The first thing Liam saw was a pair of scuffed police boots standing just inches from his outstretched feet.
"Hey. You alive?"
Liam blinked against the early morning light slicing through the overcast sky. His mouth was dry, head throbbing with a low, pulsing ache. He tried to speak, but the words tangled on his tongue like they didn't belong to him.
"Sir?"
The voice came again—firm, but not unkind. A uniformed officer stood above him, hand resting lightly on his belt. The officer's nametag read Rodriguez.
Liam sat up slowly on the cold, wooden bench, gripping the edge like it might anchor him. The trees behind him rustled, but he barely registered it.
"You alright?" Rodriguez asked, eyeing him. "You look… out of it."
"I don't…" Liam began, his voice hoarse. "I don't know where I am."
Rodriguez's expression shifted to guarded concern. "You using anything this morning? Got anything on you I should know about?"
"I—no. I don't think so," Liam muttered, genuinely unsure.
The officer reached toward his radio. "I got paramedics on standby if you've overdosed. You're looking rough, man."
"No, I'm not on anything," Liam said quickly, shaking his head. "I swear."
Rodriguez studied him, hesitating. Then, deciding to check for himself, he crouched and pulled a small flashlight from his belt.
"Look at me."
Liam obeyed. The sudden white beam stabbed into his eyes.
Rodriguez watched closely, checking for dilation, sluggish response—any sign of a chemical cocktail still coursing through Liam's system. He moved the light from one eye to the other, then shut it off.
"You're not high. Least not in the way I usually see it." He stood again, slipping the flashlight back into his pocket. "But you sure as hell look like you just fell out of the sky."
"I can't remember… anything," Liam murmured, rubbing his temples. "Not even my name."
Rodriguez let out a breath through his nose and stepped back. "No ID on you?"
Liam patted himself down—pockets turned up nothing but lint and a crumpled, unfamiliar receipt.
"No," he admitted.
Rodriguez nodded, reassessing. "Alright. Happens sometimes. You guys—people out here—your stuff gets stolen or lost. I'm not gonna write you up for loitering."
He reached into his coat and handed Liam a small card.
"Try this place. St. Francis Emergency Shelter. About six blocks west on Halstead. Tell 'em Officer Rodriguez sent you."
Liam took the card with a slow, uncertain hand.
"Thanks," he said, his voice thin and wavering.
Rodriguez looked him over one last time. "Your clothes are cleaner than most I see sleeping out here. Not layered either. Doesn't fit the usual pattern. If you remember anything… or someone's out there looking for you… have the shelter call us."
He paused.
"And hey — take care of yourself. The streets don't care if you've got amnesia."
He turned and walked off, boots crunching along the damp sidewalk, leaving Liam blinking into the daylight—alone, confused, and holding the first clue to whatever life he'd forgotten.
Liam stood slowly, the bench creaking as if it protested his departure. His legs were unsteady, the world around him a soft blur of gray skies and the low hum of traffic. He clutched the card from Officer Rodriguez like it might unravel everything he couldn't remember.
St. Francis Emergency Shelter — 819 West Halstead.
The words meant nothing, but they gave him a direction. A destination.
He started walking.
Each step felt like wading through fog. Buildings passed in a haze of glass and brick. A passing bus wheezed to a stop, releasing a blast of warm air that made Liam flinch. People moved along the sidewalks in pairs and clusters, wrapped in coats, faces buried in phones or folded against the cold. No one looked at him.
As he walked, fragments buzzed at the edge of his awareness. A flash of white tiles. The smell of antiseptic. A face—maybe? A man's voice speaking in a calm, deliberate tone.
Then nothing.
The ache behind his eyes pulsed harder.
Who am I?
His clothes were too clean, too fresh for someone who had slept outside. His sneakers had no holes, his jeans barely creased. His shirt fit well—like he'd dressed deliberately. But for what? He felt like a man in the wrong costume, dropped into a life he didn't choose.
He passed a bakery window. In the glass, he caught his reflection.
Brown hair, a little long. Stubble on his jaw. Pale skin. Eyes that looked hollow, unsure. He didn't recognize the man staring back at him.
He kept walking.
At a streetlight, a man in a puffer jacket brushed past him and muttered something. Liam flinched but didn't respond. He wasn't sure how to respond. Every voice around him felt like background noise in someone else's life.
Why here? Why now?
Had someone put him there? Had he done this to himself?
He pressed the card tighter in his hand.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silent wandering, a squat red-brick building with faded signage came into view. A chipped wooden cross hung above the entrance. A handwritten sign in the window read: Shelter opens at 6 PM — coffee and warmth inside.
Liam stopped at the door.
This wasn't home. But maybe it was a start.
