It was dark.

It stretched endlessly, pressing against her, suffocating her thoughts like a thick fog. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to open them, but her lids felt heavy, as if weighed down by the darkness. Her body ached with exhaustion, and her mind was sluggish.

She strained her ears, hoping for a sound-anything. But there was nothing, only the faint, rhythmic beep of something distant, echoing in the void.

Then suddenly she felt pain.

A dull, throbbing ache spread across her skull as consciousness dragged her upward. After trying for the millionth time, she finally managed to pry her eyes open.

Bright lights assaulted her vision, sharp and unforgiving. She squinted, trying to make sense of the blur before her, but the world remained a haze. The beeping sound was louder now, rhythmic and insistent, like a heart pounding in the quiet of a still room.

A low murmur swam through the fog in her mind, voice blending together, muffled and unfamiliar.

"She's waking up."

The voice was sharp, cutting through the haze. Her fingers twitched against something stiff-sheets? Her throat was dry, her lips cracked, as if she hadn't spoken in days. Weeks. Months.

She slowly looked sideways trying to find out where she was but was only met with white walls, bright fluorescent lights. The air smelled sterile and it made her nose twitch slightly. Machines beeped softly beside her, wires running from her arms. Panic flickered in her chest. What happened to me?

A woman in scrubs stood beside her, eyes scanning a clipboard. "Miss.... Natalya Reinhart?"

She blinked. Natalya? Who's that?

The name Natalya Reinhart hung in the air, unfamiliar and strange. She blinked again trying to remember something but she was met with nothing. Not even a single memory.

The nurse's gaze flickered up from the clipboard, studying her with an unreadable expression. "Miss Reinhart, can you hear me? Do you remember anything?"

Remember anything? She shook her head, the motion slow and disorienting. "I... I don't know who I am." The words came out dry, weak. Her voice felt foreign in her own throat.

The nurse seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing at the doctor who had just entered the room. He was tall, his face stern, but there was something in his eyes-an underlying concern, maybe pity.

"Miss Reinhart, you've been in a coma for three months," he said, his voice even but soft. "You suffered a traumatic injury, and you've been in recovery since then. Do you remember the accident?"

Her brow furrowed, but nothing came to mind. No images, no flashes, just... emptiness. The harder she tried to remember, the further it seemed to slip away.

"No," she whispered. "I... don't remember anything. Nothing before... this."

He nodded, his face settling into a look of understanding. "That's expected with retrograde amnesia. It's possible your memories may never return. But we'll work with you, take it slow."

Retrograde amnesia. The words echoed in her mind, but they didn't make sense. How could she have lost everything? How could there be no one, nothing, just blankness?

"What's that?" she asked staring at the doctor.

The doctor sighed before answering her question.

"Retrograde amnesia," he repeated gently, "is a condition that causes you to lose memories of events that happened before the trauma or injury. It doesn't mean you won't make new memories, but your past-the person you were, the life you lived-might remain out of reach. It's not uncommon for people to have difficulty recalling anything, especially if the injury was severe."

She tried to wrap her mind around his words, but they felt useless. She couldn't even remember who she was and what happened to her.

"You don't need to worry," the doctor continued, his voice soothing but firm. "We'll be here to help you. You're safe now." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "We'll also begin some tests to understand the extent of your memory loss. But, right now, you need rest."

Rest. That word bounced around in her head like a broken record. How could she rest when she didn't even know who she was?

The doctor turned to the nurse, nodding at her. "Let's give her some time. We'll check back later." The nurse nodded, taking one last look at Natalya before walking toward the door.

The doctor gave Natalya one final glance before exiting the room, leaving her alone in the sterile silence.

As the door clicked shut, Natalya's mind whirred with thoughts-questions without answers. Amnesia? Did she have a family? If yes where are they? Are they worried about her? Do they know what happened to her? Did they come?

Her mind was buzzing with questions. One after another and she felt her skull throbbing in pain.

She took a deep breath calming herself down and looked around the room. Her eyes wandered back to the small table beside her bed. There resting was a plastic bag with some contents inside it. She reached for it slowly, the movement awkward but she wanted to know what it was.

She slowly opened the bag and saw some clothes. A red tank top, a pair of blue jeans, an ID card along with her phone.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the ID card, the plastic cool against her skin. The name Natalya Reinhart was printed on the front along with a photo of a dark haired girl. She stared at the photo trying to remember how she looked like but she was met with nothing. She traced the edge of the card and bit her lip unintentionally. She set the ID down and grabbed the phone instead, her heartbeat quickening. If she had amnesia, then maybe-just maybe-her phone would have the answers.

She pressed the power button.

Nothing.

She frowned and tried again, but the screen remained dark. The phone was dead. Or was it? For a split second, she thought she saw something-a faint flicker beneath the glass, like a notification flashing before vanishing.

Natalya exhaled sharply, setting the phone aside. She'd charge it later. Maybe then, she'd find out who she really was.

As she was about to put the clothes back, something caught her eye-a small piece of torn paper sticking out from the back pocket of her jeans.

Carefully, she pulled it free, unfolding it with unsteady fingers. The ink was smudged in places, the handwriting rushed, almost frantic.

Cabin on Willow Creek Road.
Turn left after the old bridge, three miles in.

Her pulse quickened.

Who wrote this?

Did she?

Natalya tightened her grip on the note. If no memories would come to her, she had only one choice.

She had to go find them.

Word count- 1079