Chapter 1：An Impossible Return
912words
The moment I walked out of the "Sunshine Rehabilitation Center," I took a deep breath of fresh air. The doctor said I've completely recovered and can resume my normal life. Though my memories of that "treatment" remain hazy, I distinctly remember having only a minor accident while hiking with Andrew in the forest, resulting in just a few days' hospital stay.
Now, I just want to get back to familiar places, catch up with old friends, and grab a drink to celebrate my second chance at life.
When I pushed open the familiar wooden door of the "Night Owl" bar, the bell chimed. Jack the bartender was polishing a glass and glanced up automatically at the sound.
The moment he saw me, the glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor.
Glass shards scattered everywhere, amber whiskey pooling across the wooden floor. But Jack didn't even glance at the spill—he just stared at me, his lips trembling, like he was seeing a ghost.
A few patrons in the corner turned to look. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The only sounds were the muted news broadcast from the old wall-mounted TV and my own thundering heartbeat.
"Hey, Jack," I ventured, my voice cutting through the silence like a knife, "sorry it took me so long to come back."
Silence. Dead silence.
I approached the bar, my footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. Jack backed away, colliding with the liquor shelf behind him. Several bottles wobbled dangerously.
"Christie?" His voice was barely a whisper, as if he were addressing a ghost. "You've been missing for two years. It's September 15, 2026."
I let out a nervous laugh. "What are you talking about? I just went hiking with Andrew for a day, then spent a few days in the hospital. Hell, Andrew visited me yesterday—said he'd take me to Italy once I got out…"
"Who's Andrew?"
His question pierced my chest like an ice pick. The air around us seemed to crystallize.
"What?" My voice turned razor-sharp. "Andrew Martin! My fiancé! He comes here all the time to pick me up after work! Every single one of you has met him!"
Jack slowly shook his head, though I caught a moment's hesitation, like he was carefully choosing his words. "Christie, I've never met anyone named Andrew. I know every regular who comes through that door, and there's never been an Andrew Martin."
The guy in the baseball cap stood up, pulled out his phone, and quickly dialed a number. "Yeah… she's back," he muttered, voice low. "Right… got it."
"Who are you calling?" I demanded.
He hung up and shrugged. "Just my wife. Telling her I'll be home late."
But that wasn't what I'd heard him say at all.
"Christie," Jack's voice softened to the tone people use with unstable patients, "listen to me. You've been missing for exactly two years. The security footage from that night shows you walking alone into the forest behind the bar. Nobody else was with you. No Andrew. That person doesn't exist."
"Bullshit!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "I remember everything! His voice, his scent, the way he proposed! We've been together for two years!"
A middle-aged woman at a nearby table murmured, "Poor thing."
I whirled toward her. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing," she quickly shook her head. "Just thinking… you might need some time to process everything."
"Process what?"
Jack jumped in: "PTSD. The police think you might have experienced something traumatic out there that triggered these… delusions."
His clinical terminology seemed oddly out of place coming from a bartender.
I glanced around, suddenly noticing details I'd missed: Jack's hands were pristine, lacking the calluses and tiny cuts of a career bartender. Baseball Cap Guy was drinking water, not beer. The middle-aged woman's purse gaped open on her table, and I glimpsed what looked like a walkie-talkie inside.
"You people…" I backed away, a cold dread creeping up my spine.
"Christie, you need to calm down," Jack said, reaching toward me. "Maybe you should go back and get some more help…"
"No!" I spun around and bolted for the door. "I need to find Andrew!"
I burst out of the bar into the night. Behind me, urgent voices called out, their words lost in the rush of blood pounding in my ears.
I ducked into the shadows at a street corner, my heart hammering against my ribs. Suddenly, my phone rang.
Caller ID: Andrew Martin.
With shaking hands, I answered, and his familiar voice filled my ear:
"Babe, why are you running?"
"Andrew? Where are you? They're saying you don't exist—that I'm crazy…"
"Shh," his voice was gentle but urgent. "You're not crazy. But we can't talk now."
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone screen. Call duration: 0 seconds.
But I'd just spoken with him.
As confusion swirled through me, my phone vibrated with an incoming text:
"Trust your own memory."
I crept back to the bar and peered through the window. The "customers" had gathered around the counter while Jack swept up the broken glass. They spoke in hushed tones, their expressions suddenly… relaxed.
Like actors who'd finished a difficult scene.
I clutched my phone, a chilling realization dawning:
Maybe I wasn't the problem here.
Maybe the real question was: why were these people so desperate to convince me Andrew didn't exist?
