Claire didn't sleep.
By morning, her head throbbed with half-memories and unanswered questions. The photo, her mother's hesitation, Mr. Walker's knowing smile—they tangled together until she couldn't tell which part scared her most.
By the time Thursday afternoon rolled around again, she'd made a decision.
She needed Randy.
Not as her boyfriend.
But as someone who had been there—before everything went wrong.
They stayed after school, sitting on the back steps near the empty art building. The sun was already sinking, painting the concrete in dull orange light. Randy leaned back casually, phone in hand, but Claire couldn't bring herself to relax.
"Randy," she said quietly.
He looked up at once. "Yeah?"
She hesitated, then met his eyes. "What do you remember about me… when we were kids?"
Something shifted in his expression. Not surprise—more like he'd been waiting for this question.
"You saw the photo," he said.
Claire nodded. "And no one is telling me the whole truth."
Randy exhaled slowly, then stood. "Come with me."
They drove to the old Walker guesthouse behind the main property—an unused building that smelled faintly of dust and cedar wood. Randy unlocked the door and led her upstairs to a small storage room.
He crouched and pulled out a cardboard box, worn at the edges, with faded marker scribbles on the side.
R & C
Claire's breath caught.
Randy smiled faintly. "We labeled everything. You insisted."
He opened the box.
Inside were toys—old, chipped, well-loved.
A small red fire truck with one missing wheel.
Two mismatched action figures with scratched faces.
A stuffed rabbit, its ears uneven and one eye sewn back on with black thread.
Claire reached for the rabbit before she realized what she was doing.
The moment her fingers touched it, a sharp pressure bloomed behind her eyes.
Flashes—too fast to grasp.
A child's laughter.
Grass under her knees.
Randy's voice, younger, calling her name.
Then—darkness. A loud sound. Someone shouting.
Claire gasped, dropping the toy.
"You always carried that everywhere," Randy said softly. "You called him Button."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "I… I don't remember that."
"I know."
She picked up the fire truck, turning it over in her hands. "We played together?"
"All the time," Randy said. "You used to come over after preschool. My mom loved you. You were… fearless back then." A pause. "Bossy, too."
Claire let out a shaky laugh that died almost instantly. "Then why does my head feel empty? Like there's just… nothing?"
Randy's jaw tightened.
"Randy," she whispered. "What happened to me?"
Silence filled the room, thick and heavy.
Finally, he said, "You had an accident."
Her breath hitched. "What kind of accident?"
Another pause—longer this time.
"You fell," he said carefully. "After that… things changed. You stopped coming over. Your mom didn't let you see us anymore."
Claire frowned. "I fell where?"
Randy looked at her then—really looked at her—and for the first time, she saw uncertainty in his eyes.
"I don't think I should tell you everything," he said quietly.
Her chest tightened. "Why not?"
"Because after that," he continued, voice low, "you weren't the same. You stopped recognizing places. Sometimes… people." He swallowed. "The doctors said it was trauma."
The word landed hard.
"Trauma," Claire repeated.
"Yes."
She shook her head, confusion swirling. "But my mom never told me. Not once."
"She was scared," Randy said. "Everyone was."
"Of what?" Claire demanded. "What was so bad that everyone decided I shouldn't remember my own childhood?"
Randy reached out, stopping just short of touching her arm. "Claire… there are things your mind buried to protect you."
"From who?" she asked, her voice trembling.
His hand dropped.
"I can't say," he murmured. "Not yet."
Anger flared through her fear. "You do know."
"Yes."
"And your father knows too."
Randy didn't deny it.
Claire stepped back, clutching the stuffed rabbit to her chest. Her head spun, fragments of sensation brushing the edges of her thoughts—fear, pain, someone calling her name over and over.
"I don't understand," she whispered. "If it was just an accident… why does everyone act like it's a secret?"
Randy's voice softened. "Because it wasn't just an accident."
Her heart skipped.
"What does that mean?"
He shook his head, jaw clenched. "I've already said too much."
Claire stared at him, hurt mixing with dread. "So you'll let me keep walking around with half a life missing?"
"I'm trying to keep you safe," he said.
The words echoed—too familiar.
Be careful.
They want to protect you.
They always say that.
Claire slowly placed the rabbit back into the box.
"When I start remembering," she said quietly, "will you still stand there and tell me it's better not to know?"
Randy didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
As they left the guesthouse, Claire felt it clearly now—
whatever had happened in her childhood wasn't gone.
It was waiting.
And someone, somewhere, was very afraid of what would happen once she remembered.
Claire barely spoke on the way home.
The city lights blurred past the car window, but her mind was still in that dusty room, the box of toys, the word trauma echoing again and again. By the time Randy dropped her off, her hands were shaking—not from fear anymore, but from certainty.
Everyone was lying.
Inside the house, the lights were dim. Her mother's car keys lay on the table; she was home early. Claire stood there for a moment, listening to the quiet, then walked into the kitchen.
Her mother was rinsing a mug at the sink. She turned, smiling faintly. "You're back early."
Claire didn't sit.
Mom," she said, her voice steadier than she felt, "I know about the accident."
The smile faded.
"What accident?" her mother asked, too quickly.
"The one I had when I was little," Claire continued. "The one that gave me trauma. The one nobody wants to explain."
Her mother's shoulders stiffened. She turned back to the sink, staring at the running water as if it might drown the conversation.
"Claire, we've been through this. It was a long time ago."
"That's not an answer."