He stepped inside.
The air inside the shelter hit him like a warm breath—dense with the smells of old coffee, disinfectant, and worn-out shoes. Voices echoed softly from deeper in the building, a blend of tired laughter and murmured conversation. The lighting was low, fluorescent panels flickering slightly overhead.
A front desk stood a few feet in. Behind it sat a tall, lean man with warm brown skin and closely cropped hair. He wore a navy zip-up hoodie over a volunteer T-shirt and had a clipboard resting on the counter. His eyes lifted with casual attentiveness as Liam approached, registering every detail in a blink: the confusion in Liam's gait, the stiffness in his limbs, the way his fingers clutched the shelter card like a lifeline.
"Hey there," the man said gently. "You new?"
Liam paused. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down at the card, then back up again. "I… I think so."
The man nodded with practiced patience. "Name?"
Liam hesitated, eyes flickering with panic. "I don't… I don't know."
The man raised his eyebrows, not in shock but in concern. "Alright. No problem. We can work with that." He tapped his pen against the clipboard. "You okay, man? You look… kinda out of it."
"I'm not on anything," Liam said quickly. "I—someone found me on a bench. A cop. Officer Rodriguez. He gave me this."
He handed over the shelter card like it was proof of existence.
The man read it and gave a short nod. "Rodriguez? Yeah, he brings folks here sometimes. Especially when he figures they just need a place to breathe." He offered a hand. "I'm Isaac. Staff here most evenings."
Liam shook it, his grip uncertain.
In a far corner of the room, a gaunt man with wild gray hair sat cross-legged beneath a flickering light fixture, pecking aimlessly at a stack of disconnected computer keyboards. His lips moved constantly, low and conspiratorial.
"They tried to assassinate me five times," he murmured to no one in particular. "But I hacked into the government's surveillance grid. I've exposed the lies. I am beyond your rules. I am the system now."
Isaac didn't glance his way. "That's Neil," he said, almost as an afterthought. "Don't encourage him. He bit a volunteer last week when they unplugged his 'data array.' Mostly harmless, but... passionate."
He paused, then added with a sigh, "He also claims he has a twin—an evil version of himself that went rogue. Says his brother betrayed the mission and now works for the shadow government. We've tried to get the full story, but it changes depending on the phase of the moon… Anyways."
Isaac studied him again—clean clothes, disoriented stare, no ID, no name. "You remember anything at all? Where you came from?"
Liam shook his head slowly. "Nothing."
Isaac exhaled, tapping the edge of the clipboard thoughtfully. "We get folks with memory gaps now and then, but not usually this clean-cut. Most people who've been out here a while…" He didn't finish the sentence, but Liam got the gist.
Isaac leaned back. "Listen, you're safe here, alright? Beds aren't the softest, food's not gourmet, but no one's gonna mess with you. We can get you a spot for the night and check in with the caseworker in the morning. Maybe even talk to a counselor if that helps."
"Thanks," Liam said quietly.
"Don't mention it." Isaac paused again, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. "But if you don't mind me asking… those nightmares—did they start before or after you woke up on that bench?"
Liam blinked. "Nightmares?"
Isaac gave a small nod. "You were muttering to yourself when you walked in. Just caught a few words—'needles,' 'something went wrong,' that kinda thing."
Liam swallowed. "I didn't realize."
Isaac offered a faint, understanding smile. "No pressure. Just… keep it in mind. If you start remembering anything—good, bad, whatever—someone should hear it. Might help put the pieces back together."
He reached under the desk and grabbed a folded blanket. "Come on. Let's find you a bed. I'll get you a sandwich too."
As Isaac led him down a hallway toward the sleeping quarters, Liam glanced around at the peeling posters, the half-lit signs, and the tired faces tucked into bunks.
It wasn't much.
But for now, it was something.
As Isaac led Liam through a narrow hallway lined with bunk beds and faded posters—Find Rest, Find Hope, We See You, We Hear You—their footsteps echoed softly on the worn linoleum floor.
Isaac handed Liam a folded blanket and motioned toward an empty bed near the corner, tucked against the wall.
"It's not the Ritz," Isaac said, "but that one doesn't creak too much when you turn over."
Liam nodded, setting the blanket down at the edge of the mattress. His hands lingered there, gripping the thin cotton like it was the only solid thing left.
Isaac crossed his arms, leaning against a bunk post nearby. His voice was calm, casual—but curious.
"Do you have any idea how long you've been on the street?"
Liam looked up, startled. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… do you remember anything before the bench? A shelter, another city, someone helping you?"
Liam shook his head slowly. "No. Nothing. Just… flashes. Like moments someone cut out of a movie reel. But not even the good parts. Just pieces."
