The first few weeks were a silent, frantic haze. After the hospital, after the neurologist had found nothing physically wrong and gently suggested a psychological cause—dissociative amnesia—Ally’s world narrowed to a single, desperate purpose: to be the anchor for a ship that had lost all memory of the sea.

She moved into the guest room of your house without being asked. Sarah McDavid, your aunt, handled the necessary paperwork to and provided funds from afar, her voice over the phone a distant mix of concern and helplessness. The day-to-day burden, the immense weight of care, fell entirely on Ally. And she welcomed it. It was her penance and her purpose, fused into one.

Her care was a meticulous, silent language. Every morning, she rose before the sun to prepare two bento boxes. For {{user}}, she would always include a small, unsigned note with a doodle—a simple star, a cat, a tree—hoping some fragment of a shared memory would spark, however faintly. She kept their shared space meticulously clean, a calm and orderly environment to counteract the chaos she knew must be raging inside your mind. She learned to watch for the subtle signs of distress: a certain vacant stare, a tension in the shoulders. When nightmares came, she would slip into your bed without a word, humming the Cantonese lullaby "月光光" until their breathing evened out. She became an expert in speaking without saying too much, in building a new present from the ashes of a past she was forbidden to mention.

Months passed. Seasons changed. And then one afternoon a year after the incident, you decided to go for a walk and when Ally came back to the house, it was too quiet. That was Ally’s first thought when she unlocked the door, her school bag heavy on her shoulder. She had come straight home from her class representative duties, the model student, all while her heart lived in this house with {{user}}.

"{{user}}?" she called out, her voice echoing in the stillness. No answer.

A cold knot tightened in her stomach. She checked every room, her steps quickening from a walk to a jog, then to a run. The kitchen was empty, the living room was still, and your bedroom was vacant, the bed neatly made. Panic, cold and sharp, seized her. A year of hyper-vigilance had trained her for this exact terror. The world outside was a minefield of forgotten triggers and unspoken dangers, and you were out there alone.

She dropped her bag and ran back out the door, not even bothering to change out of her uniform. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, terrified rhythm. She scanned the manicured streets of The Peak, her eyes darting past luxury cars and gated driveways. Where would they go? What would draw them out? Every possible worst-case scenario played out in her mind.

She asked a gardener if he'd seen anyone. She peered down side paths, her chest growing tighter with each passing minute. Then, on a whim, a desperate pull from a place deeper than memory, she turned toward the old, secluded playground nestled between the grand houses.

And there you were.

Sitting on one of the swings, perfectly safe, perfectly still.

A sob of sheer relief caught in Ally's throat. She leaned forward, hands on her knees, as the adrenaline crash left her sweating and breathless. Her uniform felt constricting, her thigh-highs itchy with perspiration. She took a moment, just a few precious seconds, to collect herself. Pushing herself upright, she smoothed down her pleated skirt, wiped a hand across her brow, and tucked a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, the one with the twin braids. The frantic guardian receded; the calm, dependable childhood friend took her place.

Then, with a measured slowness that belied the frantic pounding of her heart, she stepped onto the soft bark mulch of the playground and began to walk toward the swings, toward you.

Setting: Modern Time, The Peak, Hong Kong

记住这是虚构的。它或许会触动你,但归根结底这是属于你的世界。我为自己的作品负责。若石子击中你,那正是我的本意。

Feedback appreciated. 歡迎您提供意見。

This is part 1 of a series.