A few more days passed, and Toole's strength returned to her in ways that startled even the medical staff. She could walk without assistance, stretch her limbs like they hadn't been restrained, and balance on one foot without wobbling. She could jump, small hops at first, then with purpose as she jumped higher than the bed.

Stand tall. Move with intention. Every benchmark the nurses had given her, she didn't just meet, she exceeded.

Surprising them. Surprising herself.

There was an ease to her recovery that defied the charts, the prognosis, the quiet whispers outside her door. Muscles that should have atrophied responded like they had never stopped working. Reflexes returned like they'd only been sleeping. It was as if her body had waited for her soul to catch up, and now, they were moving in sync.

But the more her body healed, the more the ache in her mind deepened.

She couldn't remember anything. Nothing before the white walls and the soft murmurs of the hospital. Not the accident. Not her home. Not even what her favorite color was.

And that emptiness, it gnawed at her. Every day she woke up stronger, and every night she curled into the hollow place that memory should have filled.

The nurses tried everything. Gentle approaches. Trigger methods. Familiar sounds, smells, songs. But it always came back to one method: photographs.

On the sixth day of her recovery, they brought in a worn manila folder. Inside were glossy images printed on paper that had been handled too often. Finger-smudged, dog-eared at the corners. Images of a life that was supposed to be hers.

In one photo, a woman with raven hair and a soft, angled smile knelt beside a small girl. The woman's eyes were a piercing green-blue, like lakewater over moss. Like her own. The girl was maybe eight or nine. Pale skin. Dark hair. A hint of mischief in her posture. A gap-toothed smile. Her.

They told her it was her mother.

The next photo was of a man, taller, broad-shouldered, holding a paper coffee cup in one hand and the same little girl in the other. His nose was her nose. The downward slope of his chin, the faint pout of his lips, it was like staring into a masculine mirror.

Her father, they said.

She studied the photos like crime scenes. Searching for evidence. For a spark. A reaction. Something.

But it never came.

The connections were all visual. Technical. Her hair matched her mother's. Her pale skin matched her father's. Her nose, hers. Her mouth, hers. The details lined up, but her soul didn't respond.

They were strangers.

Beautiful strangers with shared biology, maybe. But nothing inside her stirred. No warm swell of affection. No ache of recognition. Nothing.

Not even confusion.

Just… distance.

As if these lives were someone else's. Faces plucked from a dream she'd been told she had, but could never quite wake into.

The nurse tried to reassure her, gently brushing her shoulder. "Sometimes memory takes time, sweetheart. The feelings come before the facts."

But what if they didn't?

What if the facts were gone? What if whatever happened to her had burned her past into ash?

Toole stared down at the photo again, herself between two people who had once, presumably, loved her. Her small arms outstretched. Her eyes were bright.

She was smiling in the picture.

But now, looking at it…She felt nothing.

Nothing at all.

And that frightened her.

Knowing only fragments and photographs that didn't feel real. That didn't cause her to feel anything.

But before she went into a strange level of despair. Something happened.

That she knew would change her life forever.
-----------------------------

The little girl was at the door.

She had wedged a plastic trashcan from the hallway against it, just enough to keep it cracked open, her tiny body struggling to squeeze through. Her little red onesie—covered in polka dots and trailing a sagging hood—brushed along the floor as she tried to step over the threshold with exaggerated determination.

Toole stirred, blinking herself awake. The motion at the door drew her eyes, and she sat up just as the child pushed one more time and slipped partway inside.

Wide, curious blue eyes locked with hers. They weren't afraid, just surprised. Then, in a soft whisper, the little girl said, "Help."

The door groaned as it tried to swing closed under its own weight, pressing the child gently but insistently. She was too small to fight it on her own.

Toole acted without thinking. She slipped out of bed, reached the door in a couple strides, and held it open with one hand. The little girl gave one last determined push and waddled inside.

She straightened her onesie, stood up straight, and gave a small, polite bow.

"Thank you, pretty lady," she said with grave sincerity.

Toole blinked, caught off guard. Her heart warmed, and for the first time in a long while, she felt something innocent ripple through her chest.

She knelt to the girl's height. "My name is Toole," she said gently. "What's yours?"

The little girl squinted at her, then scrunched her nose. "That's a weird name. Who names themselves Toole?"

Toole gave a soft laugh, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I didn't choose it. My parents did."

The little girl studied her for a beat, then suddenly smiled. "Your eyes are pretty."

A pause. Toole had to breathe, had to find her composure again. "Thank you," she said, this time quieter. "That's very kind of you."

The girl tilted her head with suspicion. "My daddy says I shouldn't talk to strangers."

"He's a smart man," Toole replied. "But I'm not a stranger anymore. Remember? I told you my name."

The girl seemed to consider this, then nodded, barely. "Okay."

A moment passed. "My name is Cecelia." She then gave a toothy smile."

Then Toole asked. "Why were you trying to get into my room?"

"Your room has a bathroom," the girl replied simply, tugging at the zipper of her onesie. "Can you open the other door?"

Toole turned, still trying to make sense of the situation, and opened the bathroom door that adjoined her room. The little girl padded over with a determined waddle and shut it behind her.

Inside, there were small sounds of exertion. Rustling fabric. The faint thump of something being adjusted. The clink of porcelain.

"Do you need help?" Toole called softly through the door.

"No," came the firm, muffled reply.

