Charles held the small sheet of paper so tightly that it had begun to wrinkle inside his fist.
All he had was a handwritten address. To anyone else, it was an ordinary piece of paper. But to him, it was hope.
“Who’s there?”
One of the security guards moved closer to inspect. He moved closer to the flowers. Little by little, he drew closer to the gate. Charles was right behind the floral garden. He stopped breathing for a while.
“If the guards find me, I’m so, so dead”, he thought, his heart pounding menacingly.
The guard opened the main gate to check. Then something jumped off the wall. He quickly followed the movement. The other security guards became alert. Then…
One of them exclaimed, laughing heartily.
“Ah, a cat.”
The front gate was left open for a split second. And Charles couldn’t pass up his only chance to escape. The cat had been a decoy.
Charles slipped through the little gap of the front gate, making sure no one was watching. The security guards stood near the driveway, talking among themselves, unaware that the man they had been instructed to watch had quietly walked away.
He released a slow breath. His lips curled into a smile. For the first time in weeks, he was on his own.
Dr. Donell insisted he was not ready to leave the house without supervision. And the doctors at Prestige Royal Hospital had agreed.
"You need more time."
"Your memory will return gradually."
"Don't strain yourself."
Charles had nodded politely every single time.
Miss Caroline Simmers had implemented drastic measures to keep him glued to the house. Yet, today, he had done exactly what he wanted.
Not that he was running away. He had one question that refused to leave him alone.
Where was Emelia?
Finding her after all this time felt like chasing a ghost, but as he stepped into the crowd, the lingering anxiety gave way to a sudden, vivid memory, back in time.
He could still feel the cool breeze drifting through the cracked blinds of that quiet hospital room, smelling the faint scent of antiseptic and lukewarm breakfast oatmeal.
“Still picking at the gourmet breakfast, I see?” Emelia said, smiling.
He remembered sitting back against those stiff pillows, trying so hard to joke his way through the terrifying void in his head.
“I'm holding out hope that if I refuse it long enough, someone will slip me a bacon cheeseburger. Though, for all I know, I might actually be a vegetarian. The mystery continues.”
She laughed warmly as she adjusted his IV line.
“You don't have to piece together the whole plot today, Charles,” she’d told him, looking down with eyes that made him feel grounded for the first time since waking up. “Memory doesn't always come back in a flood. Sometimes it’s just small, quiet pieces. And until then, you’re doing just fine right where you are.”
He remembered the shift in the room, the moment his armor slipped and he voiced the quiet fear he hadn't shared with anyone else: “Looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger. Feeling like a trespasser in my own head.”
And he remembered her hand on his arm, steady and real. “You're not a stranger to the people helping you rebuild. We see you, Charles.”
When she had turned to leave, panic had surged through him. He reached out, his fingers tightening around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. Emelia’s face turned bright red when she felt the strong grip on her arm.
“Emelia,” Charles said, looking up at her. “I might not remember my old life... but I know exactly how I feel when you're in this room. And right now, that's the only thing that feels real.”
She didn't pull away. She smiled softly and whispered, “Then hold onto that. We'll build from there.”
Standing in the middle of the busy street, Charles blinked back to the present. The memory faded, but the warmth still remained. He looked down at the address.
Finally…
A hopeful smile caught his lips as he tucked the paper into his pocket and set off to find her.
She had been his anchor. Then one morning...
Poof!
She was gone.
No goodbye. Neither was any explanation left.
Only an address quietly slipped into his hand by an elderly cleaner who had taken pity on his desperate pleas to locate Emelia.
"She resigned."
That was all the woman had said.
The revelation hit him like a missile. Why? What happened?
Only she, herself, could tell what went wrong. Charles thought, unfolding the paper again.
The ink had faded slightly from the number of times he had read it. He smiled faintly.
“I’ll thank you properly this time around, Emelia,” he murmured excitedly.
He folded it carefully and continued walking.
The city bustled with its usual rhythm. Vendors called to passing customers. Children laughed somewhere across the street. A bus groaned to a stop before pulling away again.
Life moved forward as usual without waiting for anyone.
Charles slowed down, taking in the moving scenes and the city noise. Everything looked familiar; yet, nothing belonged to him: the buildings, faces, and even the roads.
He felt as though he had once known them all...
But someone or perhaps something had erased the names from his memory without the slightest trace. He was fortunate to remember language.
It felt like opening a book whose pages had been washed clean by rain. Blurred. Indistinct. Nothing but blotched ink beyond comprehension. He could see the words had once existed, but couldn't be read anymore.
A sharp ache pulsed behind his eyes.
“Ah…”
He gasped and stumbled, rubbing his temple.
"Don't force it," he whispered to himself.
That was another thing the doctors always said. Whenever he tried too hard to remember, the headaches came again.
He lowered his hand and continued walking.
Then he heard soft music. Flutes filled the tune.
It was not cheerful.
Neither was it lively.
It was low but carried a little bit of melancholy.
The music settled heavily on his chest.
Without understanding why, Charles slowed.
Something about it felt... a little…
The wind blew past him, carrying an air of grief.
Charles turned instinctively to watch the scene where a line of black vehicles rolled slowly down the road. People dressed in dark clothing walked behind them with solemn faces. Some carried white flowers. Others dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs.
A funeral procession was in the vicinity. Only then did Charles glance down at himself.
He wore black trousers, a black T-shirt, and black boots.
He almost broke out in laughter.
Anyone watching would think he belonged among the mourners. Yet, he had blocked their path. He stepped aside hurriedly to let them pass, while his gaze wandered absentmindedly...
