Detective Harris's office was colder than she expected.

Not in temperature though the air conditioning hummed quietly above but in feel. Stark. Impersonal. Like it hadn't been lived in, only tolerated.

A single window let in tired daylight. The blinds were half-closed. Papers sat in neat stacks on the desk. A bulletin board on the far wall was peppered with pinned photos, scribbled notes, red string trailing like veins between them. Natalya tried not to stare.

"Have a seat," Harris said, already moving to the other side of the desk. His tone wasn't unkind, but it didn't invite questions either.

She sat, still clutching the strap of her bag like it might anchor her to something. Anything.

Christian had followed them in. The door had closed behind him with a quiet but definitive click.

"Stay outside, Christian," Detective Harris said without looking up.

Christian paused by the door.

For a moment, Natalya thought he might argue. His jaw tightened, and something passed between the two men again. An unspoken message laced with tension.

Then, without a word, Christian turned and stepped back out, pulling the door shut behind him.

The silence that followed was dense.

Harris finally looked at her. "I hope you are doing okay.. I'm sorry for making you come here all the way from Oakridge."

Natalya gave a faint nod. "It's alright," she said, though her voice was barely above a whisper.

She wasn't sure it was.

Harris leaned back slightly in his chair, studying her for a moment.

"Can I ask what you found out, Detective?" she asked, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag again. Her eyes didn't waver from his.

Harris's gaze didn't falter. He exhaled slowly, folding his hands on the desk.

"We're still piecing things together," he said carefully. "But I figured you deserved to hear what we have so far, directly from me."

Natalya nodded her head at him.

"So.. last night I said your parents had died and the reason was unknown," he said staring at her.

"Yeah," she said softly, her voice catching slightly.

Detective Harris nodded, his expression unreadable.

He opened a folder on the desk and turned it so she could see. Inside were a few photographs. Blurry at first glance, but the details began to sharpen the longer she looked.

It was a fully burnt house and the structure some what looked similar to the house she had seen in Brooklyn Heights. But that house looked completely fine, just a tad old but not burnt like this in the picture.

Her brows furrowed as she leaned in, trying to reconcile what she was seeing.

"That can't be right," she murmured. "This... this isn't my house, Detective. Some other couple lived there ten years ago, along with their two daughters. They were all murdered one night, and no one ever found out who did it." At least, according to that old lady.

She shook her head slowly, eyes still on the photo.

"If they were living in that house ten years ago... and if that same house has been abandoned ever since... then how on earth do I have that address on my ID?"

Harris watched her closely. "That may be what you remember, but the records say otherwise. Same address. Same foundation. Everything matches. According to official records, you've been living in that house for eighteen years until your parents' deaths."

Natalya shook her head again, her heart starting to pound. "No, the old lady who lives across town told me that house was abandoned ten years ago. That can't be my home even though it's the same address. It wasn't burned. I saw it. Yesterday. The windows were intact, the mailbox was still there. It was worn, sure but not destroyed."

He nodded again, almost like he'd expected her to say that. "We thought the same at first. The property records show a rebuild was never requested. No insurance claim. No demolition permit. But these photos were timestamped from seven years ago."

She stared at the charred remains in the photo, the blackened beams and collapsed roof. "That makes no sense."

"I know," Harris said quietly. "And here's where it gets stranger. This report came to us anonymously. No name, no return address. Just a package left outside the police department. Inside were these photos... and your parents' death certificates."

"What?"
Her voice cracked around the word.

Harris didn't flinch. He simply slid the manila envelope across the desk, stopping just short of her hands.

Natalya didn't move to take it.

"I ran a DNA analysis as soon as I got this. But the package had been wiped clean," Detective Harris said and leaning back in the chair.

She finally reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened the flap. Inside were two official-looking certificates.

Her parents' names were printed in stark black ink across the top.

Under "Cause of Death" it simply read: Extensive thermal damage.

Notes: Remains found in fully burned structure; identification via dental records.

