Chapter 4

Morning arrived, but the emotions from last night refused to leave me.

My clothes were damp with sweat.

I couldn't stop wondering whether what I had seen was a forgotten memory... or simply my mind playing cruel tricks on me.

Lost in thought, I suddenly felt someone gently shaking my shoulder.

"Sam?"

I looked up.

It was Jeane.

"Are you okay?" she asked, worry filling her eyes. "Does it still hurt?"

Before I could answer, someone cleared their throat.

"I think," the doctor said with an amused smile, "it's you who's worrying her more."

Jeane immediately stepped back, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

The doctor walked over to my bedside and gently took my wrist, checking my pulse. Then she placed the stethoscope against my chest, listening carefully.

After a few moments, she smiled reassuringly.

"Everything seems normal for now. However, I'd like to run a few additional tests."

She paused before continuing.

"And about what happened yesterday..."

"You experienced symptoms that are often seen after severe psychological trauma. I'd recommend meeting with a psychiatrist as well."

She gave us a small smile before quietly leaving the room.

Trauma.

The word echoed in my mind.

Again.

And again.

As though it wanted me to remember something I couldn't.

Jeane sat beside me.

Without saying anything, I rested my head on her shoulder.

"Jeane..."

My voice was barely a whisper.

"Let's just get the tests over with and leave."

I looked around the room uneasily.

"I don't feel right here."

She gently squeezed my hand.

"Okay."

"We'll finish the tests first, and then we'll have a short session with the psychiatrist."

"We'll leave after that."

I simply nodded.

The tests came back exactly as expected.

Normal.

Every single one of them.

A part of me had hoped they would reveal something—anything—but they didn't.

Now came the part I had been dreading.

The psychiatrist.

As Jeane and I walked toward the psychiatry department, a thought echoed in my mind.

Do you really want to remember?

Or would you rather let those memories remain buried forever?

Is forgetting a curse... or a blessing?

So lost was I in my thoughts that I didn't realize we had reached the doctor's office.

A nurse opened the door.

"Ms. Samantha Jonas?"

I looked at Jeane.

"I'll wait outside," she said, giving me an encouraging smile.

I nodded and stepped inside.

The psychiatrist looked up from his desk and smiled politely.

"Please, have a seat."

I sat down, nervously intertwining my fingers.

"So, Ms. Samantha Jonas," he began, "how can I help you today?"

"I..." I hesitated.

"I seem to have lost seven months of my memories."

He leaned back thoughtfully.

"I was informed that you also experienced what appeared to be a severe panic episode."

The word panic instantly reminded me of another word.

Trauma.

My body tensed.

The doctor noticed.

"You know," he said gently, "the human brain has remarkable ways of protecting itself. Sometimes it does things even we don't fully understand."

"I don't understand."

He folded his hands.

"Unfortunately, there is no medication that can simply restore lost memories."

A sigh escaped my lips.

"I was afraid you'd say that."

"But," he continued, "in some cases, the brain suppresses memories because they are associated with overwhelming emotional pain. It isn't always permanent."

"You think that's what happened to me?"

"It's a possibility."

Silence filled the room.

"So..." I asked quietly, "what should I do?"

"I can't just ignore seven months of my life. What if something in my past affects my future?"

He nodded.

"That's a valid concern."

"But trying to force your memories to return may only make things more difficult."

I lowered my gaze.

"I've been having dreams."

"They feel so real that I can't tell whether they're dreams... or memories."

The psychiatrist remained calm.