…until something caught his eye.
A large funeral poster stood beside the road. It stood nine feet high like a highway billboard. Only it reached two feet above the ground.
He looked once. He had almost ignored it; then he looked again.
His feet refused to carry him anymore, and his muscles tensed. Every step became heavier.
The smiling man printed on the poster...
His chest tensed, his hand tightened, and he narrowed his eyes.
Then a frown masked his face.
Charles reached out. His fingers almost touched the poster, then he stopped.
His fingers unconsciously touched his own face. The beard and facial hair made his face feel rough. The resemblance was striking, except that the man in the poster was clean-shaven.
The eyes.
Even the faint scar near the eyebrow...
A strange chill crept through his spine.
"No... how…"
He took a hesitant step closer.
Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps the resemblance was simply extraordinary. His heartbeat quickened as he stood before the poster.
The smiling man wore a neat suit. And he was…
…clean-shaven, confident, and happy. Charles wasn’t. He was confused and frustrated. He didn’t even know who he was.
His eyes drifted downward.
Anthony Coleman, 30 years. Call to Glory.
The name seemed to echo silently inside him.
“Anthony...”
“Coleman... uhm”
He whispered the name under his breath, but nothing clicked:
There were no memories. No familiar feeling greeted him.
Could the person on the poster be a complete stranger? His eyes continued scanning the poster.
Below were rows of names: parents, relatives, family members.
He read each one carefully. However, nothing, not a single face, appeared in his mind. Not even a single memory answered him.
And then one name caught his attention. He paused for a moment.
Anna Darlington.
Something stirred: A warmth, a laugh, and the faint scent of perfume…
And then… poof!
The feeling vanished as quickly as it came.
Charles frowned.
He closed his eyes, trying to hold on to the memory of the perfume and laughter; perhaps someone he knew might come to mind. Yet…
“Argh!” He clutched his throbbing head. His reddened eyes couldn’t help but cry. He took a deep breath, trying to endure the excruciating pain plaguing his head.
“No...”
He staggered back a step. Then, he let go of the memory, allowing it to slip away like water through his fingers. Remembering can be painful; he decided not to force it.
He opened his eyes again. The smiling man on the poster seemed almost... alive.
Strangely enough...
He looked happier than the man now standing before him.
Charles let out a nervous laugh.
"Am I..."
The words caught in his throat.
"...dead?"
Even saying it sounded ridiculous.
No.
Dead people didn't feel pain. Dead people didn't walk through crowded streets. Dead people didn't get hungry. He was very much alive.
Surely, he had to be alive.
Unless...
He paused, his eyes returning to the poster.
Could he have a twin?
It was absurd. Yet somehow...
Maybe they had been separated as children.
Maybe this Anthony Coleman had died.
Maybe that explained why the face looked identical.
He searched the poster again, hoping to find another clue. But he found nothing familiar on the poster. Only unanswered questions.
Charles looked down at the address in his hand.
Emelia.
The address suddenly felt heavier in his hand. She had been his only goal all morning. She had cared for him. She deserved his thanks. And probably…
She was the only one who could tell what caused her to resign. He wanted to know at least.
Yet...
The man on the poster wore his face.
What if Emelia only knew him from the hospital, and nothing more? What if everything he wanted to know...
was waiting inside that funeral?
Charles folded the paper. Later...
He crumpled it. Then...
He smoothened it again.
He turned away, fighting the urge to abandon his earlier plan. Anyway, he didn’t sneak out from the grips of a well-guarded house just to attend the funeral of a stranger who wore his face like a mask.
Charles began to walk away, his mind full of purpose. He could still hear the sound from the funeral grounds fading gradually as he walked on. Could it be that he was walking away from the answers he had been searching for? Charles paused, and then looked back. He took a step, then another, as if he was going and coming back at the same time. By the third step...
He stopped when he heard the conversation of some mourners walking toward the funeral grounds.
“So how did he die, was he sick?”
“Sick?” the other man replied with a laugh. “I learnt he was killed at the hospital.”
“Really… it seemed someone wanted him dead anyway.”
“No bro… an escaped madman shot him and burned himself with the man when the police arrived at the scene.”
“My God… that… that’s just insane.”
Charles was taken aback. He heard hospital, and well, he could remember being at the hospital. But this…
Someone wanted him dead. A madman. How? That revelation hit him like a grenade, and his heart was just about to explode from shock. If a madman had shot someone and burned himself with the patient, and Charles had been in that hospital, surely he would remember it. Why didn’t he know about that one? So, who was in that coffin?
His fingers tightened around the paper with Emelia’s address until it crumpled. When he realized it, Charles just folded it well and put it inside his pocket. He began to imagine strangers carrying the coffin of a man who wore his face.
If that really was his twin or a man who used to be in the same hospital as him...
Shouldn't he know?
At least he should pay his respects to his twin, shouldn’t he?
And if it wasn't...
Then who exactly had everyone come to bury?
Charles slowly looked back at the poster and the mourning crowd again.
A strange uneasiness settled deep inside his chest. And his focus on Emelia at that moment began to crumble.
“Just one look,” he whispered. At least, he would still go and find Emelia after that. This funeral was necessary.
“I’ll find Emelia afterward.”
Taking a deep breath, Charles left the pavement and quietly joined the mourners walking behind the hearse.
What kind of fool would walk into a funeral for a man who wore his face? Such courage! No matter how absurd this thought seemed, Charles’ feet kept moving toward the funeral grounds, and he couldn’t help it.