Chapter 3 — A House That Feels Unfamiliar

My name is Lily Amara.

I was in an accident.

I repeat that sentence in my head often, like a simple reminder so I don’t get lost. Mama said that night I was taken to the hospital by the person who hit me. I don’t remember anything about the accident. No sound. No face. Not even the first pain.

What I remember is what came after.

That night, the hospital called my mother. I was already in the recovery room when she arrived. I woke up to harsh white lights and the sharp smell of antiseptic. Mama’s face looked pale, her eyes swollen, as if she had been crying for a long time. She held my hand tightly, as though afraid I might disappear if she let go.

The doctor said I had suffered a mild concussion.

Not fatal.

Not disabling.

But enough to “erase part of my memory.”

Part.

The word sounded small, but it felt enormous.

For some reason, there was an empty space in my mind. Not dark. Not blurry—empty. Like a shelf that had once been filled, then wiped clean until it was smooth. Strangely, I could still eat on my own. I could walk. I could shower, talk, even joke when needed. I could carry out daily activities as usual.

As if what was lost wasn’t function, but pieces of a life.

I stayed in the hospital for quite a while. The days passed slowly and quietly. Morning turned into afternoon, afternoon into night, without many moments that truly stayed with me. Eventually, the doctor allowed me to go home, and little by little, return to school.

But there was one incident in the hospital that kept resurfacing, like a short piece of film—unfinished, yet vivid.

One afternoon, as I lay on the hospital bed, my room door opened halfway.

A young man stood in the doorway.

He didn’t come in. He just stood there, hesitant, as if he knew he wasn’t welcome. In his hand was a bouquet of flowers, still wrapped in clear plastic.

I looked at him in confusion. Something stirred in my chest—something I couldn’t name.

Before I could speak, my mother, who had been sitting beside my bed, stepped forward.

Her gaze toward the young man turned cold.

“How dare you come here,” Mama said sharply, her voice loud and harsh—nothing like the gentle tone she used with me.

The young man held out the flowers to her, his hand trembling.

My mother didn’t take them.

She threw the flowers to the floor, right in front of his feet. The petals scattered, their color stark against the white hospital tiles. The young man flinched. He tried to speak, but Mama didn’t give him the chance.

“Don’t show up again,” she said firmly. “Leave. Now.”

The young man fell silent. He looked down at the flowers on the floor for a moment, then lowered his head. Without saying a word, he turned and walked away.

Mama shut the door quickly.

After that, she stood still for a few seconds, then turned back toward me. Her expression collapsed. She wrapped her arms around me, crying without sound, her hands trembling.

I was confused.

“Who was that?” I whispered softly, honestly not understanding.

Mama shook her head quickly.

“No one, Lily,” she said unsteadily. “Not important.”

She held me tighter, as if afraid I might remember something if she let go.

After that day, I never asked about the young man again.

My father visited me at the hospital from time to time. He didn’t talk much, but he always made sure I was comfortable. He brought fruit, magazines, or simply sat in the chair beside my bed, scrolling through his phone. His presence was calm. He didn’t push. He didn’t force me to remember anything.

And somehow, that felt enough.

I felt like my life was fine.

And for the moment, that was enough.

—-

Returning home felt like entering a place I was supposed to know—but didn’t fully remember.

My parents’ house was large. The yard was spacious, surrounded by tall fences and well-kept trees. My parents slept downstairs. My room was upstairs, facing a small garden behind the house.

In front of the dining room terrace, there was a swimming pool. The water was clear, reflecting the morning light quietly. During my recovery, almost every morning I sat on that terrace, sunbathing and breathing in the fresh air.

Mbak Nia, the housekeeper, always stayed nearby. She didn’t ask many questions—just made sure I took my medicine on time and didn’t get too tired. She was warm, but careful, like everyone around me was walking on thin glass.

I often walked alone through the corridors of the house. My steps were slow, as if I was afraid of missing something. The walls were lined with neatly arranged photographs.

Photos of my childhood.

I stopped in front of one. I was smiling widely, sitting on a swing, my hair braided into two. In another photo, I stood beside my parents, wearing an elementary school uniform, holding a small trophy.

I stared at them for a long time, trying to remember the feeling behind that smile.

Nothing came.

Mama said that according to the doctor, a small part of my brain had been hit. Not serious. No surgery needed. But enough to “discard” part of my memory. The doctor said the memories might return, or they might not. No one could be certain.

“What matters is that you’re healthy,” Mama had said. “You can still live your life.”

I nodded.

I was fortunate I could still carry out daily activities. Fortunately I could still go to school. Fortunately I could still laugh at certain moments.

But sometimes, when the house was too quiet, I felt like a stranger in my own life.

One morning, I opened my wardrobe. My clothes were neatly arranged—dresses, jackets, school uniforms. They all looked like someone else’s choices, not mine. I picked up a gray jacket that felt familiar in my hands, though I didn’t know why.

I put it back and closed the wardrobe.

At night, I often woke without dreams. Just a strange sensation in my chest, like losing something I couldn’t name. I wasn’t afraid. Just… empty.

One afternoon, as I sat on the terrace looking at the swimming pool, Mama sat down beside me.

“Are you tired?” she asked gently.

I shook my head. “No.”

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “If someday you remember something, you can tell Mama. But if you don’t, that’s okay too.”

I looked at the shimmering water.

“If I don’t remember it,” I asked softly, “does that mean it wasn’t important?”

Mama didn’t answer right away. She stared ahead, in the same direction as me.

“You don’t need to force yourself to remember anything,” she said quietly.

“What matters is that you’re okay right now.”

I nodded, even though I didn’t fully understand.

That night, before going to bed, I stood by my bedroom window. The city lights glimmered far below. The night wind blew softly, carrying faint sounds from outside.

I didn’t know what had happened before the accident.

I didn’t know who the young man with the flowers was.

I didn’t know why my mother had been so angry and afraid.

But I knew one thing:

Everyone around me was protecting me.

Not only from the outside world—

but from memories I might not be ready to face it.

And for now,

I chose to live with what I had.

Because maybe there was a reason

some parts of my life chose to remain silent.

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