Chapter 2
1655words
Voice recorder, camera, lines on the door frame, flour on the floor—all the warning measures were there, but I still couldn't truly relax.
At seven-thirty this morning, urgent knocking on the door startled me awake.
"Knock knock knock—knock knock knock—"
The rhythm was very regular, neither hurried like a delivery person nor casual like a neighbor. More strangely, the person knocking seemed very patient, pausing after every few knocks, then repeating the same rhythm, as if knowing that the person inside would definitely open the door.
I immediately sat up in bed, my heart pounding.
All security measures were intact—the thin thread still in place, no footprints in the flour, eggshell unbroken. No one had entered the room.
Through the peephole, I saw a middle-aged couple standing outside the door. The man was around fifty, with gray-white hair, wearing a gray wool sweater, with a kind face. The woman was slightly younger, with short curly hair, wearing a dark blue coat, carrying a thermos container and a medicine box. Both had calm expressions, even with expectant smiles.
I didn't recognize them at all.
"Michael, it's mom, open the door quickly." The woman's voice was gentle and familiar. "We brought breakfast."
Michael? My name isn't Michael. And how could her tone be so natural, as if we've known each other for many years?
My hand gripped the doorknob tightly, but I didn't turn it.
"You've got the wrong person. My name isn't Michael, and we don't know each other," I said through the door.
"Michael, stop fooling around," the man said in an indulgent tone. "Just yesterday you called your mom saying you had no appetite, so we got up early specially to make porridge for you."
I have never made such a call to anyone. I rarely initiate contact with others.
"I said, you've got the wrong person! Please leave immediately, or I'll call the police!"
It was quiet outside the door for a few seconds, then came the sound of metal scraping.
Keys. They have my keys.
"Click—" The first lock opened.
My blood froze instantly. This is impossible. No one except me and the landlord has the keys to this apartment.
"Click—" The second lock.
"No—wait—" I lunged frantically toward the door, trying to stop them, but it was too late. "Click—" The third lock, the one I had just installed yesterday.
The door opened.
The couple walked in, as naturally as if returning to their own home. The man casually closed the door, while the woman went straight to the kitchen and began taking things out of insulated containers.
"Michael, you look much more haggard," the woman said while busy, completely ignoring my shocked expression. "Have you not been eating properly again? I knew this would happen when you lived alone."
"How did you—how did you—" I pointed at the door, my voice trembling so much I could barely speak, "Those locks—the keys—"
"What key?" The man looked at me in confusion, "Child, this is the home we gave you. Of course your mother and I have keys." When he said this, his expression was so natural, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. Like a father returning to his son's home, what was strange about that?
"No, no!" I stepped back, my back against the wall. "This is an apartment I'm renting! I don't know you! You're not my parents!"
The woman poked her head out from the kitchen, her face full of concern. "Michael, you're talking nonsense again. Didn't the doctor say that if you take your medicine on time and get good rest, these symptoms will gradually improve?"
She came over with a medicine box: "Here, take your medicine first, then have some porridge. Mom has been simmering it all morning."
The medicine box was labeled: Zopiclone Tablets.
The same kind that had appeared in my kitchen a few days ago.
"I don't need to take medicine!" I shouted, "I'm not sick! I don't know you people! These medications aren't mine!"
The man walked over to me and gently patted my shoulder. His movements were gentle, like a real father comforting a frightened child: "Michael, have you forgotten? Last month you went to the hospital yourself. The doctor said there might be issues with your memory, but persistent treatment would make it better."
"I've never been to the hospital!"
The woman took out a medical record card from her bag. It indeed had my name and photo on it. Diagnosis: Acute stress reaction, accompanied by memory disorder.
I snatched the medical record card and examined it carefully. The photo was indeed me, but I had no recollection of taking this picture. The handwriting on it was neat and clear, the hospital's official seal was also distinct, and the date showed it was from two weeks ago.
But I absolutely had never been to any hospital.
"This is fake," I said, my voice getting quieter. "Someone forged these."
"Child." The woman looked at me tenderly, with that kind of heartache that only mothers have, "Why are you torturing yourself like this? We are your parents, we love you, we would never hurt you."
She reached out to caress my cheek, but I abruptly stepped back.
"Don't touch me!" I almost screamed, "You are not my parents! My parents—my parents—"
Something strange happened.
I wanted to say the names of my real parents, wanted to describe what they looked like, but my mind was blank. I remembered having parents, remembered my childhood, but the specific faces and voices were blurry, as if seen through a thick fog.
"Your parents are right here." The man's voice was gentle, "I am your father, and she is your mother. We watched you grow up."
"You've always been slower than others since you were little. You didn't even say 'mama' until you were three." There was a hint of helplessness and concern in the woman's voice. "Now that you've grown up, you don't even recognize your own parents? When you were seven, you broke your arm and cried in the hospital, asking me to hold you. When you were fifteen, you ran away from home, and we searched for you for three whole days, finally finding you at the train station. You were crying loudly, saying you would never leave us again. Have you... forgotten all of this?
She described everything so vividly that as she spoke about these scenes, blurry images seemed to appear in my mind.
"What do you remember now?" the man asked. "Do you remember your childhood? Your real name? Where you're from?"
I opened my mouth to answer but couldn't speak.
"See, you're not sure either, right?" the woman said softly. "Child, you're sick. The doctor said traumatic memory loss can make people forget many things, including those closest to them. But we'll take care of you until you fully recover."
She took out two white pills: "Here, take your medicine. This will help you sleep well, and you'll feel better when you wake up."
I stared at the two pills, and the fear in my heart reached its peak.
Reason told me that I absolutely should not take those things. But their words were so warm, their care seemed so genuine, and my memories of my past were indeed so unclear.
Perhaps, perhaps they were right? Perhaps I really was sick, perhaps I really had forgotten the most important people in my life?
"I won't take them," I ultimately refused, "If you really are my parents, if I really am sick, then take me to the hospital and let a doctor diagnose me again."
The two exchanged a glance, and the man sighed. "Fine, we'll take you to the hospital tomorrow. But today you must take your medicine, you must rest well."
"I said I won't take it!"
"Michael." The woman's voice suddenly became stern, it was the kind of reprimand a mother gives to a disobedient child. "You haven't slept properly for three days. If this continues, your health will collapse. Listen to your mother, take your medicine."
There was an undeniable authority in her tone, just like a real mother. What made me more uncomfortable was that facing this tone, my body actually produced an instinctive response of obedience, as if this submission had existed in my instincts for many years.
So much so that I forgot the most important point: how did they know I hadn't slept properly for three days?
Was it "me" who told them when "I" wasn't aware?
"I am not your son! And how do you know I haven't slept for three days? Are you monitoring me?" I forced myself to say loudly, "I won't take your medicine! Leave my house immediately, or I'm really going to call the police!" I picked up my phone and started to dial 110.
But just at this moment, the man took out his phone from his pocket, and the contact name displayed on the screen completely stunned me.
"Michael", followed by my phone number.
And in the call history, I saw an incoming call record from 11:17 PM last night.
This time was exactly when I had recorded in my diary that I was preparing to go to bed.
Who was it? Who exactly made this call on my behalf?
I shakily pulled up the surveillance footage and discovered that I was indeed on the phone at that time, but what about the diary? Who wrote the diary? Was it really me or this "Michael" they keep mentioning?
"What's wrong, Michael? Feeling unwell again? Here, take your medicine quickly! Take the medicine first!"
Really? Will I get better if I take the medicine?
I don't know, but for now I can only place my hope in these few small white pills.