"How is this possible?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, shaky with disbelief. "Last night, you said the death certificates didn't have a cause of death... and now this?"

"Yes, Natalya," Harris replied, his voice steady but tinged with something that could have been frustration.

"The records I received from Brooklyn Heights had no cause listed. But these.." He gestured toward the certificates. "These came with the package. This is a new set of official documents, though I still don't know who sent them."

"But why?" Her voice quivered with frustration. "I don't even remember anything... and still these people are targeting me. Do you think I was in some sort of cult?" She stared at Detective Harris, her eyes wide with disbelief. The words felt foreign on her tongue, but the fear was real.

Harris blinked, clearly taken aback by the suggestion. "A cult? No. I don't think that's the case. But I can't rule anything out just yet. What I do know is that someone has gone to a lot of trouble to keep certain details hidden from you. We're dealing with something much bigger than just a tragic accident. I've seen these kinds of things before. People who try to erase parts of someone's life to control the narrative."

Natalya shook her head, feeling the weight of his words press down on her chest. "But why me? I was just a kid... My parents are dead. There's nothing left for them to gain by keeping this secret from me."

"I know.. I promise you I will get to the bottom of this," Detective Harris said and Natalya nodded her head at him before speaking again.

"Detective apart from my parents.. did you find anything about my whereabouts or anything about me after they died?" Her voice slightly wavered.

Harris studied her, his expression unreadable for a moment. He exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking to the folder on his desk.

"We're still digging. After your parents' deaths, there's no clear record of your movements. It's as if someone purposely kept you out of the system or else maybe someone rigged the system." He paused, watching her closely. "It's still a possibility and I want you to tell me everything you know or if you remember anything. Getting your memories back together is the only way we can confirm everything.

Natalya sat in stunned silence, her pulse thudding in her ears.

"I don't know if I can remember," she said at last, her voice barely more than a breath.

Detective Harris nodded slowly.

"You need to remember somehow Natalya. The memories are still in there somewhere. We may need to work with someone who can help you retrieve them safely."

Natalya looked up, her eyes sharp now despite the fear. "You mean a therapist? Or what, hypnosis?"

"Possibly both," Harris said. "Someone trained to work with repressed memory. If you're open to it I can suggest someone I know. I have contacts."

"Thank you Detective... I'll let you know," Natalya said and that's when she remembered about her phone and before she could ask about it there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Detective Harris said and Christian walked in his expression unreadable.

"Is there something I need to know?," he asked staring at Detective Harris.

"Not anything you should concern yourself with," Detective Harris said neutrally.

"Come on Father. I'm not stupid. There's something fishy going on here. She.." he said pointing at Natalya, "cannot remember her phone's password and when I opened it for her, her phone was completely wiped off. As if nothing existed.."

And he was cut off by Detective Harris.

Harris's eyes narrowed. "We never recovered a phone when she was found," he said, his gaze turning to Natalya.

"When Julie handed me my clothes the phone was there," Natalya said pulling out her phone from the bag and placing it on the table.

"And he's right. There's nothing on it. It's completely wiped."

Detective Harris picked it up, turning it over in his hand as he examined the screen.
His jaw tightened. "This is getting worse than I thought."

He set the phone down gently, but the weight behind his words lingered in the air.

"Alright... for now, don't trust anyone. Not a soul. And don't breathe a word about any of this. Not the house, not the documents, not the phone. I know this is hard but don't go digging around. If the person who did this to you get a whisper of this he or she might harm you again" His voice was firm, no longer just a warning but an order.

Natalya nodded slowly, the chill in the room suddenly more noticeable.

"I need you to lie low," Harris continued. "Until we have a solid lead, keep your head down. I'll refer you to a therapist, someone I trust. She might be able to help recover what you've lost."

Natalya didn't speak right away. Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the table, the weight of everything pressing in from all sides. She had come here hoping for answers, but instead, she'd found more shadows.