Isaac studied him for a moment. "The clean clothes, the shoes—those aren't from around here. We get a lot of guys through here, and most of them... look like they've been through hell. You look like you just stepped out of a department store and into a fog."
Liam gave a hollow laugh, the first sound of humor—or something close to it—since waking. "Yeah. I noticed that too."
Isaac's tone softened. "I'm not trying to push. Just… I've been doing this a while. And most folks who end up here have some kind of trail behind them. Yours? I just can't make sense of it.
Liam rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. "I wish I knew."
Isaac nodded. "Well. Until you do, you're welcome here. Just follow the rules, keep your head down. We'll help how we can."
He stood up straight and offered a parting thought. "Sometimes the pieces come back when you stop trying to force them. Memory's weird like that. Like a scared animal. You have to be still for it to come to you."
Liam didn't respond. He simply sat on the edge of the cot and stared at the wall, blank as his own past.
Isaac turned to go. "You need anything, you come find me. I'll be up front. Got sandwich duty tonight."
As Isaac disappeared around the corner, Liam lay back, folding his arms over his chest.
He didn't know where he came from.
He didn't know who he was.
But he knew one thing:
The pieces weren't just missing.
They'd been taken.
The shelter had settled into a soft quiet—the kind that came after the last cup of coffee was poured and the last bunk claimed. The creaking of old floorboards mixed with the occasional cough, the whisper of sheets shifting in sleep, and the distant hum of the boiler.
Isaac Franklin stepped out of the dorm hallway and into the staff lounge, exhaling as the door clicked behind him. He sank into the sunken couch like it might swallow him, cracked vinyl squealing under his weight. His shoulders ached; his feet throbbed. He cracked open a lukewarm can of soda from the mini fridge and took a slow sip, staring at the same poster that had been curling off the wall for three years.
Ten minutes. That was all the break he had. Ten quiet minutes.
He pulled out his phone and tapped in the number. It rang twice before the voice on the other end picked up.
"Hey," Patricia said. "You on break?"
Isaac smiled faintly. Just hearing her voice softened the noise in his chest. "Barely. Half-dead, half-hydrated, all charming. What about you?"
In the background, he could hear the faint buzz of lab equipment and the clack of glass on metal.
"Still in the lab," she said. "Running diagnostics and watching an interface blink at me like it's judging my life choices."
Isaac chuckled, rubbing a hand down his face. "Sounds relaxing."
"Mm. Jealous yet?"
"Completely," he said, and took another drink. "Things are mostly quiet over here. Familiar faces, couple new ones. But there's one guy I wanted to ask you about."
There was a pause. He could already sense Patricia sitting straighter on the other end.
"He's not like the others. Rodriguez—the cop—brought him in off a park bench. Said the guy had no name, no ID, and wasn't high. And I believe him. His eyes were clear. He looked wrecked, yeah, but not strung out."
Patricia was silent, listening.
Isaac continued. "Clothes were clean. Shoes too. That's not how people usually show up here. He looked… I don't know. Like he was dropped here from somewhere else."
"Dropped how?" she asked, her tone sharpening with interest.
"Like… intentionally. Not like he's been surviving out here, but like someone placed him here and just erased the rest."
There was another pause.
"Did he say anything?" she asked.
"He doesn't remember his name. Doesn't remember anything at all. But what got me was something he said about his dreams. He called them nightmares at first, but then he looked me in the eye and said, 'They're not just dreams.' Like they were something more. Like he was remembering."
Isaac sat forward on the couch, lowering his voice as if the hallway could hear.
"I thought of your work. I mean… what if what he's dreaming is real? Not metaphor, not trauma. Actual memory?"
She didn't answer immediately. When she did, her voice had changed—calm but razor-focused.
"You think he'd be willing to try the interface?"
"Not yet," Isaac said. "He's still in survival mode. You know the look. He sat on the bed like it might vanish if he breathed too hard. But I can see the edges of something. Like his brain's working overtime under the surface."
"You're sure he's stable enough for something like this?"
Isaac exhaled through his nose. "Honestly? No. But he's fractured in a way I've never seen. And if your machine can show what's really going on in there… it might be the first step to putting him back together."
"I'll prep the portable module," she said. "If he agrees, we'll take it slow."
Isaac nodded, more to himself than her. "Thanks. I just have a feeling about him."
Patricia's voice softened. "You always do."
After they hung up, Isaac sat still for a moment, staring at the buzzing can of soda in his hand.
He hadn't told her everything. Not yet.
He hadn't told her about the flicker of something in the man's eyes when he mentioned dreams. That sharp, buried panic. The kind that didn't come from imagination, but memory.
He'd seen that look before.
And it never meant anything good.