The silence outside my door held.
I waited for it to crack with a footstep, cough, or someone muttering into a phone. But nothing came. The hallway felt sealed off, like sound itself had been pulled away.
I stepped away from the door and into the living room, careful, like the floor might creak too loudly if I moved wrong. The air felt heavier. Not unsafe exactly but alert. As if the apartment itself was listening.
My phone laid face down on the table where I had left it. I stared at it longer than I meant to.
I told myself not tonight. I told myself to sleep and act normal. To pretend the words in that letter were a mistake that would correct itself by morning. But the quiet outside didn't feel like peace. It felt like permission.
I picked up the phone.
The screen lit at once. No missed calls or notifications. Just that number, saved in my recent searches, neat and neutral. A help line. A name built to sound harmless.
I took one breath. Then another.
I tapped the number.
The line rang once.
"Elyon Drayce Industries," a woman said. Her voice was calm, steady, and already in control. "Memory Services Division."
Not customer support or reception but something higher. My chest tightened.
I didn't speak right away.
She waited.
"Liora Hayes," she continued, without hesitation. "You're calling from the number ending in eight four two."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"Yes," I said. "That's me."
"Thank you for calling," she replied. "Before we proceed, I need to confirm your identity."
"I didn't sign anything," I said quickly. "I don't know why I received that letter. I never agreed to—"
"We can address your concerns," she said smoothly. "First, please confirm your date of birth."
My stomach twisted.
I told her.
She moved on without pause and didn't repeat.
She asked for my address. The name of my doctor. The prescription I had stopped taking years ago because it made my hands shake too badly to write.
When she finished, there was a brief pause.
"Thank you," she said. "Your identity is confirmed."
"That's it," I asked. "Just like that."
"Yes."
Something about how easily she said it unsettled me more than resistance would have.
"You said Memory Services Division," I said. "That letter says my memories are property. That isn't possible."
"It is accurate," she replied.
I pressed my free hand to my thigh.
"You're saying memories can be owned."
"I'm saying your memories are classified as proprietary neurodata."
"That's a technical dodge," I said. "They belong to me."
"They belong to you legally and contractually," she answered, "along with Elyon Drayce Industries."
My chest tightened.
"I never agreed to forget," I said.
"You did."
"I would remember that."
"You wouldn't."
I inhaled sharply.
The certainty in her voice left no space for argument.
"That makes no sense."
"It does in context."
"I want a lawyer," I said.
"You're entitled to one," she replied. "However, your agreement includes limitations on external access."
I laughed once. It sounded wrong and too sharp.
"So I'm supposed to trust the people who took my memories."
"You are not required to trust us," she said. "Only to understand the terms."
I stood and began pacing. The room felt smaller and every surface too close.
"And the terms are what," I asked. "That you took a year of my life."
"We didn't take it," she corrected. "You transferred it." Her word settled badly than it should.
Transferred.
"Where," I asked.
The pause that followed was longer. A real one this time.
"Your memories from that period are securely stored," she said. "They remain intact."
"And I can't access them."
"Not at this time."
I switched the phone to my other ear.
"Why," I asked.
"Access is restricted."
"By who."
"By you."
I stopped moving.
"That's impossible."
"It is uncommon."
I shook my head, even though she couldn't see me.
"What else do you know about me," I asked.
Another pause followed. I imagined a screen and lines of data. My life reduced to fields and timestamps.
"Would you like a summary," she asked.
"No."
"I can provide one if requested."
"I said no."
"Understood."
Her voice didn't change. Not even slightly.
"Who approved this," I asked. "Who decided my memories could be owned."
"That falls under the Identification and Ownership Bureau," she replied.
The name settled heavy in my chest.
"And who runs that."
A hesitation followed, short and measured.
"That information is restricted."
Of course it was.
"So what exactly do you do," I asked. "Answer calls from people whose lives you've sealed away."
"I ensure compliance," she said. "And safety."
"Safety from what."
"External interference."
My skin prickled. I thought of the whisper in the hallway. The way Caleb told me to lock my door. The way the building went silent.
"You're saying someone is after me," I said.
"I'm saying your current status creates vulnerability."
"To who."
"That information is restricted."
I pressed my fingers to my forehead. The pressure behind my eyes built.
"You said my memories still exist," I said. "That they're intact."
"Yes."
"They're mine."
"They are legally co-owned."
My throat tightened.
"By who."
The silence stretched just long enough to hurt.
"Elyon Drayce," she said.
The room felt like it tilted.
"Why," I asked. My voice came out quieter.
"You entered a personal agreement with him."
"No," I said. "I've never met him."
"You have," she replied. "On several occasions."
My fingers dug into the couch cushion.
"Then why don't I remember."
"Because memory suppression was a condition of the agreement."
"What kind of agreement requires forgetting someone completely."
"A protective one."
"For who."
This pause was different. And well considered this time.
"For both parties."
I sat down slowly on the couch.
"I want them back," I said. "All of my memories."
"I understand the request," she answered. "Restoration requires clearance."
"From who."
"Your previous medical provider."
My head lifted.
"My doctor."
"Yes."
"What does my doctor have to do with this," I asked.
"Your memory transfer coincided with a significant medical event," she said. "Those records are part of verification."
"What kind of event."
"That information lay outside this department."
"But it exists."
"Yes."
"And you've seen it."
"Yes."
My heart started to pound.
"There's a gap," I said slowly.
"Yes."
"How long."
"One calendar year."
Her words landed like a weight.
A year.
Enough time to change completely.
"Why would I need medical intervention," I asked.
"That will become clearer once you review your files."
"I don't have those files."
"You do," she said. "They are incomplete."
"So my own records are missing pieces."
"Yes."
"And you expect me to accept that."
"No," she replied. "We expect you to investigate."
The word sent a chill through me.
"If I find them," I asked, "will I get my memories back."
"No," she said. "But you will understand why you gave them up."
"Is there anything else I can assist you with tonight," she asked.
I looked around my apartment. At the locked door and still walls.
"No," I said.
"Thank you for calling," she replied. "Please take care, Liora."
The call ended.
The silence rushed back in, heavier than before. I sat still, feeling the weight of a year I didn't remember settle in my chest. A year of my life was gone.
And the only place it still existed was inside my medical records.
Whatever was done to me lived there.