The forensic police cars arrived in less than an hour. Their sharp blue lights sliced through the dense darkness of the forest, as if dragging the night behind them with cold threads of artificial light. The silence that had enveloped the area gradually broke—first with the hum of devices, then with low voices of men speaking in clipped, efficient phrases, devoid of emotion. Men in protective suits, their faces hidden behind masks, moved with precision, as though performing a familiar ritual. Every step was calculated, every movement deliberate.
The bodies from the valley were carried out one by one, by steady hands. The black bags swelled, then were sealed tightly. No weeping. No names. Only the number "10" written in white chalk on the trunk of a damp tree—as if the trees themselves bore witness to what no human could endure.
The officer who had taken my statement earlier approached. He looked at me for a long moment before speaking in a softer tone, as if something in him had shifted:
"I think it's best if you stay somewhere safe tonight. We'll take your fingerprints and run them… Until the results come in, you'll be under police protection."
I didn't argue. There was nothing worth resisting.
He drove me in silence—strange silence, different from the forest's. He didn't ask. I didn't speak. The tinted windows made the surroundings feel distant, as if we weren't moving through a city but drifting through a tunnel between two worlds.
Everything in the city appeared more real in an unsettling way: traffic lights, neon reflections on wet sidewalks, hurried footsteps of passersby... as if life refused to stop, no matter what had happened.
We stopped in front of a small building with a gray façade, no clear signage. More like a temporary shelter for law enforcement.
He nodded toward the door and said:
"Here. No one will bother you."
I stepped out slowly. A brief moment of hesitation, then I entered.
The interior was simple: an old but clean couch, a small kitchen with dim lights, a closed bedroom door. Everything still. No trace of long-term inhabitants.
"Do you need anything?"
I shook my head. No.
Before closing the door behind him, he said:
"I'll be back in the morning. If you remember anything—even a small detail—write it down."
Then he left, quietly. And I was alone.
The night was silent in an uncomfortable way. Not peaceful, but a kind of void that stretched in every direction like sticky threads. I sat on the couch, eyes closed, without deciding to sleep.
But I drifted off.
And in the dream... There was a long corridor. White. No windows. Bright light, but no source. I walked barefoot, my steps echoing off the walls—but there were other footsteps. Behind me. I turned—a child. Holding my small hand. His features were familiar, yet blurred, as if my mind refused to see them clearly. He smiled, gently, squeezing my hand like he needed safety.
Then suddenly, a sound.
A gunshot.
I flinched. The child looked at me, his smile fading.
A second shot.
I screamed: "Run!" But he clutched my hand tighter.
His eyes—held a question I didn't know how to answer.
A third shot.
He collapsed in my arms. My hands became empty.
I looked down—no face. Only blood.
I ran. But the corridor stretched, swallowing me. Every door was locked. Every light flickered out.
I awoke.
My breath was ragged. My hands trembling.
The room was still, yet something had changed. As if the dream had left traces in the air.
I sat on the edge of the couch, head in hands, breathing slowly. I stayed that way for a long time, listening to the ticking of the wall clock marking the passage of time like a rope tightening around my neck. Eventually, I fell asleep again.
This time… there was no dream. Only thick darkness. No sound, no image. A suspicious peace, like a coma.
I woke with the first sliver of dawn seeping through the gray curtains. The pale light cast the room in a shade like ash, as if everything had lost its true color. I sat up slowly, unsure if I had really slept—or simply moved from one nightmare to another form of waiting.
Birds outside began to chirp, as if defying an unseen ruin.
I washed my face, then looked into the mirror.
The face staring back… gave no answer.
A soft knock at the door. I paused, then moved slowly to open it.
The officer entered with quiet steps, holding some papers. He sat across from me and placed a folder on the table with measured silence.
He said, flipping through the first page:
"We searched the missing persons database."
Then he looked up at me—his gaze neither accusatory nor sympathetic.
"We found no match for your name."
I wasn't surprised. I hadn't expected otherwise.
He turned the page, continued:
"We sent your fingerprints in. The results may take a day or two."
I nodded silently. No objection. No question.
After a pause, he added, with slight hesitation:
"If staying here makes you uncomfortable, we can go out for a bit. A short walk, through the city. Sometimes the air helps."
I didn't respond.
He didn't wait.
He stood and said without insistence:
"The offer stands… if you want it."
And left, leaving the door ajar.
Only a few moments passed before I found myself standing. I pushed the door gently, peeked out. He was in the hallway, looking at his phone.
I said, almost whispering:
"I think... I'd like to go out for a bit."
He looked at me, nodded calmly, as if he'd expected it.
"I'll take you in my car."
I didn't ask where. I didn't say a word. I followed him.
Leaving the building didn't feel normal. It felt like crossing from a sealed world into another I didn't know. Not relief. Not fear. More like disconnection.
This time I sat in the passenger seat. The city stretched out ahead—old neighborhoods, buildings patched with advertisements, people walking as if unaware that some disappear every day without a trace.
He didn't speak. And I didn't want to say anything.
Finally, he broke the silence:
"Just a short drive. No need to talk, unless you want to."
I nodded. Time passed, in a different kind of slowness.
The city moved as if unaware of what had happened in its forests. Yet it seemed strange—not a city seen for the first time, but one long forgotten.
Then he asked, lightly, as if tossing a stone into a still lake:
"Have you started to remember anything?"
I answered after a pause:
"Images. I don't know if they're memories... or something else."
"Like what?"
I looked outside, murmured:
"A room. Harsh white light. The sound of a heart monitor. A gloved hand. Quick movement over a small body."
He was silent for a moment, then asked:
"Were you a doctor?"
I shook my head slowly—neither denying nor confirming:
"I don't know. Just a feeling... and flashes."
He said:
"That's the clearest thing you've said so far."
"Maybe."
He kept driving slowly, as if each moment gave me space to sink deeper into what I didn't remember.
Then he said, without looking at me:
"What you described—the room, the gloves, the machine—it's not random. Those are details."
I stayed silent.
He continued, in a low voice:
"If your memory is coming back this way... we might learn your identity before the lab results do."
Then, with no emotion:
"The image you saw—the doctor—it might not be fantasy. The truth is, the victims found in the valley had something in common."
I looked at him. I didn't speak.
He said:
"Most of them were in the medical field… or journalism. Some worked in administration."
Then he added, in a heavy but neutral tone:
"You're lucky. You were going to be the next name... but you escaped. At the very last moment."
I kept staring out the window. The city moved. And the air was no longer as cold as before.