Chapter 4
908words
After taking the medicine yesterday, I slept very deeply, and when I woke up, it was already this afternoon.
My head was foggy and heavy, with a bitter taste of medicine lingering in my mouth. My entire being felt hollowed out, with neither yesterday's anger and fear, nor any other intense emotions—just like an empty shell.
That couple sat beside my bed. The woman, seeing that I was awake, immediately showed a caring smile: "Michael, how are you feeling? Any better?"
"I......" I wanted to say something, but found my thinking had become very sluggish, as if each word needed to be searched for in my mind for a long time before I could find it.
"It's okay, take your time." The man said gently, "The medication needs an adjustment period."
I struggled to sit up, finding my limbs very weak. "How long have I been asleep?"
"About twenty hours," the woman said. "The doctor said this is normal; your body needs adequate rest."
Twenty hours? I had never slept for such a long time before.
"Here, drink some water first, then have something to eat." The woman helped me sit steady and handed me a cup of warm water.
The water tasted sweet, with a peculiar flavor, but my sense of taste seemed to have become dull, making it impossible to determine exactly what it was.
"How do you feel today?" the man asked, "Do you still think we're strangers?"
I looked at their two faces, familiar yet strange, trying hard to search my memory, but my mind remained foggy.
Strangely, the intense fear and rejection I felt yesterday had almost disappeared now. Although I still couldn't recall any memories about them, a mysterious sense of security welled up inside me, as if their very presence could calm me down.
"I... still can't remember you," I said honestly, "But, I'm not afraid anymore."
Joy flashed in the woman's eyes: "That's a good sign! The doctor said the medication will gradually repair the damaged neural connections, and your memories will slowly return."
"It's hard to say for sure," the man said, "Everyone's situation is different. For some people it takes a few months, for others it might take longer. But what's important is that you're willing to trust us now."
Trust? Do I really trust them?
Feeling it carefully, I indeed do. Although my memory is still blank, although rationally I still don't recognize them, emotionally I no longer resist their presence. Seeing them gives me an indescribable warmth and sense of security.
Is this the effect of the medication? Or are my memories truly slowly recovering?
Next they told me stories from my childhood—how I liked red toy cars when I was three, how I cried for my mother on my first day of kindergarten at five. When they mentioned "lack of security," my heart skipped a beat. This description indeed matches my personality.
The second hand on the clock ticked by, one by one.
"Honey, you don't need to worry about anything," the woman said gently, "The most important thing for you now is to focus on your treatment and recover. Work can wait until later."
"We have savings, enough to maintain our lifestyle for a period of time." The man added, "And you also have basic medical insurance, so treatment costs won't be a problem."
All of this sounded reasonable, thoughtful, and like something real family members would say.
"Thank you both," I said sincerely, "Even though I can't remember you right now, I can feel your care and love."
Tears welled up in the woman's eyes: "Michael, hearing you say that puts our minds at ease."
In the afternoon, they accompanied me in the living room to watch TV.
I found it difficult to concentrate, often zoning out while watching, but this feeling wasn't painful—rather, it gave me a sense of serene relaxation.
"That's a normal reaction to the medication," the man explained, "Your brain is repairing itself and needs more rest."
After dinner, the woman handed me two white pills again.
"Do I have to take these every day?" I asked.
"For now, yes," she said, "Once you've fully recovered, we can gradually reduce the dosage until you can stop taking them."
I took the pill and swallowed it without hesitation. Since they are my family, and since this is treatment, I should cooperate.
Before going to bed, I said to them: "Can you take me out for a walk tomorrow? I want to see the outside world."
"Of course!" the woman said happily, "The fact that you're actively asking to go out shows you're recovering well. We'll go to the park tomorrow to breathe some fresh air."
"Okay, good night, Dad, Mom."
This was the first time I addressed them so naturally, without any sense of reluctance or awkwardness.
"Good night, our precious son." The woman planted a light kiss on my forehead.
As they closed the door, their faces sinking into darkness in the doorway somehow filled me with inexplicable fear.
I snorted with derision. Many pieces of evidence proved they were my family; I had absolutely no reason to be afraid.
Lying in bed, I felt a calmness I had never experienced before, the kind of calmness where nothing matters even if everything dissipates. Perhaps this is what home feels like.
Although my memory remains blank, I am no longer afraid.
Because I now have a family.
