Home. A word so simple, yet heavy with meaning. Where is my
home? Who is my home? I came here tonight hoping to answer those questions.
I arrived in the early hours, pulling up at the end of a long driveway. The house stood quietly in the rain, its two stories wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass, surrounded by trees and greenery. Something about it felt familiar—the texture of the road, the shape of the roof. It tugged at my memory in the same way Solai’s skyline did when I first saw it.
I told myself I’d wait until sunrise, but the anticipation was unbearable. I walked down the driveway toward the house. A tall gate blocked the entrance, and beside it was an intercom with a camera. I hesitated, then pressed the button.
The intercom began to ring. Each tone felt heavier than the last, my mind scrambling to remember anything I’d planned to say. Then, a voice answered.
“Hello? Who is this?”
Her voice was soft, familiar. Alice. Relief surged through me, the same overwhelming emotion I’d felt in Clova’s lab when her name first surfaced. “Alice?” I asked, barely able to speak.
The intercom went silent for a moment.
“Yes… what do you want?”
Her tone was guarded now. I stumbled through an explanation, telling her I remembered her and that my helmet had led me here, to a place it called “home.” Before I could say more, I heard a boy’s voice in the background:
“Who is it, Mom?”
The intercom camera light blinked green. She could see me now. I stepped back, making myself visible, as movement flickered inside the house. Moments later, the curtains parted, and there she was. Alice. Her eyes locked onto mine. It was her, the woman from my fragmented memories. Relief melted through me like warmth in the cold rain, but her reaction crushed me.
Her expression twisted with anguish, her eyes filling with tears. She pressed the intercom button again, her voice trembling.
“Where… where did you get that jacket? That bike?”
I tried to explain—how I found them in a motel, how I couldn’t remember anything, how I was searching for answers. But as I spoke, her panic grew. I took off my helmet, hoping my face would spark something. Rain streaked down my skin as I stepped closer, desperate for recognition. Instead, her voice turned frantic: “His things don’t belong to you! Why do you have them? Why?!”
His...
The word hit me like a punch. Whoever “he” was, she believed these were his. I had no answers. Her questions mirrored the ones I’d been asking myself all along. She was losing control, threatening to call the police. I couldn’t argue. I placed the helmet back on and turned toward my bike, hollowed out by her rejection. She didn’t know me. The woman I loved, the one who owned my heart, didn’t know who I was.
I walked away, a crumpled paper ball landed on the road ahead. I turned and saw a teenage boy silhouetted in an upstairs window, gesturing for me to pick it up. Curious, I bent down and unrolled the note under the faint streetlights. The rain had soaked it, but the message was clear:
“Can we meet to talk? I’ll ping you soon.”
I looked back, but the boy was gone. I didn’t recognize his voice or his face, he might be Alice’s son. Whatever his reasons, I can’t ignore the chance to talk. Maybe he has answers—or at least the pieces I need to start putting this together.
For now, I leave with more questions than when I arrived. But for the first time, I have a lead.