"I don't know if I can do this," she finally whispered, her voice unsteady. "What if I don't want to remember? What if it's worse than what I've imagined?"

"There is a possibility but you need to know what happened to you. You need to know what made you have that accident that day. You need to know your life before this," he said his tone softening.

Natalya nodded again, a flicker of resolve replacing some of the fear in her eyes. "Alright. I'll do whatever it takes."

"Good... and if you feel anything wrong you can call me or Christian anytime," he said looking at his son.

"Natalya can you stay outside for a minute I need to speak with my son," Detective Harris said shifting his gaze to look at Natalya.

Natalya gave a small nod, standing slowly. Her bag felt heavier now, like it carried more than just her belongings. She glanced at Christian briefly.

His jaw was still tight, his arms folded, but his eyes met hers with a flicker of something softer. Worry, maybe. Or something unspoken.

She stepped out of the office without a word, the door clicking shut behind her and walked to the reception area and sat down.

Her mind was swirling with questions.

Who wanted her dead?

Who had kept her out of the system?

What happened to her after her parents died?

Why were the documents different?

Who sent the package to Detective Harris?

Will I ever get my memories back?

The questions looped through her mind like a broken reel—spinning, unraveling, twisting around her thoughts until she wasn't sure what was real anymore.

Natalya sat stiffly in the reception chair, her fingers woven tightly in her lap. The sterile hum of the fluorescent lights above did little to comfort her.

The world outside the glass window looked normal. Cars passing, people walking, life continuing. But everything inside her felt like it had tilted on its axis.

She looked down at her phone again. The blank screen stared back at her, a silent void. No photos. No texts. No history. Like her life had been erased with the swipe of a hand.

Natalya's breath hitched, and she closed her eyes, trying to push the dizziness back.
The worst part wasn't that she didn't know what happened.
It was the creeping realization that maybe... someone had made sure she never would.

"Hey are you okay?" someone asked and her eyes shot open and she saw Christian staring at her with concern in his eyes.

"Hmm," she mumbled and he slowly slipped into the chair next to her.

"So.. I know what happened and I don't know what I'm supposed to tell you now," he said gently.

"Just don't tell anything.." Natalya mumbled softly and she closed her eyes again for a few minutes before opening them again and looking at the clock on the wall.

It was 15:30 and the bus leaves at 16:00.

""I think we should go and catch the bus," she said getting up and walking towards the door.

Christian stood slowly, watching her for a moment before following.
"Sure let's go" he said, his voice low as they stepped out into the hallway.

They walked out of the precinct in silence, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Everything felt sharper, louder.

The honk of cars, the chatter of strangers, the weight of the folder still in her bag.

At the bus stop, the bench was cold. The metal frame hummed beneath her legs with the vibrations of the passing street. Christian stood beside her, silent, occasionally glancing her way as if debating whether to say more.

The bus arrived with a soft screech, the doors folding open. The driver gave a nod as they climbed on.

She stepped onto the bus and found an empty seat near the back and sat down along with Christian who sat next to her.

The engine rumbled, and the city began to slide past her window. Her reflection hovered in the glass blurred, unfamiliar, ghostlike.

Detective Harris had warned her not to dig into this by herself and deep down she knew she shouldn't as well. 

Maybe she should focus on getting her memories. Not maybe, she should focus on getting her memories back. So she pulled out her phone and sent a text to Detective Harris asking him to send the therapist's contact number.

She stared at the message she had just sent.

Can you please send me the therapist's contact? I think it's time I try to remember.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer, as if she could undo everything with one press. But the message had already been delivered.

She slipped the phone back into her bag, her heart still fluttering with uncertainty.

Detective Harris had been right. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to erase the everything from her life.

She leaned her head against the window, the chill of the glass grounding her. Outside, the scenery blurred shops, houses, trees, all melting into one another. But her thoughts stayed sharp.

Maybe, the therapist could help her open the door she couldn't find on her own.

This wasn't just a puzzle anymore.

It was a fight for herself.

Word count- 2478