Chapter 5

Days passed.

Unexpectedly...

I didn't dream again.

Not once.

At first, I was relieved. Then the silence began to bother me.

Had the dreams stopped?

Or had my mind simply decided to hide everything from me once again?

Determined to find answers, I returned to the places that had once been a part of my daily life.

Allen's Café.

The park.

The bookstore.

I met my friends one by one, asking them about everything we had done during the month before I disappeared.

Nothing seemed unusual.

For the first five days of every week, I did what I always did.

I wrote.

Then I spent the evenings with my friends, laughing over coffee and sharing stories.

But there was one thing that didn't fit.

Every Sunday.

Instead of wandering through nature as I usually did, I visited the same newspaper stall.

Every single Sunday.

And every time, I bought every newspaper published that week.

It was...

Odd.

Why would I need so many newspapers?

I frowned, trying to make sense of it.

"Jeane," I asked, "don't you think that's strange?"

She burst into laughter.

"You blockhead."

"Whenever you're working on a new novel, you become obsessed with research."

She nudged my shoulder.

"Remember when you wrote that story about a sailor?"

I groaned.

"Don't remind me."

"You bought so many old maps, compasses, and navigation books that a police officer actually stopped us because he thought we were planning something suspicious."

I couldn't help but laugh.

"So maybe it's the same thing?"

Jeane shrugged.

"You probably needed those newspapers for research."

Her explanation made sense.

Yet...

Something inside me refused to believe it.

Why newspapers?

What was I looking for?

Was I writing a mystery...?

A crime novel...?

Or...

Was I searching for something that had already happened?

The thought lingered in my mind long after the conversation ended.

After Jeane left, I sat alone in my room.

Confused.

Frustrated.

Yet strangely hopeful.

My memories were still missing. They were nothing more than shattered fragments scattered across my mind. But at least now, I had something.

Clues.

I stacked the week's newspapers neatly on my desk.

I wanted to go through every single one of them, but I was exhausted. My body felt too weak, and my mind refused to cooperate.

Leaning back in my chair, I stared at the ceiling fan as it spun in endless circles.

Then a thought struck me.

A novel.

If I had been collecting newspapers for research, then I must have been writing something.

Without wasting another second, I rushed to my computer.

My fingers trembled as I opened the folder containing my manuscripts.

There it was.

Latest Work.

My heartbeat quickened.

I clicked it open.

A romance novel.

I stared at the screen in disbelief.

"No..."

I whispered.

"This doesn't make any sense."

Why would I collect stacks of newspapers to write a romance?

I pushed myself away from the desk in frustration and paced across the room.

Something was wrong.

My eyes wandered back to the screen.

That's when I noticed it.

The file wasn't marked Final.

It was labeled—

Draft.

I froze.

A memory surfaced.

I smiled to myself.

"Of course..."

"I always start two novels."

"One becomes my main project."

"The other is just a backup idea."

I looked around the room.

"If this is the draft..."

"...then where is the real manuscript?"

Silence answered me.

For the first time, I realized the missing memories weren't the only thing that had disappeared.

Someone...

—or something—

had taken my actual novel.

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