Chapter 9 - The Child Who Was Never In My Memory
The room went silent after the video ended.
Not normal silence.
The kind of silence that came after someone dropped a glass and everyone waited for the sound of it breaking.
But nothing broke.
Because everything had already broken.
I stared at the frozen screen.
A younger version of me.
A hospital room.
A newborn baby.
And the words that had changed the way I saw my entire life.
Subject One.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted someone to tell me this was a mistake.
A misunderstanding.
A cruel joke.
Anything.
But nobody did.
Because everyone in that room knew.
They knew before I did.
"Who was that baby?"
My voice sounded distant.
Like someone else was asking.
Nobody answered.
I looked at Daniel.
He looked like he had been waiting eight years for me to ask that question.
"Hannah..."
"No."
I shook my head.
"Don't say my name like that."
He stopped.
I pointed toward the screen.
"Who was that baby?"
His eyes moved to the floor.
And that was when I knew.
The answer was going to hurt.
"I don't know."
I stared at him.
"You don't know?"
Daniel looked at me.
"I know what I was told."
"By who?"
"My team."
I laughed bitterly.
"Your team."
I looked around the room.
"My entire life is apparently controlled by teams."
Nobody spoke.
I turned to my mother.
"You know."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Yes."
The honesty surprised me.
Maybe because everyone else had spent so long hiding behind half-truths.
"Tell me."
She took a breath.
"When you were born, Project Aurora wasn't supposed to involve children."
I listened.
Because despite everything, some part of me still wanted to believe my mother.
"It was supposed to study memory patterns in adults who had experienced trauma."
She looked at the floor.
"But then they discovered something."
"What?"
She looked at me.
"Children's brains were different."
My stomach tightened.
"They weren't damaged by trauma the same way."
I stepped back.
"Mom."
"I know."
Her voice broke.
"I know how it sounds."
"How it sounds?"
I looked at her.
"You are talking about children like they were research material."
She closed her eyes.
"I spent years trying to stop them."
"But you started it."
The sentence came out before I could stop it.
My mother's face changed.
Because I had said the one thing she feared.
"Yes."
Nobody moved.
My mother whispered:
"I started the research."
The room felt smaller.
"But I didn't start what it became."
I looked at Charles.
He was staring at her.
Like he had heard this before.
"Then what happened?"
My mother walked toward the table.
She picked up the photograph.
"When you were born, we discovered something unusual."
I hated that word.
Unusual.
Every time someone used it, it meant my life was about to become something I couldn't understand.
"You had an ability."
I frowned.
"What ability?"
She looked at Daniel.
Then back at me.
"You could remember things people wanted you to forget."
I didn't understand.
"Everyone remembers things."
"No."
Her voice became quiet.
"Not like you."
A cold feeling moved through me.
"What does that mean?"
She touched the photograph.
"When someone experiences extreme stress, fear, or trauma, the brain protects itself."
I nodded slowly.
"I know."
"But you didn't just remember."
She paused.
"You connected pieces."
I stared at her.
"What pieces?"
"Truths."
The word landed heavily.
"You could see patterns other people couldn't."
I thought about the memories.
The flashes.
The kitchen.
Daniel.
The hospital.
The things I couldn't explain.
My head started hurting.
"I don't remember any of this."
My mother nodded.
"Because you asked me not to let you."
I froze.
"What?"
She reached into her coat.
This time, she pulled out a small notebook.
Old.
Worn.
The edges were damaged.
"This is yours."
I didn't take it.
"I don't write journals."
"You did."
She opened it.
The first page had my handwriting.
My handwriting.
Again.
I hated seeing it.
Because every time I saw it, it belonged to a version of myself I couldn't access.
She turned the notebook toward me.
There was one sentence.
Written eight years ago.
"If I forget, don't let Daniel tell me who I was."
My eyes moved to Daniel.
He looked away.
I felt something inside me shift.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Recognition.
A memory tried to surface.
A hallway.
A hospital.
Daniel standing beside me.
My hands shaking.
"You promised you would never lie to me."
His voice from the memory.
"I promised."
My voice.
"You broke it."
I grabbed the notebook.
"Why did I write this?"
Daniel didn't answer.
My mother did.
"Because you found out what Daniel had done."
The room froze.
I looked at him.
"What did you do?"
Daniel closed his eyes.
"I made a choice."
"That isn't an answer."
He nodded.
"I know."
I stepped closer.
"What choice?"
He looked at me.
And for the first time, I saw the man from the diner disappear completely.
No kindness.
No calm.
No gentle smile.
Only regret.
"I erased your memory."
The words were quiet.
But they destroyed the room.
My heart stopped.
I couldn't speak.
My mother looked away.
Charles clenched his jaw.
Victoria closed her eyes.
Everyone knew.
Everyone except me.
"You..."
I swallowed.
"You erased me?"
Daniel shook his head.
"No."
His voice cracked.
"I erased what they wanted."
"What does that mean?"
"You weren't supposed to remember the program."
I stared at him.
"And you decided that?"
"No."
He stepped closer.
"You decided."
I froze.
"What?"
Daniel reached into his pocket.
He pulled out another video file.
"I didn't make that decision alone."
He placed the device beside the first one.
"You did."
I looked at the screen.
Another recording.
Another version of me.
I didn't want to watch it.
But I pressed play.
The video began.
A hospital room.
Eight years earlier.
My younger self sat on a bed.
Tired.
Afraid.
But calm.
Daniel was sitting across from me.
The younger me looked directly into the camera.
"If you're watching this..."
She paused.
"I made it."
My breath caught.
Because hearing my own voice from eight years ago felt like listening to a stranger.
"I know you don't remember."
She looked at Daniel.
"That's the point."
My younger self continued.
"You chose to forget because remembering was putting everyone in danger."
The screen flickered.
Then she said something that made my entire body go cold.
"Especially the baby."
I stood frozen.
The baby.
The baby from the hospital.
My younger self looked directly into the camera.
"Her name is..."
The video suddenly cut.
Black screen.
No sound.
No explanation.
Just darkness.
I turned toward Daniel.
"What happened?"
Nobody answered.
I looked at the device.
The file had been interrupted.
Deleted.
Part of it was missing.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A message.
Only one sentence.
"I know where the missing part is."
Another message arrived.
A location.
An old hospital address.
The same hospital from the video.
Daniel saw the screen.
And his face changed completely.
May you like
Because underneath the address was one final line.
"The baby is still alive."
