical expression, like nothing just happened.

My breath catches in my throat. My hands tighten against my lap.

What the hell was that?

I sit completely still, my heart pounding.

That wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been real.

But I saw her.

A girl with red hair, staring at me like she knew me. Like she expected me to say something.

“Artemis?”

I blink again, and the psychiatrist is just… there, like nothing happened. Her voice is calm, patient. Like she hasn’t just disappeared for a moment.

I swallow hard, my fingers curling against the fabric of my hoodie.

“I…” My voice feels unsteady. “I don’t know.”

She studies me for a long moment, then leans forward slightly. “Are you feeling alright? You just… spaced out for a second.”

Spaced out.

Is that all it was? A trick of my mind?

Or was it something I almost remembered?

I nod stiffly, forcing my voice to stay level. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press either.

“That’s understandable,” she says, jotting something down. “Memory loss can be exhausting, even when you’re not consciously trying to recall things. Your mind is constantly searching for missing pieces.”

I nod again, but my head is spinning.

That wasn’t just nothing.

I saw her.

I know I did.

But who was she?

The psychiatrist watches me carefully, but I can’t focus on her anymore. My mind is stuck on what I just saw.

A girl with red hair.

She looked younger than me—maybe late teens? Her expression was sharp, focused. Frustrated, but not angry.

And the way she spoke—Come on, Artemis. I need more than that.

Like she knew me. Like she expected me to remember.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

“Artemis?”

I snap back to the present, realizing the psychiatrist has been waiting for a response.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “Just… thinking.”

She nods, tapping her pen against the notepad. “Let’s try something else.”

I force myself to sit up straighter, pushing away the lingering unease.

“Do you ever feel like something is… trying to surface?” she asks. “Like your brain is holding something just out of reach?”

I hesitate.

“Yes.”

That voice telling me to run. The castle reflection in the glass. The dreams. The red-haired girl who wasn’t there.

Everything is right there, just beneath the surface—but the moment I try to reach for it, it slips away.

I take a slow breath. “Yeah. It’s like there’s… something, but I can’t grab onto it.”

She nods, writing something down. “That’s a good sign. It means your memories may not be gone—just blocked. Sometimes, that happens when the brain is trying to protect itself.”

“Protect me from what?” I ask before I can stop myself.

She gives me a small, careful smile. “That’s what we need to figure out.”

“The good news is,” she continues, “you should eventually be able to remember things.”

I tense at that word.

“Eventually?” I echo. “How long is eventually?”

She exhales softly, setting her notepad aside. “It’s different for everyone. Sometimes memories come back in days or weeks. Other times, it can take months, even years. And in some cases… they don’t return at all.”

My stomach twists.

“So there’s a chance I might never remember?”

She hesitates, then nods. “Yes. But that doesn’t mean you can’t rebuild. Even if your past doesn’t come back, you can move forward.”

I look down at my hands, gripping them into fists. That’s not what I want to hear.

I don’t want to rebuild. I want to know who I am.

I stare down at my hands, my nails pressing into my palms.

I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to accept this as my new life. I want to know who I was.

“But what if I don’t want to move forward?” I ask, my voice quieter than before. “What if I just want my memories back?”

The psychiatrist studies me for a moment, then leans forward slightly. “Then we’ll do everything we can to help you recover them,” she says, her tone steady. “But sometimes, forcing it can do more harm than good. Your mind may be protecting you from something it thinks you’re not ready for.”

That doesn’t sit right with me.

I don’t feel like I’m being protected. I feel like something is being kept from me.

I swallow hard. “So what do I do now?”

“For now,” she says, “keep paying attention to any flashes of memory, dreams, or feelings that seem important. Keep a journal if you can—it might help track patterns. And when we meet again, we’ll go deeper.”

I nod, but frustration lingers in my chest.

I don’t want to wait.

I don’t want to rely on vague feelings and dreams that disappear the moment I wake up.

I want answers.

But for now, I just exhale, forcing myself to stay calm.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll try.”

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” I ask, frustration creeping into my voice. “I don’t have money. I don’t have anywhere to stay.”

The psychiatrist nods, like she expected that. “Have you met with a caseworker yet?”

I shake my head. “No. Not for another two days.”

She taps her pen against the notepad, thinking. “For now, I’d suggest trying to find a local job—something small to start. It might help with stability, and if you find yourself able to do something easily, that could be a clue about what you were doing before.”

I hesitate. A job? I don’t even know if I have any skills.

“What if I can’t do anything?” I mutter.

She gives me a reassuring look. “You won’t know until you try.”

I exhale slowly. She’s right. I can’t just sit around waiting for my memories to come back.

I have to do something.

“Okay, uh… thanks, Ms…” I trail off, realizing I don’t actually remember her name.

She gives a small smile. “Dr. Monroe.”

“Right.” I nod, standing up a little awkwardly. “Thanks, Dr. Monroe.”

She watches me for a moment, then nods back. “Take care, Artemis. And remember—this doesn’t have to be something you go through alone. There are people who want to help.”

I swallow hard, nodding again before turning toward the door.

I know she’s trying to reassure me. But the truth is, I do feel alone.

Because even if people want to help, no one else is living with this emptiness.

No past. No family. No real connections.

Just me. And the name Artemis.

As I turn to leave, Dr. Monroe reaches into a drawer and pulls out a small notebook and a pen.

“Here,” she says, holding them out to me. “Write down anything that stands out—dreams, thoughts, moments that feel important. Even if they don’t make sense now, they might later.”

I hesitate for a second before taking them. The notebook is plain, the cover a dull blue.

“Thanks,” I say, tucking it under my arm.

She nods. “Take care, Artemis.”

I step out of the building, the cool air hitting me as the door swings shut behind me.

The city feels bigger than before. Louder. Like it’s moving forward while I’m still stuck, trying to figure out where I’m supposed to be.

I glance down at the notebook, running my fingers over the cover.

Might as well try.

I click the pen open and write the first thing that comes to mind.

“I don’t know who I am. But I’m going to find out.”

End of chapter 1