The door to the small, cozy room slammed open with a loud bang.
A woman with blonde hair and blue eyes rushed in. Her face was swollen and red from crying—the kind of face that belonged to someone who had been grieving for far too long. Yet behind the tears, her eyes still held a spark of hope and compassion.
When she saw me looking back at her, her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
"Thank you, Lord, for hearing my prayers… thank you for saving my child," she wept, her voice trembling with emotion.
Matthew—who I assumed was my uncle—stood frozen, staring at me in disbelief as tears filled his eyes. Then, slowly, he knelt beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
"Ava, honey, get up," he said softly. "It's not time for crying. Max is getting better—you should be happy. Come on, get up."
At his words, Ava wiped her tears and sat beside me, checking my condition with a practiced, gentle touch—the kind that made me wonder if she had once been a nurse or doctor.
"You really are my miracle child," she said, her smile breaking through her grief. "Yesterday, you looked pale as a ghost, and now look at you—healthy as a horse. Your blood pressure, temperature—everything's normal! Well, except for your fractured leg, but don't worry, sweetheart. You're still growing. It'll heal in a weeks."
Her grin stretched from ear to ear. Then she turned to the two men.
"Today," she declared, "we're opening that bottle of wine you brought, Matthew. We'll celebrate this happy occasion! And I'll cook Max's favorite meal tonight—I won't be stingy this time."
Both men smiled, their eyes soft with warmth, as if it had been too long since they'd seen her this happy.
My father suddenly burst into laughter. "Hahaha! Matthew, your wife's so happy she's actually letting you drink! That's another miracle!"
Matthew frowned, feigning offense. "Oh yeah? What about you, John? Smoking those coffin nails every day like a chimney!" he shot back with a grin.
John smirked. "At least I didn't wander around naked in the middle of the night, drinking moonshine and flashing the dorm with two full moons!"
He broke into laughter, and even Ava couldn't help but giggle at the memory.
Matthew turned to her in mock betrayal. "Even you're siding with him now? I wasn't expecting this from you, my love!"
Ava covered her mouth, still laughing. "Well, honey… you were kind of dumb in your youth," she teased, shaking her head fondly.
John chuckled. "Ava, I'd show you the photo from that night if it wasn't still locked in my office drawer."
Matthew's eyes widened in mock outrage. "You black-lung, coffin-nail-smoking rat!" he shouted before tackling John.
The two men started wrestling on the floor, laughing like a pair of children, while Ava tried in vain to pull them apart.
Watching them, I couldn't help but smile. The sight reminded me of my grandfather. We used to argue all the time, and I once thought that when he finally died, I'd feel free—free from his lectures, his scolding, his endless advice.
But when he actually passed away, the emptiness he left behind was unbearable.
You never truly appreciate what you have until it's gone.
Lost in thought, I barely noticed when the two men stopped their playful brawl and turned toward me.
Ava's expression shifted instantly—concern flooded her face as she rushed over and wrapped her arms around me. Her embrace was warm and comforting, so much so that for a moment, I almost forgot the pain in my leg. Outside, the rain eased, and the room fell silent except for the gentle flicker of the lantern's flame.
Ava pulled back slightly, worry etched deep in her features.
"Max, what's wrong? Why are you crying? Are you in pain? Do you need medicine?" she asked rapidly, her voice trembling with panic.
Then she turned to Matthew. "Go get me the pain medicine from downstairs."
He nodded and hurried out of the room.
John—my father—stepped closer, his face filled with the same desperate concern.
Seeing how worried they all were, I felt something unfamiliar stir inside me—a warmth deep in my chest. I wondered if this was what it felt like to have a family, to be surrounded by people who genuinely cared. The feeling was foreign… but comforting.
"I'm sorry," I said softly. "But… I can't remember anything. It's just that your faces feel… familiar."
Ava's brows furrowed, her expression darkening with concern. I felt guilty seeing her worry, but I had no choice. I didn't have any of the original Max's memories. Pretending to be him would only lead to disaster. The best option was to feign memory loss—any mistakes or odd behavior could easily be explained.
John's eyes widened. He knelt in front of me, his voice shaking. "You remember me, right? You called me Dad… You must remember."
I met his eyes and replied quietly, "I know you're my dad… but I don't remember anything else."
His face tightened, anxiety shadowing his features. He turned toward Ava. "You're a biology professor—you must know what's happening. You've heard of this before, haven't you?"
Ava took a steady breath, her tone calm but sad. "I think our little Max has amnesia," she said gently. "He's lost a significant portion of his memory."
John stared at her, stunned. "What? How? Why?"
Ava hesitated, then spoke softly. "Severe memory loss can be caused by brain injury, trauma, illness… even exposure to certain chemicals. Any of those could trigger amnesia."
She leaned closer to John, lowering her voice—but my enhanced hearing caught every word.
"The child has suffered too much," she murmured. "First the cancer, and just a week after he was cured… the outbreak happened. He watched his grandparents get eaten alive by those things. His immune system was still weak from chemotherapy, so he fell ill easily. You don't know how hard it was to convince everyone he wasn't bitten—just sick. Even when you found us at the army base, he could barely speak. We thought the medicine and equipment there might save him, but within a week, the entire base was overrun. For the past two months, we've all been traumatized… especially that poor boy."
John's fists clenched, guilt and rage flickering across his face. "I should've been there for him," he muttered. "Matthew's right… I'm a terrible father."
Just then, Matthew returned, smiling faintly. "I got the medicine!" he announced—but froze the moment he sensed the heavy mood in the room. "What happened?"
Ava forced a small, weary smile. "Nothing serious," she said softly. "Come on, let's talk in the living room."
Then she turned back to me, her eyes soft as she brushed away a tear. "Little Max, get some rest, alright? I'll wake you when dinner's ready."
I nodded. "Thank you, are you, my Auntie."
Her face froze. The warmth drained from her eyes, replaced by sudden sorrow. Tears welled up and slipped silently down her cheeks. Even the rain outside had stopped as if the world itself had gone still.
Seeing her cry sent a panic rushing through me. Did I say something wrong?
"Honey… come on. Let Max rest," Matthew said quietly, placing a comforting arm around her shoulders and guiding her toward the door.
My father lingered a moment longer, his gaze heavy with emotion I couldn't decipher. Then he slowly closed the door behind him.
Once again, I was alone.
What… just happened?