The next morning, I make a decision.
I'm tired of being lost. Tired of opening doors and finding saunas. Tired of wandering through my own home like a tourist who wandered into the wrong museum. Tired of not knowing where the kitchen is, or the bathroom, or anything else that might make this penthouse feel like a place where an actual human being lives.
I need a map.
Not a metaphorical map. Not a spiritual map. Not a journey of self-discovery disguised as cartography. I need an actual, physical, hand-drawn map with labels and arrows and a little red star that says You Are Here.
And I know exactly who to ask.
Lucas is in his study, as usual. The door is slightly open. I can see him through the gap—sitting at his desk with his tablet in hand, probably managing my empire while I struggle to manage my own living room. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His tie is loosened. He looks almost human.
I knock. Three soft raps.
He looks up, and his ears go pink before I even say anything.
"Ms. Chen. Is everything alright?"
"Everything is fine. I need you to do something for me."
"Of course. What do you require?"
"A map."
He blinks. His left ear twitches.
"A map."
"Of the penthouse. A floor plan with labels. I keep getting lost. I need to know where things are. Where the kitchen is. Where the bathrooms are. Where I am at any given moment."
Lucas stares at me for a long moment. His expression is unreadable, but his ears are pink. I'm beginning to understand that his ears are the key to everything. The man himself is a fortress. His ears are the unguarded back door.
"You want me to draw you a map of your own home," he says slowly.
"I know it sounds ridiculous."
"It does not sound ridiculous. It sounds practical. You have amnesia. You do not remember the layout of your residence. A visual aid would be helpful."
"Practical." I tilt my head. "You think my amnesia-induced inability to navigate my own penthouse is practical."
"I think your request for a visual aid is practical, Ms. Chen. There is a distinction."
I smile. Only Lucas Grey could take please draw me a map so I stop getting lost in my own house and make it sound like a reasonable business request.
"Can you do it?" I ask.
"Of course. I will have it ready within the hour."
I leave him to his work and wander into the living room. The city sparkles outside the windows. The ficus—which I haven't yet properly met—stands in its corner, green and thriving. Everything is quiet and peaceful. For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, I feel almost calm.
An hour later, Lucas appears.
He's holding a piece of paper. Not a tablet. Not a digital file. Actual paper. Heavy, cream-colored stock with the Chen Industries letterhead at the top.
"I took the liberty of hand-drawing it," he says. His ears are pink. "I thought a physical copy might be more useful for navigation."
He hands me the paper.
It's a floor plan. A beautiful, detailed, meticulously drawn floor plan of the entire penthouse. Every room is labeled in his precise, elegant handwriting. The kitchen. The dining room. The living room. The library. The study. The bedrooms. The bathrooms. The sauna. The cinema. The shoe room. The wine cellar. The gym. The pool.
Every door I opened in confusion is marked. Every hallway I wandered is mapped. Every mystery is solved.
And there, in the center of it all, is a little red star.
It's drawn carefully. Precisely. The ink is slightly raised, like he pressed down harder when making it. Like he wanted it to stand out.
Next to the star, in his elegant handwriting, are three words.
You Are Here.
I stare at the map. At the little red star. At those three words. My chest feels tight. Not in a bad way. In a way I can't explain.
"Lucas," I say. My voice comes out strange. Soft. "This is remarkable."
"I included the security codes for each room on the reverse side. And the Wi-Fi passwords. And the voice commands for the smart home system—recalibrated to recognize your current vocal patterns."
I turn the paper over. There, in the same precise handwriting, is everything I need to survive in this penthouse. Every code. Every password. Every command. A complete guide to my own life, written by someone who knows it better than I do.
I look up at him. He's standing perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, expression neutral. But his ears are pink. So pink. The pinkest I've ever seen them.
"Thank you," I say. The words feel inadequate. Too small for what he's given me.
He nods once. Stiffly.
"It is my role, Ms. Chen."
"No." I shake my head. "It's not."
I look back down at the map. At the little red star. At You Are Here. And then I notice something else.
Next to the kitchen, he's drawn a tiny coffee cup.
It's small. Easy to miss. Just a little sketch in the corner of the kitchen label. A coffee cup with steam rising from it. Drawn with the same careful precision as everything else.
I look at the library. A tiny book. The gym. A tiny dumbbell. The cinema. A tiny film reel. The shoe room. A tiny high heel.
Every room has a tiny illustration. Not necessary. Not practical. Just thoughtful. Human.
"You drew pictures," I say.
"I thought visual cues might be helpful for navigation."
"Tiny pictures."
"They are not to scale."
I laugh. I can't help it. The sound escapes me before I can stop it—bright and surprised and genuinely happy.
Lucas's ears go from red to crimson. From crimson to something approaching purple.
"They're very helpful," I say. "The tiny coffee cup is my favorite."
His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Not a smile, but close. So close.
"I am glad you find it useful."
"I find it perfect."
He nods once more and turns to leave. But I stop him.
"Lucas."
He pauses. Doesn't turn around.
"I don't know this version of myself yet. The one who lives in this penthouse. The one who owns all these rooms and never uses them. The one who forgot everything—including how to find her own kitchen."
I look down at the map. At the little red star. At the tiny coffee cup.
"But maybe, with a map, I can find her."
He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is soft. Softer than I've ever heard it.
"I believe you can, Ms. Chen."
"Vivian."
A pause.
"Vivian."
He walks away, disappearing into his study, leaving me alone with my map and my little red star and the tiny coffee cup that means more than he probably realizes.
I sit down on the couch and spread the map across my lap. I study every room. Every label. Every tiny illustration. I trace my finger along the hallways I wandered. The doors I opened. The mysteries I discovered.
And there, in the center of it all, is me.
You Are Here.
I don't know where "here" is. Not really. Not yet. But for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, I have a map. A guide. A way forward.
And someone who took the time to draw me tiny pictures.
I look toward the study, where Lucas is probably pretending to work while his ears cool down. I smile.
Maybe I don't need to remember who I was.
Maybe I just need to follow the map.
And the tiny coffee cup.
Especially the tiny coffee cup.