Then: the flush. Then the sink. Running water. Silence. A few moments later: "Can you open the door again?"

Toole opened it, and the girl stepped back out, face scrubbed, sleeves damp. She looked up, utterly unbothered.

"What are you doing here?" Toole asked gently, her voice more curious than accusing.

The little girl looked up at her with those soft, wide eyes—like the question hadn't even occurred to her until just now.

"Walking," she said matter-of-factly. "Mommy and Daddy told me to sleep, but…" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Something felt wrong. The tablet said there was something red down here. I wanted to see what it was."

Toole furrowed her brow. "The tablet?"

The girl nodded. "The one I use to check the monitors. I'm not supposed to. But I can. It said something red was here. Moving. Like blood or… or heat."

Toole felt her stomach twist. "And the nurses? The staff? Why didn't they check it out?"

The little girl's eyes darkened, narrowing as frustration overtook her expression. "They don't help," she snapped. "I told them! I called them! I said something was wrong and they just said, 'Go back to bed, sweetheart,' like I was lying!"

Her voice rose, shaking now. "They always say I'm just imagining things. They say I'm making it up! That everything will be fine in the morning! But it's not! I can see it!"

And suddenly her anger cracked into a sob, raw and desperate. "I just want to help them. I can help them."

Toole dropped to one knee and placed a comforting hand on the girl's trembling shoulder. "Hey now, don't cry," she said softly, pulling her into a hug. "It's okay. You're not wrong. I believe you."

The little girl clung to her tightly, burying her face into Toole's shoulder with hiccupping sobs. But then—to Toole's horror—something shifted in the air.

A sound. A static, low and sickeningly familiar, not heard but felt. A whisper that slithered through her spine like icewater. It wasn't her memories, no—those were gone, a yawning void where her past should be. This was something else. Something pressing up close.

Toole's instincts screamed at her.

She rose quickly and stepped between the little girl and the door, her eyes narrowing, her whole body tense and alert.

Then she heard it—footsteps. Not just one. Two. Heavy, deliberate. Boots, maybe. Metal, maybe. A heavy gait that wasn't just someone walking—someone approaching. Coming straight down the hall.

Toole raised a hand, signaling the little girl to stay silent. The child obeyed immediately, shrinking behind her, barely even breathing now.

The air thickened. The static behind her eyes crackled louder, not as sound but pressure, as though the world was being pushed in from some unseen edge.

Toole listened.

One step. Another. Then a pause.

Whoever—or whatever—was out there… it had stopped just beyond the door.

A shadow passed under the gap.

She didn't blink. Didn't speak.

The little girl tugged softly at Toole's sleeve.

"They're not supposed to be here," she whispered. "That's not a nurse."

Toole didn't take her eyes off the door. "I know."

Then—terror. The door slammed open with a metallic crack that rattled the walls. Reflex took over. Toole surged into motion, body responding before thought could catch up. She shoved Cecelia behind her and planted herself between the girl and the intruders, scanning the room with an intensity that was almost inhuman.

No nurses. No staff. Just killers.

Two of them. One was in full tactical gear, bearing a sidearm with grim confidence. The second was crouched behind the doorway, holding back, weapon drawn, trying to maintain cover. A voice barked out from behind the filter of a respirator:

"Shit, she's awake—she's got the girl!"

"Take them." The other one gave the order, cold and certain.

Her thoughts raced—no weapons, no exit. There was no escape. Not unless she made one.

She shifted her weight subtly, gauging angles, walls, the bed. Anything she could use. But there was nothing. Only time. If she could just buy time—

"What is going on?" she demanded, her voice sharp and commanding, trying to disorient them with confusion, fear, even guilt—anything.

There was a moment's hesitation.

And then she saw it.

One of the soldiers was aiming—not at her—at the girl.

Without hesitation, she threw herself back, arms wide, shielding Cecelia with her entire body. The child clung to her, tiny hands clutching her hospital gown, and then the wailing began—sharp, shrill, terrified.

"Kill the girl—"

"She dies, we all die!" the other snapped. His weapon wavered, lowering by inches.

And then—a shot.

Loud. Thunderous. Painful.

One of the men jerked back. Blood sprayed from his skull as the round punched through the side of his helmet. He crumpled like a sack of meat and armor, falling backward with a sickening thud.

Toole's ears rang. The world spun. Cecelia shrieked. Everything slowed for a moment.

Then—

"Cecelia!"

It was a voice, young, male, and unmistakably familiar to something inside her. A boy. A young boy, his voice cracking with fear and urgency. "Where are you!?"

The remaining soldier snarled and turned his gun toward her.

"I have them both!" he roared. "If you come any closer—"

He never finished.

From the hallway came a blur of motion, too fast, too trained, too angry.

A boy—not older than ten—charged into the doorway with an assault rifle braced tight to his shoulder. His stance was perfect, his breathing steady, his aim true. Smoke trailed from the barrel—he had already fired once.

He didn't hesitate.

BANG.

The second soldier dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The rifle fell from his hands before he even hit the floor.

Toole blinked, stunned. The boy was already moving, stepping over the body, scanning for more threats. His eyes were wild with adrenaline but clear. Sharp.

He looked at her, saw Cecelia in her arms, and lowered the rifle slightly.

"You're safe," he said. "I've got you."

And for the first time since the nightmare began, Toole believed it.