The police pickup stopped abruptly in the station yard. Before Charles could fully gather his thoughts, the rear door was pulled open. “Out.” Rough hands guided him down from the vehicle. The metal cuffs bit into his wrists as he stumbled onto the wet concrete. Dawn had fully broken now, but the morning felt cold and colorless. A few officers moved through the yard carrying files and cups of tea. Some glanced briefly at him before looking away, already treating him like another criminal brought in before sunrise. "Another criminal, huh?" one officer remarked with a smirk. Charles’ eyes drifted to the handcuffs on his hands. The sight still felt unreal. “I told you, I didn’t kill her,” he said quietly. “Save it for the interrogation room,” one officer replied. At a small wooden desk near the corridor, another officer removed the handcuffs briefly and began recording his details. “Full name?” “Charles.” The officer waited. “Surname?” Charles remained silent. The officer sighed and wrote something anyway. “Occupation?” Charles hesitated again. What was he supposed to say? Cleaner? Patient? Stranger? “I don’t know,” he admitted. The officer looked up for the first time, clearly irritated. “You don’t know your name, your address, or your work?” Charles lowered his eyes. The officer muttered something under his breath and pushed the form aside. “Take him in.” They led him through a narrow corridor that smelled of damp paper, disinfectant, and stale coffee. Somewhere in the building, a typewriter clattered steadily. A metal door opened. “Sit.” Charles lowered himself onto the hard chair inside the small interrogation room. A single bulb hung above the table, casting a harsh white circle between the two empty chairs. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud. For several minutes, nothing happened. Charles swallowed hard. His mind replayed the alley again and again—the woman on the ground, the blood, the gun, the flashing lights. How had a simple search for Emelia turned into this? The door opened again. A broad-shouldered officer entered carrying a thin brown file. He looked to be in his forties, with tired eyes and a face that suggested he had long ago stopped being impressed by excuses. He sat down slowly. “Officer Mark Mensah,” he said, placing the file on the table. “And you are?” “Charles.” Mark opened the file. “Charles what?” There was no response for a brief moment. Charles looked down. “I… don’t know.” Mark leaned back in his chair and studied him for a moment. “That’s not a good start.” “It’s the truth.” “The truth?” Mark gave a dry laugh. “You were found beside a dead woman at dawn, holding a firearm, and you’re telling me you don’t even know your own surname?” Charles nodded weakly. “I woke up in a hospital months ago. I had lost my memory. The nurse who cared for me called me Charles.” Mark’s expression did not change. “That’s your story?” “It’s not a story.” Mark pulled an evidence bag from the file and placed it on the table. Inside was the handgun. Charles stared at it. “Recognize it?” Charles kept staring at the weapon through the transparent plastic. Rainwater still clung to the metal. His fingerprints were probably all over it now. The realization made his stomach tighten. Officer Mark said nothing. The silence stretched deliberately, forcing Charles to look at the gun longer than he wanted. It no longer looked like an abandoned object from a crime scene. It looked like evidence, evidence glued to his hands that he couldn’t let go. “No... let… me explain.” “You were holding it.” “I picked it up after I heard the gunshot... and a jeep sped away.” “So now there was a gunshot.” “Yes.” Mark scribbled something in the file. “Interesting. A few minutes ago, you said you didn’t know what happened.” Charles frowned. “I said I didn’t kill her.” Mark ignored the correction, moving on with his interrogation. “You were claiming earlier that the woman was already dying when you reached her?” the inspector asked. “Yes.” “Then why were you holding her?” Charles opened his mouth, but the answer sounded weak even to him. “She asked for help.” Officer Mark removed another evidence bag. The silver pendant came into view. Charles’ eyes widened immediately. “That belongs to Emelia.” “Who is Emelia?” “She’s the nurse I mentioned earlier.” Mark unclipped the bag carefully and opened the pendant. A tiny photograph unfolded inside. Charles felt the blood drain from his face. The woman from the alley stared back at him. Officer Mark watched his reaction closely. “You know her?” “No,” Charles whispered. “I’ve never seen her before.” Mark’s voice hardened. “This photograph was inside a pendant found in your pocket.” Charles shook his head repeatedly. “No… Emelia wore that pendant. She told me it belonged to her sister.” Mark stopped writing. For the first time, genuine interest flickered across his face. “Her sister?” “Yes.” “And what is this nurse’s full name?” Charles opened his mouth. Then froze. He knew her smile. He knew the sound of her laughter. He knew the way she adjusted his hospital pillow. But her surname… Nothing came. “I don’t know,” he admitted helplessly. Mark closed the pendant with a sharp click. “Convenient again.” “It’s not convenient! I’m telling you the truth.” Officer Mark leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “Listen carefully, Charles—if that’s even your real name. Every piece of evidence points to you.” He tapped the file one finger at a time. “You were at the scene.” Tap. “You had the weapon.” Tap. “You possessed the victim’s photograph.” Tap. “And you cannot provide a full name, an address, or a single person who can verify who you really are.” Charles’ breathing became uneven. The photograph belonged to the victim. His stomach twisted. If he had ignored the gunshot and remained beneath the shed, none of this would have happened. “I can give you a name.” “Finally.” “Caro… Caroline Simmers.” Mark paused. “Who is she?” “She took me in after I left the hospital.” “Address?” Charles closed his eyes, trying desperately to remember the route back to the mansion. The winding streets. The junctions. The gate. Nothing came clearly enough. “I… I can’t remember.” Mark slammed the table with his fist and closed the file. The sharp sound echoed through the room. “Don’t play dumb with us.” Charles flinched. “I’m.... I'm not playing.” Charles whispered. The words sounded weak even to him. It felt as though life had cornered him, leaving no room for explanations. Mark stood up slowly, looking down at him with a menacing glare. “You expect me to believe that a man with no surname, no address, no identification, and a dead woman’s photograph in his pocket just happened to wander into a murder scene before sunrise?” Charles lowered his head into his trembling hands. The worst part was hearing it spoken aloud; even he could understand why nobody believed him. Officer Mark moved toward the door. “We’re not done with you,” he said coldly. The door opened, then closed again behind him. Charles remained alone beneath the harsh white bulb. His eyes stayed fixed on the silver pendant lying on the table. How had a woman he had never seen before become the strongest evidence against him? The room felt smaller after Officer Mark left. Charles rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had pressed into his skin. The faint red marks remained there like proof that the nightmare was real. Somewhere beyond the door, voices drifted through the corridor. A telephone rang. Someone laughed briefly. These were ordinary sounds. Yet, to Charles, none of them felt normal; he was in a police station for Christ’s sake. His eyes returned to the pendant. The photo in it stared at him, and he gulped. Emelia’s sister? She died in his arms under suspicious circumstances he couldn’t explain. Emelia had been his strength, and he was grateful that he wanted to thank her better. Now a sister she claimed to have lost was dead. And he was the suspect. Would Emelia believe his part of the story? Charles leaned back slowly and closed his eyes for a moment. He tried to remember the hospital more clearly. The smell of antiseptic and the sound of monitors became vivid as if reliving the time all over again. Emelia sat beside his bed, giggling like a child as they conversed. Had she ever mentioned her sister’s name? He searched desperately through the fragments of memory, but they scattered the moment he reached for them. Nothing stayed long enough to help him. For the first time since waking up in that hospital, fear settled into him completely. What if the police were right about one thing? What if there was something in his forgotten past that even he did not know?

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